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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The man pierced with Dunk’s iron says his mother’s name. It comes out thin and astonished, as though he had expected to die louder. Duncan hears it over the din. He watches the man’s eyes go queer in his face—film creeping over them, the pupils dulling, the whole wet look turning flat, the way dead fish do when they rise in poisoned water and the sun gets at their bellies.

An apology pushes up hard against Duncan’s teeth. He keeps it there. There is something mean in begging pardon of a man you have already run through. It makes him answer for your sorrow besides his own death. When the body sags and quits at last, Duncan braces a hand to the fellow’s shoulder, eases him off the blade, and lowers him onto his back with what care he can manage in a field full of screaming men. Then he pulls his sword free and breathes.

The stream is only a little way off. Sun has had all morning to work on his armour. The plates burn through his surcoat. The mail at his throat rubs raw and holds the heat there. Under it, the blood trapped in the quilted cloth has already begun to turn.

He knows he ought to go back. He knows the work is not done. His knees strike the bank before the thought is finished. He drags off one glove and then the other, drops them in the grass, and thrusts both hands into the current so fast the cold hurts. Water ropes round his fingers and under his nails and takes the blood by threads at first, then by clouds, until the stream runs pink, then weak as watered wine, then clear again as though the thing had never happened anywhere but inside his own skull.

He bows his head over it. His breath goes in rough through the nose and leaves slower. For a moment he can do nothing but look at his hands—broad things, nicked over the knuckles. Then he cups water to his face. The shock of it lifts the worst of the heat. He does it again. Lets it run from his brow and nose and mouth. Somewhere behind him men are still shouting. Steel still rings out, thin with distance now.

Duncan shuts his eyes. He has never been much for prayer, nor for finding the right words for it, but there are not many disbelievers in a foxhole. He opens his mouth.

“Mother, take him. He called your name. Forgive me for it. Mind his mother, too.” Breath shudders out of him. “Warrior, make me brave enough. Keep my hand true.”

Beyond the bank where the water deepens and the weeds grow long as hair, something has gone perfectly still to watch him.

When you see him kill your heart flutters strangely. Clean slice, straight for the heart. Merciful and cold in the same breath.

You know violence as the sharp white turn of a fish’s belly before your teeth close round it. The panic-kick of things that fit in your hands and things that do not, the times your own blood has gone stringing loose in the water because something bigger thought to make a meal of you first. Death below the surface is ugly, but it serves. Something eats. Something lives another day. Here, men spill one another open for reasons that do not end in hunger. The body falls in the grass and feeds no one. The waste of it catches at your mind.

Yet the great one uses his strength well. Joyless, he puts the blade where it must go and gets it done. Warrior, your thoughts supply at once, though he is younger than the word makes him sound.

Then, he stays. Only for a breath long enough to ease the dead man down from his sword and keep him from crumpling into the dirt like a sack split at the seams, but it is enough to draw you closer under the current. Almost as if he cannot bear for the man to go wholly alone. Almost as if being the hand that kills makes him answerable for that last small stretch between breath and none.

You slip nearer the bank, slow as weed-drift, and brace your fingers between the stones. The stream is clear here. It lets you see him drop to his knees. Lets you see him strip off his gloves with hands gone clumsy from heat. Blood clouds into the water when he thrusts his fingers in. He bends and sluices his face.

Your tail gives a hard, involuntary twitch. Until now he has been iron and leather and bright mail and the broad set of shoulders that belong to grown creatures who know their force. Then the water takes the blood and the grime from him and what rises from beneath it stills your breath clean out of you.

A boy. A beautiful boy. Young in the face despite the size of him. Wet lashes spiked dark. Mouth parted. Water running from brow to cheek to jaw, then slipping under the collar at his throat and down his neck. Your nails bite into the stones. Your gills flare wide and fast. You drag in more water through them without meaning to, as if the stream has suddenly thinned and left you short.

He opens his mouth and your eyes shut. The shouting from the field dulls. Stream keeps on at your shoulders. Wind moves somewhere high in the crowns of the trees. All of it goes faint around the shape of his voice. It reaches you blurred by distance, scant and earnest, with none of the grand sound men use when they want the world to think them holy. He asks for the dead man first. For the mother of the dead man. Forgiveness for what his own hand has done. Then he asks for bravery enough to return and do more of other men’s bidding before the sun goes down.

Nothing for himself. No glory. No protection. No rich spoil. Not even life.

Your grip slips and tightens again. Something deep in you, old as tide-pull, gives way. You have seen handsome things before. Fast things. Dangerous things. You have wanted and hunted and fed.

This is worse. This is a hurt that blooms sweet through the middle of you. By the time he lowers his head and the last of his prayer leaves his mouth and goes nowhere you can see, you love him so completely it feels less like being struck and more like sinking.

He rises and leaves, and the place he was at is empty as if it were bitten. The bank looks wrong without him on it. The water goes on over the stones as though nothing has happened. Your heart has no such manners. It follows him at once, crude and greedy, as though wanting were a hand with fingers on it. You part your lips with half a mind to call after him. Men can be called. Men can be coaxed to the water with the right note laid soft over the surface. You know how to turn the voice sweet enough to draw a neck forward, a foot wrong, a whole body into your keeping. The sound gathers under your tongue and dies there. To put a spell on him feels foul. It seems to you that a creature like that ought to come of his own will, or not at all.

You do not know by what rules men choose their maidens. You know only the old shapes from song and tale, the women with hair to their waists and wreaths at their throats, the ones led from halls by the hand, kissed before witnesses, warmed by fires built on dry land. Even the plainest of them has what you have not.

Legs.

By the time the sun tilts lower you are stern in the mind and weak in the heart, which is a poor way to go to a witch and the only way you have.

You gather what seems dear. Round pebbles from the streambed, the ones worn smooth as eggs. A white one with a milk-pale seam through the middle. A twist of yarrow and sage stolen from the bank where the roots drink deep. A handful of hazelnuts, though you have never eaten one and do not know if witches do. Three rowan berries bright as pinpricks of blood. One swan feather gone loose among the rushes.

Childish things, perhaps. Bride-things from the mind of a fool. You keep them all the same, tucked close in the fold of weed and river-grass you knot for carrying. Then you force yourself into one of the narrow runs that leaves the stream and threads the dark places inland. Mud slicks your sides. Roots comb your hair. The water grows warm and still and brown. It narrows to veins and then opens without warning into the bog pool, black at the middle, with a hut crouched on the shore as if it had grown there meanly from the peat.

You wait a long while with only your eyes above the weed. Nothing stirs but a gnat-cloud and the slow shake of sedge in the wind. At last you take one of the little stones from your hoard and throw it. It clicks against the wooden door. The sound is small; it still seems to carry everywhere. You sink lower, heart drumming hard, and hide among the pondweed with the offerings clutched to your breast, as if the right gifts and a brave face might yet make you into something a beautiful boy could love.

The door opens. The woman who steps out is bent nowhere and old everywhere. Her hair hangs in ropes the colour of drowned straw. Her shift is the grey of mushroom flesh. She peers toward the water as if she has smelt you already.

“Well,” she says. “What pretty thing noses at my threshold?”

You rise through the skin of water and push the bundle of gifts towards her. “I brought—”

“Did you.” She stoops and takes it between two fingers, as if it is something small and dead. “Then speak. A wish is no good to me till it has a mouth.”

You blink at her. Try to find the words for something prettier than a blunt girly whim, but they come out as they are. “I want legs.”

The witch looks at you for a moment. Then, she laughs. “That is not what you want.”

Mud stirs under your tail with the force of your annoyance. You dig the tip of it down into the black silt.

“Ah,” she coos, seeing it. “There is no shame in wanting, child. Only folly in pretending. You want a lad to love you.” You remain silent long enough for her eyes narrow with delight. “No. Not a lad.” She leans closer over the bank, and her smile turns terrible with it. “A knight.”

The scales along the back of your tail prickle. “Can you help me?”

“Likely.” She reaches down without warning, crooks one finger beneath your chin, and turns your face first one way, then the other. “You are fair enough for mortal work. Fairer than many that walk on two feet and think well of themselves besides. Why not sing to him? Why not call him into the water? Earth has given you gifts enough. Why do you not use them?”

You pull away from her hand. “I do not wish to lure him.”

Her mouth rounds. “Oh.” The sound is soft, but curdles your stomach all the same. “It is true love, then,” she says. “Pure as springwater. You would not stain your dear knight with a spell.” Her voice thins to a hiss. “What do you think you are doing here, if not spell-work?”

“The spell is not for him,” you say, and hear the weakness in it. “It is for me. I only need legs.”

“A spell is a spell all the same.”

She turns your bundle and lets the things fall. The pebbles, the berries, the herbs, the feather—all of it drops into the bog with a series of small, insulting plops. One hazelnut floats a moment before the water takes it.

“You may keep your trinkets,” she says. “I am not a hedge-wife to be bought with rowan and sage.”

Heat rises through you against the coldness of the bog. “Then why hear me?”

“Because I am curious.” She smiles again. “And because I can give you what you want. Under a condition,” she says.

Of course. Again, you keep still and say nothing. She seems to like that better than if you had begged.

“I will give you legs, and all that comes with them. You will wake with feet to stand on and knees to bend. You will go where he goes if you can keep pace. You will have three nights to win what you came for.”

The reeds whisper in the wind. Somewhere behind her hut a bird cries once and stops.

“If by the third night the knight loves you, the bargain is spent. If not, a soul is owed me.”

Your fingers tighten on the mud-bank. “Mine?”

“If you are dull enough.” The witch reaches into the fold of her garment and brings out a dagger. It is old and grisly, with a hilt of dark wood worn smooth by long handling. The blade is dark as well, but moonlight catches on it in a thin wet line. It looks hungry. “Or his.”

You stare at it.

“He may be given in your stead,” she says mildly. “A thrust under the rib. Upward, if you are weak in the arm. Bring him to me warm and I shall count us square.”

“Why would I do that?”

She lifts one shoulder. “Because hearts turn vicious when they do not get their fill. Because death is easier than longing for some creatures. Because on the third night you may find you love yourself a little more than him. I make room for all outcomes.”

The dagger gleams in her hand. You cannot stop looking at it. At last you whisper, “How shall I know if he loves me?”

The witch’s brows rise. “Were you not certain of it a moment ago?”

A pout blooms on your face unbidden.

She crouches at the bank then, bringing her face close to yours. Her breath smells of peat and old roots.

“When mortal men love their maidens,” she says, almost kindly, “they do not keep their hands to themselves. They part those fine legs you hunger after. They open the flesh between and put themselves there.”

A cold shiver runs the length of you.

Her smile returns, pleased and wicked. “There. That is plain enough even for a love-addled little fish.” She straightens. “Well? Do you accept?”

The word catches in your mouth. You sweep the dagger, the dark bog, the hut with your eyes. Then, her face, which has no mercy in it and no patience either. Because you have already loved him enough to come here, you say, “Yes.”

“Of course you do.” She puts the dagger down on the bank within your reach, then slips her hand somewhere inside her sleeve, deeper than the cloth ought to allow. When she draws it out again there is an egg in her palm, black-speckled and oddly warm.

You frown at it.

“Eat.”

“What is it?”

“An egg,” she says. “Do not go witless on me now.”

You take it from her. The shell is warm indeed, almost hot. “And then?”

“Then you sleep. Then you wake altered. It need not trouble you beyond that.”

It turns in your hand. “Raw?”

The witch gives you a look of withering contempt. “No, child. Put it in a silver cup and take it with honey.” She bares her teeth. “Yes, raw.”

Your eyes lower, ashamed of the question. The shell cracks easily. The inside slides thick and strange over your tongue. You swallow twice to get it down. The witch watches every motion.

When it is done, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and say, “How shall I find him?”

At that, something shifts in her face. Too rotten to be kindness, but it is the brief look of someone hearing a tune they know well.

“His blood is in the water,” she says.

Then she steps back, pulls the door open, and goes inside. It shuts between one blink and the next, leaving you in the bog with the dagger on the bank and the taste of the egg still clinging at the back of your throat.

You swim the way you came slowly. Moonlight makes the water mean and every root below look like a hand with the shape of something waiting. Above, the moon itself has thinned to a sickle near fine enough to seem a cut laid across the sky. It tells you that on the night of your judgement it will be gone altogether. You will hear it in the dark. His blood is in the water, the witch had said, and the current takes you at her word, carrying you through the narrow runs and back toward the broader stream where you first saw him kneel.

By the time you reach it, the bank is empty. You keep to the deeper part and let yourself drift there, belly turned uneasy by the egg, heart sore with a want that has already learned absence.

Sleep comes badly. Even so, it comes. The river rocks you. In the first fold of dreaming he leans over the bank again, all shadow and wet lashes, and this time when he opens his mouth it is not prayer that leaves it but your name. He reaches for you with a careful hand and thumb wedging under your chin. He bends and kisses you as though he has been thinking on nothing else.

Then the dream turns. Above you, something vast opens. The eye of god, grey and pale and lidless, hanging in the dark where the moon had been. Its patience is so complete the age of it exceeds the feeling of pity. Below, a pair of shears glints, iron-black and long as oars. The water thickens around you into a fat-like jelly, holds you fiercely, as the blades close with a sound no louder than a crab-shell snapping, and fire races you clean through. 

Scale after scale dulls and loosens. Webbing parts. Bone groans as if gripped and wrung by unseen hands. Your tail splits where no living thing ought to split and your flesh draws apart. New joints wrench themselves into being with a wet internal crack that never seems to finish. You open your mouth to scream and swallow black water instead. Heat tears through you from spine to hip to the new-made lengths of you, all the way to ten small, useless ends where your body has never ended before. Hair roots burn. Teeth ache. Even your fingertips feel changed, as though the whole of you has been dragged through too narrow an opening and forced to come out other.

You wake choking while dawn creeps into the sky. Half on the bank, half in the wash of the stream, naked to the chill, with the dagger clutched to your breast. Air rasps into you thinly through mouth and nose, making panic strike at once. You paw at your ribs and find only smooth skin where your gills ought to flare. Sealed. Gone. You drag another breath and another, each one scant enough to frighten. The water at your side offers no help. It laps your hip stupidly, as if it does not know you.

When you look down, you see them. Legs.

Two of them, long and bare and wrong as peeled roots. Knees knuckled sharp. Feet splayed in the mud with their blunt little toes. They belong to you no more than the moon belongs to the bog. The sight turns your stomach. You put a hand to one thigh. The skin there is soft and strange, without scale or sheen or the strength of a tail built to drive through current. When you try to draw the limb in, the knee folds with a hideous ease and the whole thing jerks sideways. It feels loose. Breakable. Made badly.

Still, you have asked for them. You plant both palms in the earth and try to rise and pain bites through your middle. Your legs buckle, each seeming to choose a different direction. One foot slides out from under you. The other catches on nothing and twists. You go down hard on your hands, palms full of mud. For a while you can do nothing but crouch there trembling, hair hanging round your face, breath coming sharp and ugly through a body that no longer knows its own shape.

Morning hones itself as you kneel in it. The scent of his blood has thinned almost to nothing. In its place comes the rest: men everywhere, dead and living both. Sweat gone sour in gambesons. Split guts, horse piss, iron and smoke. The field beyond the trees breathes out ruin by the lungful.

You have three days. Three days to find the knight, make him love you, and keep your soul out of a witch’s hand. You cannot even stand. Water clouds your vision and you laugh bitterly at how it won’t let you go entirely.

On the morrow, Dunk sweeps through the edges of the battlefield after the worst of it, checking for men still breathing whose bodies might be saved or those who need a merciful hand to help them pass. His side aches badly where someone slashed him, one ear hears less than it did before the fight, and one of his sockets throbs with excess blood, but at least he’s not the one gasping his last. He keeps his eyes peeled for movement, yet when he notices a particular creature trembling at the very shore where his inept prayers were heard, he stills.

A girl. Mud-caked, naked, and—Gods—crying.

He hauls the reins on Sweetfoot at once, dulling an instinct to charge forward and holding her in a rushed trot instead. “M’lady!” he calls from horseback. “M’lady, be not afraid!”

Your eyes lift, but the rest of you dwindles immediately. Arms come to cover your head and Duncan notices you’re stricken with grime wrists to elbows as if you were trying to make your way uphill on all fours. He dismounts with a small grunt and hunches on instinct. His arms spread wide and gentle, and before he knows it he’s murmuring as he would to a skittish thing. “Easy now,” he whispers. “Easy. I vow this to you—I am no threat. My name is… Ser D-Duncan The Tall. I won't hurt you.”

The title sits oddly in his mouth when he’s half-shrunken and on bent legs. As he comes closer, his cheeks begin hoarding warmth despite him, for the shape of you is visible and evident even at this angle. Breasts plastered to your thighs billow with each frightened breath. Your belly creases in the middle and clay tears and crumbles off your knees when you shudder. He sees nothing else, but in his chest an unbearable instinct to cradle you almost overcomes him.

His head turns to the side, so he watches you only with his eye’s corner. When he’s close enough, he undoes his cape, spreads it gently over your back and lets it fall over you. He has a fleeting thought on what kind of smell it must carry and whether that matters.

Only then does he see the dagger. It is clutched in your fist, half-hidden by mud and the hunch of your body, but iron is iron. His hand stills on the edge of the wool. For a breath he says nothing. A crying maid with a blade is still a maid with a blade, and fear can make a body quicker than training.

“Easy,” he says again, lower. “You needn’t use that on me.”

You stop trembling enough to lift your face. The blade drops. Then all at once you are on him, hands closing round his waist with such force Dunk rocks back on his heels. Something reaches him through wool and shaking breath. Unintelligible mutter. Then—found me. And again, softer, urgent with respite. Knew you would. Knew you’d find me.

For a moment he does nothing but stand there with his own arms half-raised, startled clean through. Then they come round you, shy and boyish. One hand settles between your shoulders. He rubs once, then again, broad and slow, as though you are a frightened colt and his hand might smooth you into sense. “There now,” he says, because it is what comes. “There now.”

Beneath the mud and the cold reek of the stream there is a smell to you he cannot place. Something green. Something sweet. It cuts strangely through blood and horse and churned earth. 

He lets you cling till your breathing eases enough to stop catching. When it eases, he gives your shoulders one careful squeeze and tries to look at your face without looking full at your face.

“M’lady,” he says. “Have you been hurt?” You shake your head against him. He swallows. “And your clothes—were you robbed?” There is a pause to that. Then you nod.

“Ah.” Dunk shuts his mouth on all the things that might follow that and does not ask them. “Well. I’ll take you to the village,” he says. “We’ll find something to put on your back, and someone to look you over.”

You do not let go, and he finds he does not much mind that. By now he is holding most of your weight besides. He means to set you back a little then, only enough to walk you to Sweetfoot, but the moment he loosens his hold your legs betray you. They fold queerly with the loose, witless give of limbs that do not know their own business. Dunk catches you fast under the arms before your knees can strike earth. 

Some hurt in the low back, he thinks. Or the spine knocked wrong. He has seen men go slack in the limbs from less.

“Easy,” he says again, lower now. “I’ve you.”

Your head comes up. There is mud on your cheek, tears dried in bright tracks through it. Up close the sight of you lands worse on him than it did before. Such beauty in such a place. Such beauty at all. If someone asked him later, he would have no better answer than that.

“May I carry you?” he asks.

You nod.

He gathers the cape tight first, fingers making poor work of it. Then he crouches so you may put your arms round his neck. When you do, your face comes so near he feels the warmth of your breath on his mouth. His own has gone dry. “I will lift you now,” he says, for want of anything wiser.

One arm behind your back, the other under your knees. He brings you up. The pull in his side is vicious enough to whiten his sight for a blink, but he only grunts and holds you the tighter for it. You are light to him. Light should not be so difficult.

Sweetfoot turns her head and blows at the sight of you in Dunk’s arms. “Mind yourself,” Dunk mutters, and means the horse, and himself, and perhaps the day entire.

Getting you into the saddle proves ugly work. There is no good way to manage a naked maid wrapped in a cloak when one hand is wanted for decency, the other for balance, and his side seems set on parting company with him. He stands a moment with his jaw shut hard, then does it the only way such things ever get done—awkwardly.

“M’lady,” he says, hot-faced, “I must set you before me.” You only look at him with those wide, strange eyes and make no complaint.

He gets one boot to stirrup, hauls himself up enough to raise you after, and nearly fumbles you when the cloak slips and his forearm feels the bare warmth of your back through the wool. Heat runs through him so fast it feels wrong. He gets you right the second time by sheer stubbornness, settles you before the saddle-bow, then adjusts behind with a grunt he prays sounds like effort.

It does not improve matters.

There is no room worth speaking of. You sit before him with your hair damp and knees thrown to one side, and Dunk must put an arm round your middle the moment Sweetfoot moves or see you slide clean off. He has no notion what one does with a girl in such a fix. Horses, boys, wounds, armour, hard roads, those he understands. A maiden fair as vision and shaky in the limbs, is another matter. He finds himself hoping there is some widow in the village with a stern face and capable hands who might take one look at you and know everything he does not. Then he may ride on to Riverrun with peace in his mind.

The thought sits well enough till you lean back. A little more weight at each step, whether from weariness or trust he cannot tell. Soon your back is to his chest and your hair keeps straying under his chin. He has to look somewhere, so he looks at your hands on Sweetfoot’s neck.

Mud is dried in the lines of your palms and packed black beneath your nails. The nails themselves are pale in a way he mislikes. A drowned sort of blandness, as though the blood had only lately remembered to leave them. His hand closes harder on the reins.

What befell you? Robbed, you had said—no, nodded. Robbed of clothes and the strength in your legs. Robbed near of your wits, to be found bare and weeping on the skirts of slaughter. His mind offers up answers and every one of them is ugly.

“You are safe enough for now,” he says, because the words come and because he wants them said. “We’ll have you among decent folk directly.”

You say nothing. Perhaps doze. Perhaps you only listen. When Sweetfoot steps through a rut, your head tips back against him for an instant, and Dunk’s arm goes firmer round your waist.

Riverrun can wait an hour. Even a day, if it must. First the village. Clothes. Food. A woman to tend you. Then he will know what ought be done.

He keeps his eyes ahead and rides. When the road begins to thicken with huts and kitchen smoke he turns Sweetfoot toward the first cottage with a swept patch of yard and washing strung on a line. A hen darts from underhoof squawking. Dunk reins in, slides down, and reaches up for you.

The door opens before he can knock. A broad woman with red wrists and a face like a hatchet stands in the threshold, takes in Dunk, the horse, the cloak-wrapped girl in his arms, and narrows her eyes. “I can explain,” Dunk says, which is a poor beginning and sounds like one besides.

“Can you?” she says.

Heat climbs his neck. “I found her by the stream yonder. She’s been robbed, I think. She’s got no clothes, and her legs are none too steady. I thought—” He falters, then tries again. “I thought a woman might better see to her.”

The woman looks past him to your face. Something in hers shifts, not softer exactly, but less sharp. “Well, I am a woman,” she says. “Bring her in, then, you great oaf, and stand there bleeding on my threshold no longer.”

Dunk ducks his head and does as he’s bid. The cottage is low-ceilinged and close with the smell of onions and wool. He sets you down where the woman tells him, though not without trouble, for your legs go queer under you again and your hand catches in his sleeve with sudden force. “You are safe,” he says under his breath.

Your fingers tighten. “Please,” you whisper. “Do not leave.”

That near aches him more than the clinging had. “I’ll be just outside,” he says, for the woman is already flapping a hand at him to get out and because there is no fitting place for him in a room where a maid must be dressed. “Only outside. I vow it.”

A beat. Then, you let go. The door shuts on him. Dunk stands in the yard with a hand pressed to his side. Through the wall come the dim sounds of women’s voices, yours low and strange, the older one brisk and practical. Once there is a clatter. Once a silence long enough to make him straighten from the fence-post he had leaned on. He is thinking whether it would be madness to knock when the woman steps out at last, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Well?” Dunk asks.

“Well, nothing’s broke,” she says. “No fever that I can feel, no wound worth speaking of. She’s frightened half witless and weak in the legs, that’s all. Hungry, too, I’d say. May be she took some knock to the head. May be she was born a little moon-touched. Hard to say.”

Dunk blinks at her. “She knows her own name?” he asks.

The woman gives him a look. “She knows enough.”

That does not answer much, but before he can find a better question the door opens and you come out.

The clothes hang on you as they would on a child dressed from a dead woman’s chest: a coarse shift, a faded gown, sleeves a touch too short, hem uncertain, boots big enough to host toes twice as long as yours. Your hair has been pushed back from your face with damp hands. Your legs still look unsure of themselves. Dunk moves before thinking and takes you by the elbows when you waver on the step. “There now,” he murmurs. “Steady.”

You look up at him with such plain relief that his grip gentles.

The woman snorts softly behind you. “Take her home, then.”

Dunk clears his throat. “Aye. That is—” He looks down at you. “Where is your home, m’lady?”

Your hand comes up and closes over his forearm. “There is nothing for me there,” you say. Your fingers tighten. “Please.”

He opens his mouth, then shuts it. “I am bound for Riverrun,” he says at last. “I’ve business there. I cannot—”

“That is where I am going,” you say quickly. “The last place where I have anything. Please. Take me with you.”

Dunk stares. It may be nonsense. It may be the plain truth. It may be only the talk of a girl too frightened to be left among strangers. He cannot tell. What he can tell is the feel of your hand on his arm, the look of you trying not to sway where you stand, and the knowledge that if he leaves you here, he will think on it all the road to Riverrun and probably every road after.

The woman folds her arms and watches him make a misery of the choice. “Well?” she says.

Dunk lets out a breath. “I can take you as far as Riverrun,” he says, still looking at you. “No farther promised than that.”

Your smile is answer enough. Later, when doubt gets into him, it will be one of the things he reaches back for.

Soon after the village, Duncan finds himself about a number of tasks he had not meant to take on. He accepts the pity bundle of more garments from the woman, all of them light. He lifts you to the saddle, then goes back for Chestnut and Thunder. He loses the mark of his back, gathers his scant belongings, counts them, and thinks of the trouble of one bedroll. Riverrun lies four nights off, and his purse is too light for inns along the way. He shifts the saddle on Chestnut till it will hold you steady enough, then goes through the poor store of cloth he owns to see whether there is anything fit to spare you. At last he finds a blanket little better than rough army issue and ties it round your shoulders with a length of string.

When he is done, he steps back to look at you and nearly laughs for the misery of it. A strange girl with no place to go, less worldly goods than he has, a queer way of speaking, and legs that seem only half-convinced by land—and here he is, setting his road to her pace as though this were a sensible thing. Duncan knows well enough what sort of fool he is. Dunk the Lunk, thick as a castle wall, slow as an aurochs. Still, his mouth pulls into a shy half-smile.

“Ready?” he asks.

The world of men continues to bewilder. They kill each other relentlessly and let the bodies rot out in the fields until crows find them. They speak oddly. They wear clothes. Rough things that scratch the skin round armpits and knees, and make their beasts wear clothes too. They walk on two imbalanced legs that have less sense to them than you would ever think they have, which end with feeble little things that need the most woeful instrument imaginable to stay protected—shoes.

The pain comes on you late. At first everything is so strange that the cuts in your feet barely matter. Then, just as you get the first grasp on how to walk on those fleshy stilts, an old woman gives you a shift, a skirt that wedges itself between your thighs, stockings that roll beneath your knees, and a pair of disgusting animal-skin things that make the wound across your sole press and bleed, press and bleed. You could fit another set of those ugly little toes into them and still they’d knock your ankles raw. Duncan seems to think your wits were rumbled sideways by whatever befell you, and sighs through his nose each time you try a few wobbling steps before giving up and tossing you from one place to another. From doorstep to horseback. From horseback to ground. From ground back to horseback again. Then, the horse takes over the carrying.

None of this matters greatly. None of it rubs you wrong in any way, because your knight has found you and agreed to take you to Riverrun, of which you know only that it is overrun with rivers and mean spirits, and you want nothing to do with either. You want everything to do with him, though, so you let the beast called Chestnut carry you toward it and knock your newly acquired arse against the hard leather of her saddle.

You glance at him often, only to make certain you were right to choose him, but Duncan proves worth every bruise on your buttocks. He is prettier close by. Washed of blood, his face goes almost holy at moments—too open and clean in the look of it—then a shift of shade will catch under the brow and jaw and make a man of him again so suddenly it gives you pause. His arms are strong enough to carry a girl like you. His heart, plainly, is soft enough to help one and trust one within the space of a single hesitant breath.

That softness lives in him in sly places. Not only in the face, though the face does its share. In the stammer that catches him when he is too aware of himself. In the way he asks leave before he touches you, as though a thing may be both necessary and solemn. In how he handles even his own size like it might alarm somebody if set down too hard. You begin to see that the boyishness in him is not only a matter of smooth cheeks and dark lashes and that honest mouth. It lives deeper. Some tender piece of him has made it to his great age uncrushed.

You have no notion what he knows of love. His lips look unkissed, which strikes you at once as improbable and agreeable. Kissable all the same. So are his cheeks, if it comes to that, and the hollows under his eyes look made for the brushing of thumbs in acts of pity or fondness or whatever human girls do when they mean to soothe a man. You think, in the stupid way of girls, that it may be just as well if he knows nothing. You know very little yourself. The males of your kind are greedy, quarrelsome creatures who would bite the shine off a scale if they thought it theirs by right. The tenderest kiss you have ever given in all your life was to a trout, and that was mostly because it was dying.

Still, you know enough to know this: there is something dear in a creature so large keeping such a breakable heart inside him. Duncan feels safe to you in the way deep water once did. Not because he could not drown you if he wished, but because every part of him seems arranged against wishing it.

The road, of course, is another matter. It goes on and on, pale and hard beneath the horses, made by men for reasons men must have found clever. When there is no canopy the sun comes down bare and mean, scorching your face, your scalp, the tender tops of your hands. Dust lifts and settles in your throat. The saddle knocks under you with a steady, sour persistence, and after a while even wonder thins into boredom. You cannot understand why anyone would choose such a path. Roads have no give. They hold the day’s heat. They are full of stones and wheel-ruts and the old droppings of beasts. Water, at least, takes your shape when it carries you.

But then, toward evening, the land alters. Light begins to bleed richer colours over everything. It gathers in the grasses and tips the hedges. It slicks itself along the backs of flies until the air is full of brief, burning specks. The trunks of trees grow black on one side and warm on the other, and the far fields seem to have been brushed by something molten and low. From the height of Chestnut’s back, you see land from its own heart for the first time: furrow, ditch, thorn, moss, little stones shining in the road, the long back of the world lifting itself toward dark.

The dying sun finds Duncan too. It catches in his hair until the auburn of it wakes with red-gold hidden under it, banked fire stirred by a stick. All of him brightens: cheek, ear, the blunt line of his nose, the great slope of shoulder under travel-stained cloth. When the sun begins to go, his colours come alive. It seems unfair that a thing may grow more beautiful just when the light is going, as if it was never meant to be kept.

“M’lady?” His voice pulls you from the sky. You turn your head and find him watching you from Sweetfoot’s back. “Are you tired?”

You consider this. “Tired of what?”

He blinks.

“Sitting on a beast?” you ask.

A sound leaves him then, low and huffed through his nose. “Aye. Riding can weary a body. We should make camp soon. It will be dark before long.”

You look him over for signs of weariness, but he shows none that you can read. He sits tall enough, broad enough, with the reins easy in one hand and the dust on him as if it has been there all his life. “The road is hard,” you allow. “The beast is delightful.”

At that you lean forward and wrap both arms around Chestnut’s neck. Chestnut blows out a pleased breath and dips her head as if she agrees with you entirely.

Duncan stares for a moment. Then his mouth presses itself into a line and he looks back to the road.

“Do people always choose paths this hard?” you ask.

“This?” he says. “This is no hard road. It’s straight, and flat enough, and there’s no great wind to cut at us. There are harder paths than this.”

You frown. “Why would anyone take a harder path?”

“Sometimes they must.”

You consider that gravely. Men do seem fond of arranging misery into rules and then obeying them.

After another little while, Duncan says, “Keep your eyes peeled for a place to camp, if there is one you like.”

Your hand lifts before he has finished speaking. “There.”

He follows the line of your finger. There is only a thick tangle of trees and bramble ahead, with sun lying through the branches. “There?” he says.

“By the water.”

He looks again, slower this time, as if water may show itself out of courtesy. “There ain’t water there, m’lady.”

“There is.”

His gaze comes back to you. It is a look you dislike before you understand it. Careful. Mild. The look given to a creature who has said something foolish and might be frightened if the foolishness is named aloud. Pity sits in it, thinly covered.

Heat pinches under your ribs. “Beyond those trees,” you say. “Where the sun takes aim. There is water.”

Duncan shifts in the saddle. For a moment it seems he means to answer. Instead he only draws a breath and turns Sweetfoot’s head. “All right, then.”

The gentleness of it makes the pinch in you flare hotter. The males of your own kind speak so when they wish to make you small. Little thing, pretty thing, witless thing. They forget how quickly a little thing can open a throat when she has teeth and a mind to use them. How a male may reach for you in the weeds, grinning, and only know himself dead when his fingers will no longer close because all the blood has run out of them.

You say nothing. Chestnut follows Sweetfoot off the road and into the green press, Thunder trots close behind with all of the belongings clinking at his sides.

Branches drag over your shoulders. Leaves brush your face and catch in your hair. The ground grows softer almost immediately, darkening underhoof. You hear it before he does, of course: the low, glassy talk of water over stone, hidden under bird-call and the rasp of insects. A moment later Duncan hears it too. His head lifts. Sweetfoot’s ears prick forward. He urges her on a little faster without looking back.

The trees thin, and beyond them lies a small bed of grass pressed close to a clear stream running lazy under evening light. A willow grows at the bank with its long hair fallen into the water, making a green chamber beneath it. The surface holds the last of the sun in broken pieces and lets them go again.

Duncan reins in. At first, he only looks. “Well,” he says at last, quiet and baffled. “Gods be good.” You sit straighter on Chestnut’s back when he turns to you. “How did you know?”

Your chin lifts, because even though he has no right to know, you are a proud creature. “I am not so witless as you think me, knight.”

At that his face changes. The bafflement stays, but something troubled comes into it too. “I never thought you witless,” he says.

Instead of dignifying that with a response, you begin getting off Chestnut. It seems simple enough. One leg must go somewhere, then the other after it, and the ground waits below with its usual bad intentions. You slide halfway down the saddle and there the business collapses. Your skirt catches, one foot finds nothing. Your hands clutch at leather and mane, and you are left hanging from the side of the beast in a deeply humiliating fashion, breathing hard through your nose.

Duncan is there before you make a fool of yourself entire. His hands span your waist through the shift, large and warm and terribly sure. He lifts you down as if the effort costs him nothing, though you have seen the way his side catches sometimes when he thinks you are looking elsewhere.

“I only meant,” he says, setting you on the grass with more care than the world deserves, “you keep surprising me.”

You say nothing to that. Only look at him from close by, and shamelessly so. He is shy for a lad this big. It pleases and worries you in equal measure. It makes you wonder, briefly and without comfort, whether he will know what to do with you at all. Whether he knows how men put themselves between the legs of women who want them so dearly. Whether, third night from this one, the witch will have the soul she grinned for.

Before you can ask, Duncan looks away. “You may bathe, if you like,” he says. “Under the willow there. I’ll start a fire. See to some food. Water the horses after.” Then he turns from you with the haste of a sailor escaping a sinking ship.

The first thing you lose is the shoes. You wrench them off and drop them in the grass with hatred. The cut across your sole still presses when your foot meets earth, but at least it is no longer trapped against leather, forced to bleed and bleed in its own little prison. The stockings go next, or try to. They roll and cling beneath your knees like pale eels. Then, the blanket. You tug at the ties and laces and strings, cross with their stubbornness, then only angrier. Human clothes are full of tricks and no kindness. At last, with a tired grunt, you pull the shift up over your head.

Behind you, wood clatters. You look round.

Duncan stands a few feet away with firewood scattered at his boots. His mouth has parted. For one suspended moment he simply gapes. Then flush climbs fiercely round his ears, up his neck, into his face, and he drops into a crouch to gather the sticks as if they have become suddenly precious.

“M-m’lady,” he says, strangled. “You oughtn’t—Seven save me—you oughtn’t undress before a man you scarce know.”

You stare at him.

“I thought you meant to go beneath the willow,” he goes on, still looking hard at the twigs. “Out of sight. I thought—what are you doing? Have you never been on the road? Or near men? Or near folk at all?”

An instinct pinches you, strange and unwelcome, to cover your chest. You do, though slowly, and with no clear idea why. He looks as if you have done him some harm. “It is only flesh,” you say. “You have flesh too. What is so wicked about mine that you cannot look?”

He makes a small, suffering sound and bends lower over the firewood. “My flesh is—” He stops. Swallows. Tries again. “It is different.”

You glance down at yourself, then at him. “How?”

His hand closes on a stick so tightly the bark cracks. “M’lady, I beg you.”

“For what?”

“For pity,” he says, so miserably that your brows lift. “It is improper, is all. A maid shouldn’t—And I don’t mean to have you think I’m that sort of man. I am trying to do good by you.”

He sounds so nervous your annoyance falters. Only for a moment.

You pick up the shift and hold it to your chest, then begin toward the bank. Walking still feels like being made to argue with the earth. Each step must be planned, lowered, endured. Too much pressure and the pain flares white-hot. Too little and your knee goes soft. Your feet seem stupidly far away from the rest of you, little traitors sent ahead to ruin your dignity.

You stop beside him. Duncan bows his head even lower, as though your bare ankle might strike him blind.

“Do you dislike women’s bodies?” you ask.

The sound he makes then is very nearly a whine. “Please, m’lady. Spare me. I am only a hedge knight. I am trying—please.”

You huff at him. “Forgive me for tormenting you with some skin.” Then you limp on beneath the willow’s hanging hair.

There, hidden by the long green fall of it, you strip with more temper than grace and lower yourself toward the stream. This is going poorly. Your knight does not seem at all like the men you have watched from the shallows, those shore-men who seize their lovers round the waist and press them down laughing in the dark, bodies gleaming, mouths so sinful your tail once twitched hard enough to stir silt. Duncan behaves as though the sight of you is a trial set by cruel gods.

At least there is water.

The stream receives you kindly, though changed skin and sealed ribs make even kindness strange. You lie back over its cool sheet and drift where it is deep enough to hold you, looking up through the willow leaves as they sieve the last gold from the sky. The current slips beneath your new body, uncertain around the parts it no longer knows, and you let it carry what little of you it still can.

Duncan remains crouched over the scattered firewood long after you limp beneath the tree, ears burning as though someone has boxed them both. The stream talks quietly behind him. The horses crop at the grass.

He has no answer for what has just happened. None he likes, anyway.

You are strange. Stranger than any girl he has known, though known is too large a word for the few girls that ever had cause to look twice at him. Your face is strange too, in how open it is. He has not seen one so plain and easy to read since he was a boy looking down into still puddles and finding his own there. He can tell when you are baffled. When you are tired. When you are pleased. When you are angry.

Now you are angry. Likely under the willow still wearing that fierce little frown, cross with him because he turned his eyes away. That is the oddest part. Most maids, he thinks, would be angry with a man for gaping. You seem wounded that he did not gape longer.

He did gape. Only a heartbeat, maybe, before sense struck him like a thrown stone, but a heartbeat can be a mean long while when a girl stands bare in afternoon light. He saw the lift of your breasts before your arms came up, full where the borrowed shift had hidden them, and prickling with river-cool air. He saw the narrow give of your belly, the line where ribs fell into waist, the dark crease of shadow beneath. Enough. More than enough. Too much for a man meant to be gathering sticks and doing honourable things with his hands.

You asked how your flesh was different from his. The terrible thing is he would only need to stand up to show you.

That thought near makes him groan aloud. He jams another stick into the small pit he has scraped clear with his boot and starts arranging kindling with far more care than kindling deserves. Fire. Food. Horses. Bedroll. Those are proper troubles. Those can be solved with hands and a bit of sense.

The bedroll is the worst of them. Four nights to Riverrun. A purse too light for inns unless he means to arrive there hungry and horseless. He pokes at the kindling and gives himself over to a hard, practical anguish.

When the fire catches, he goes to see to the horses. Sweetfoot accepts his hand with her usual calm. Chestnut, traitor that she is, blows warm air straight into his face and tosses her head toward the willow.

“Oh, have you a new favourite?” Duncan mutters. Chestnut chews at nothing, looking pleased with herself. “Aye. Good. All of you against me, then.”

He returns to the fire with what food he has: one mangy rabbit still fit for roasting, a clutch of withered potatoes that have begun trying to become more potatoes, and bread gone hard enough to argue with a knife. He has had worse meals. Many worse. Still, he finds himself worrying whether it will be enough for a tender-mouthed creature like you, whether you are used to finer things, softer things, things served by hands that have never been black with battlefield mud.

The whole day sits oddly in his skull. Morning had found him still full of war. Blood from the day before. The sour stink of men opened for no good reason. Boys felled in the grass with their eyes gone milky and their mothers’ names drying on their tongues. He had been angry then, in a slow thick way, at killing and lords and banners and all the great heavy wheels that roll over little bodies until no one can tell what shape they had.

Then he found you by the stream, naked, half-wild with fear, concussed or close enough, begging him without quite begging to take you with him. Now you are angry because he would not stand there and leer at your tits.

Duncan understands horses better than people. Dogs too. Even mules, ugly-hearted beasts though they can be. A horse gives warning before it kicks. A dog shows teeth before it bites. People smile, weep, lie, ask strange questions, go hurt in places a man cannot see. You escape even the small customs he has managed to learn.

He lifts his eyes from the rabbit just as the wind moves the willow’s hanging hair aside. Through the green gaps, he sees you.

You are floating on your back where the stream broadens under the tree, arms spread loose on either side, legs moving slowly beneath the skin of the water. The last light scatters over you in pieces. A knee and a hip. The small rise of your belly. Water darkens and brightens as it crosses you, breaking your shape and making it whole again. Your hair fans out around your head. Your eyes are closed, mouth parted, and the stream slips between your lips as though you have invited it.

Duncan ought to look away, but the boy he is, he doesn't.

There is enough of you on display to shame a septa dead in her robes. Breasts, thighs, the place between them blurred and shown by water in turns. Yet your face holds him worst. The peace of it, the ease of it. Stripped of cloth and terror and all the hard rules that seem to trouble you, you look newly made and older than the earth together. Not human, he thinks. Then he feels wicked for it, because you are a girl, and hurt, and under his protection.

Still, you look like one of those goddesses men carved in old stones before the Seven came, the kind Duncan knows nothing about except that a wiser man would kneel or run. You look pleased to have the world off your skin. No wonder you shed clothing like a snare.

The willow falls back into place. Green covers you again. Duncan looks down at the rabbit, jaw tight, and turns it over the flame before it can make it to coal. He scolds himself too, keeps muttering Ser Arlan's little knightly preachings to tear his mind away from what boys think about, and back to what sworn swords should think about.

The stream sloshes and plops with the sound of a body being dragged out of it. There, Dunk wonders what exactly to do, because he knows well enough you are no good at walking yet, but finds himself in the grip of a strange preference. He would rather let the stumble happen and rush to help than prevent it outright, if prevention means enduring another comparison of flesh.

Soon enough, he catches you limping from the corner of his eye to the heart of his vision. You come to sit beside him much too close for his peace. The cold of the river comes off you plainly, running against the heat of his shoulder where yours nearly touches. Damp has darkened your hair and set loose drops along your neck. Before he can shift away without making it an insult, you arrange yourself with great importance and announce, “There. Modest.”

Dunk looks. Stupidly, but he does. He has never known cloth to be a thing worthy of praise. Cloth is only cloth. A courtesy. A barrier. A way for decent folk to go about the world without setting fire to one another’s ears. Yet in his want to tell you that you have done well, he stabs his own foot clean through.

The linen has clung to you everywhere it ought to have had the manners to hang loose. Breast, belly, the small inward draw of your waist—all made plainer by water and the thinness of the shift. The blanket lies in a heap too near the fire, abandoned as though wool has somehow offended you.

He holds the lump in his throat from becoming a sound. Then he reaches for the blanket, shakes the worst of the grass from it, and puts it over your shoulders with as much solemn care as if he were robing a queen. He draws it close beneath your throat and tucks one edge over the other.

“You’ve not dried yourself off,” he says. “Cold, aren’t ye?”

You look at him for a moment. Then, there's a nod, and, thank the Seven, your hands take over the keeping of the blanket at your breastbone. The lump in Dunk's throat loosens.

He busies himself with the food. The rabbit has given what it can to the pot, which is less than a rabbit ought to give and more than nothing. The potatoes have softened. The bread will have to be chewed with conviction. He ladles the thin pottage into one of his wooden bowls and passes it to you.

You take it in both hands and eye it with open suspicion. “What is this?”

“Supper,” he says.

You smell it.

“It ain’t much,” Dunk goes on, because the look on your face begins to trouble him. “Only rabbit and some potatoes, and the bread’s gone hard. Still, you ought to eat. There’s a day on the road ahead, and you’ve had naught in you since—” He stops, because he does not know since when. “A while, I’d wager.”

He expects disappointment, perhaps. Revulsion, if you are some lord’s daughter after all, though what lord’s daughter finds herself naked and half-drowned by a stream is beyond him.

Instead, you look bewildered. “You made this?”

Dunk blinks. “A-aye, m’lady.”

You dip your fingers in before he can offer a spoon. The first bite goes into your mouth carefully, as though supper may have sharp bits within it. Then your face changes.

It is a small thing, merely a lifting of brows and mouth pausing round the taste. Then you take another bit, and another, hotter than is wise, huffing through it and laughing once under your breath as though the whole notion of cooked rabbit has played some clever trick on you. Grease shines at the corner of your mouth. You lick it away with no shame at all.

“This is good,” you say, and sound surprised by your own gladness. “This is very good.”

Dunk is bewildered. It is one kind of cruelty to tease him and huff at him for trying his best at decency and failing, another to make a jest out of him and his hedge-ridden status. He looks down into his own bowl.

“Must you mock me?”

You stop chewing at once. The mouthful is too large to swallow cleanly, but you do it anyway and wince as it goes down. “Mock you?” you ask. “Why would I?”

“It’s only rabbit,” he mutters. “And mangled potatoes. You needn’t make a show of it.”

The hurt that comes into your face lands in him badly.

“I did not mean to hurt you,” you say. “Forgive me. I only meant—I would not be able to make this.” A pause. “Or start a fire, for that matter.”

Dunk lifts his head. “You do not know how to start a fire?”

You look at him a moment too long, then back into the bowl. “I’ve never needed it.”

That answer is another strange stone set on the growing pile of you. He gives a low hum and scrapes at his own supper with the spoon. “Well,” he says after a moment, rough with regret. “I beg your pardon, then. If you truly enjoy it, I am glad.”

Your eyes lift. “I do. Truly.”

Knowing it is true does something worse than the praise did. It catches him off guard and warms him under the breastbone, soft and dangerous. He leans back on one hand, taking you in. Half-smile, bare feet peeking from beneath the blanket, bowl clutched as though it contains some small wonder.

“So,” he says, because his mouth is safer when it is trying to crack an unresolvable riddle, “you’re a lady who cannot cook, cannot start a fire, and despises garments and shoes, but has some queer prescience when it comes to finding a body of water. Hm?”

Silence only, then a wide-eyed glance.

“Peculiar,” Dunk says.

“I do not understand why men wear so much cloth anyway,” you say, picking at the blanket where it sits under your chin. “What is peculiar is to have skin so feeble—”

There, your voice dies. Dunk has gone very still with his spoon halfway to his mouth. “Men?” he says.

You blink.

“You are people too,” he says, after a beat.

The words are gentle enough, but they come with a puzzled furrow between his brows, as though he is trying to set you in the proper place and cannot find the shelf. He takes another mouthful and chews it slowly. “Have you worn lighter cloth before, then? Before… all this?”

Before the stream, he means. Before the mud. Before the village woman and the borrowed gown. Before whatever thing he has decided happened to you.

Your fingers tighten round the bowl. “Lighter, yes.”

“How light?”

You give him a careful look.

Dunk seems to understand his mistake before you answer. Red returns to his ears with comic speed. “Never mind. You needn’t— That was no question to ask a maid.”

You consider him. “Do you not often see women naked?”

He chokes. It is only a little choke, but enough to make him turn his face and thump one fist against his chest. “Gods,” he says when he has breath again. “M’lady.”

“I am only asking.”

“Aye, well. Some questions ought to be asked with more care.”

“Why?”

“Because they—” He looks at you, then away, then helplessly down to his lap. “Because they put thoughts in a man’s head.”

“What thoughts?”

His mouth opens. Shuts. You lean closer, interested so plainly Dunk near suffocates on air that suddenly feels chewable in his mouth. “Do women’s bodies trouble all men so badly, or only hedge knights?” you ask.

He makes the suffering sound again. Quieter this time, but telling all the same. “I've seen women,” he says, with the grave misery of a fool walking barefoot over hot coals. “Some. A few. In bathhouses, once or twice by mistake. On the road, folk are not always private as they ought be. And, uh—” He clears his throat so hard it sounds painful. “And in places where women are paid to be looked at.”

You stare. “Paid?”

“Aye.”

“To be looked at?”

“Among other things.”

“What other things?”

Dunk puts his bowl down. You wait. He looks into the fire as if the flames might take pity on him and leap high enough to swallow his face. “Things between men and women.”

“What things?”

“Married things,” he says, too quickly.

“Only married people do them?”

His eyes close briefly. “No.”

“Then why call them married things?”

“Because I am trying to keep this talk decent,” Dunk huffs.

You frown into your supper. “Have you done them?” you ask.

It is such a rude and forthright question it strikes bone in him, though somehow it does not quite offend. His face pulls tight. The flush burns hotter, but something under it draws inward, shy and sore and young.

“N-no,” Duncan says, small.

You lean closer, as if trying to match him in secrecy lest his horses suddenly recognise human tongue. “Never?”

“No.”

“Why?”

He gives a small, helpless shrug. “I’ve had no wife.”

“But you said folk do these things without wives.”

“Aye, some do.” He groans then, low and exasperated, dragging one hand over his mouth. “Gods.”

“But you do not.”

“No.”

“Why?”

His thumb moves over the rim of his bowl. There is dirt under the nail, a split at the knuckle, the hand of a man who knows fire and reins and sword-hilts and very little of where to put himself when a girl asks him plain questions in the dusk.

“Seemed wrong, most times,” he says. “Or costly. Or I was too young. Or too big and stupid and slow to know what was wanted till the chance had gone.”

He goes quiet after that, hoping it is enough of a confession to satisfy you. Another part of him wonders what business he has entertaining the whim at all. A puzzle of a girl you are, that is for certain. Strange in your questions, in your frowns, in the careless tilt of your head when you hear a thing you cannot place.

Then a thought comes on him, tender and stupid enough to shame him: is this another chance he cannot recognise while it is being given? He lifts his face to check yours for some sign of what he imagines a lustful glance might be, though he has no real notion what he expects to find there. Heat? Mischief? Some womanly knowledge he would know when he saw it? Before he can make any proper fool’s study of you, you ask another question.

“Do you like kissing?”

You might as well have picked up a knife by the blade. “I—” His throat works. “I suppose I might.”

“You suppose?”

He breathes heavy. His skin surely can’t get any hotter, so he answers, “I have kissed.”

Your eyes brighten at that, keen enough to make him regret the disclosure at once. “How many times?”

Duncan laughs then, though there is little mirth in it. Nerves, mayhaps. Or the pure severity of you sitting there with rabbit grease on your mouth, asking after his kisses as if counting apples in a basket. He has admitted to being green and now sounds greener still. “Seven save me,” he whines.

“How many?”

“Enough to know a man should not count in front of a lady.”

“Was it good?”

The fire pops. Somewhere behind the pair of you one of the horses tears grass with its teeth. Dunk sits in deepening blushing silence.

You eat another bite. Hum, as if the flavours have managed to marry into something more delicious during the interrogation. “At the shore,” you say then, “men kiss women as if they are hungry.”

Dunk’s gaze snaps to you.

“I have seen it,” you add. “They hold them by the waist and put them down in the grass. Sometimes the women laugh. Sometimes they make sounds as if they are being bitten, but they keep their hands in the men’s hair, so I think they must like it.”

Duncan feels himself go past blushing into something worse. Stricken, feverish, and too aware of the place where his belly has kicked tight under your words. He cannot have you thinking him that sort of knight. Cannot sit here in the dark with you speaking of women pressed into grass and let his mind go where it has already begun to go.

“M’lady,” he says, and hears the plea in it himself. “I think we ought to try and get some sleep.”

“It is barely dark,” you say.

“It will be darker soon.”

“That happens whether we sleep or not.”

“Aye,” he says faintly. “So it does.”

You lick a bit of grease from your thumb. His eyes move there and away so fast he prays you miss it. “Do you want more supper?” he asks.

You smile into your bowl. “You are changing the subject.”

He smiles back, weakly. Hopes there is enough begging in it, though judging by your curiosity about every cursed thing under the moon, falling to his knees would only give you more to ask about. “I am… trying to save my soul.”

Your laugh comes out small and surprised, and it spills warm through his chest in a way that has no business being so pleasant.

“Eat,” he says. “Then sleep. There will be more road on the morrow, and you already hate the road.”

“I hate the shoes more,” you tell him.

“Aye. I had gathered.”

“And the stockings.”

“A terrible foe,” Dunk says, standing up.

“And the laces.”

“Cruel little beasts.”

You glance at him, something sharp and pleased on you. It is very difficult to keep thoughts from his head, foul thoughts, when you look like this. His heart softens a notch while the other parts of him harden, and before he is forced back to sitting, Dunk turns and tells you, “I’ll water the horses and prepare the bedroll for us.”

He does so. You follow him soon after, quiet-footed for once, and stop to eye the splay of oilcloth and old wool on the ground as if it is another human custom laid out for judgment.

Dunk clears his throat. “You should lie down. You’ve had a long day.”

That much, at least, you obey. You lower yourself carefully, one knee bending wrong at first, then righting with a frown that makes him look away before fondness can show too plainly on his face. He waits until you are settled, then pulls the blanket up over you and tucks it in at your shoulder. Only a little. Only enough to keep the night air off. His hand stills there for half a heartbeat before he draws it back.

Then he turns, draws his sword, and lays it down between the two sides of the bedroll.

It makes a good enough line. Honest steel. Cold steel. A better man than he is, perhaps, lying straight-backed where honour ought to be.

You watch him do it, and Dunk pretends not to notice.

Getting himself down beside you is less graceful than he would like. He lowers carefully, trying to favour the slash in his side, but the wound pulls anyway and a wince catches him regardless. He settles on his back at last with a breath through his teeth, one arm tucked behind his head, his body held a proper distance from the blade.

For a while there is only the fire. The horses. The soft working of water under the willow. But, of course, you must ask. “What is the sword for?”

Dunk shuts his eyes and opens them again. “For sleeping.”

You turn your face toward him. He can feel it without looking. “Are you afraid of me?”

“No,” he says quickly. “No, m’lady. It is only—” He searches for the words and finds only poor ones. “It is a boundary, like. For your honour.”

“My honour?”

“Aye.”

“Does it need steel?”

Dunk rubs a hand over his brow. “Mayhaps mine does.”

That comes out wrong enough to make him go still. He tries again before you can catch hold of it.

“I mean, it is proper. A man and a maid should not lie close without vows between them. Or kinship. Or—” He thinks of hedge knights, camp followers, drunk squires, road wives, all the world as it is rather than as septons pretend it to be. “Or some understanding.”

You hum. It is only a small sound, but it slips soft through the dark and goes straight into his groin. Pretty. Gods help him, even that is pretty. Your voice has no need of song to work on a man.

Dunk fixes his eyes on the sky. “I do not wish you to think ill of me,” he says, lower. “That is all.”

Another stretch of quiet. The fire clicks and collapses inward on itself.

“Do husbands and wives sleep like this too?”

Dunk's lids squeeze shut so hard they hurt.

He ought to answer. He knows he ought. It is a simple question, mayhaps, though no question of yours has proved simple yet. But he has no answer fit to give without inviting ten more behind it, each worse than the last. His side aches. His head aches. His body is a foe beside a sword that suddenly seems no wider than a blade of grass.

So Dunk lies very still and does his worst pretending to be asleep. After a moment, you hum again, as if you know perfectly well he is awake and have decided to let him keep the lie.

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

“he spoke to me first.”

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

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

“Then you are still a maiden?”

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

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

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

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

“If I must, yes!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you had gone to Oldtown the way you had gone to every foreign town throughout your childhood. A ghost wandering a half-gone graveyard, a stranger let loose in another man’s sanctuary — hoping, always hoping, that someone might finally decide you were something worth keeping. 

When the city rose finally before you in tiers of sun-bleached stone, with a towering lighthouse crowning its center like a great white candle, you believed that you had only traded one kind of nothing for another — as you had done your whole life.

Septa Enith leads you through the corridors of the tower with her habit whispering faintly behind her. You follow a few paces back with your eyes downcast, dressed in a gown of plain wool that marked your status — lesser, unfinished, a novice still — lacking the septa’s seven-pointed veil you had not yet earned, and allowing your hair to hang loose behind you.

“Septa Enith,” Lord Ormund greets from further inside his office upon her entrance. The room is warm with early-morning light, turning motes of dust aglitter where they drift through the tall stained-glass windows. The air is sweet with the scent of pine logs smoldering low in the hearth, where a young boy lingers — Daeron, you figure, still soft-cheeked with the last days of childhood.

His uncle rises from the great oak desk, full of organized letters and ledgers. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and handsome to the point of devastation. He comes around the desk, boots padding softly along the cobblestone. 

“This must be the girl you wrote me of.”

You sink into a small, practiced curtsy with your gaze fixed on the cobbles. Septa Enith introduces you like a woman would present her own handiwork — that you were traveled and well-taught; a little green yet, but still diligent and pious beyond most girls your age.

But you were not devout, in truth. Not really. The gods were like your parents in that regard: neither one was coming to look for you now. And in the few times you had sunk low enough to beg the gods for mercy, they only seemed to shove more suffering down your throat to keep you from crying out again. But devotion was never the point — a girl so alone in the world, with no dowry and no kin to speak of, had precious few paths laid before her. The grey wool and the seven-pointed star was, perhaps, the only one that would ever choose you back.

With your eyes still lowered, you see only Lord Ormund’s polished boots enter the narrow scope of your downcast vision.

He lingers before you, close enough for you to catch the scent of him — leather, incense, and musky bathing oils. He waits with a polite grin for you to lift your eyes, and raises his brows to his hairline when you don’t. 

He ducks his head instead, made of short, dark-auburn curls, trying almost playfully to catch your gaze from below — the way a young boy might peer beneath a table to startle someone hiding there.  He leans closer then, enough for you to hear the soft pull of breath he draws in through his nose.

You flinch involuntarily at the nearness of his warmth, before willing your body back into its practiced submission once more.

“Rosewater…” Ormund mutters, almost to himself, as if he were solving some sort of riddle. “And something else beneath it— orris root, I’d wager.” 

He straightens then, satisfied with his guess, and waits again for a response from you that never comes. 

It was always easier to be quiet, you found, after so many years spent in the company of high lords and ladies who cared not if you lived or died. You had learned to stand so still in a room that you all but vanished from it, refusing to give away even the smallest, truest piece of yourself.

Ormund’s grin grows wider at your silence. His deep, melodic voice is coated in amusement as he quips, “Septa Enith hasn’t sent me a silent sister, has she? I’d hate to think my nephew’s new tutor has sworn off speaking entirely."

“No, my lord,” you answer finally, though the words are swallowed back down again almost as soon as they leave you.

“She speaks!” Ormund chuckles, the sound ringing through the quiet expanse of his office. “A voice like a mouse, yes, but a voice all the same.”

Still, though, you fail to lift your eyes to meet his own. You’re grateful when the man doesn’t press you any further for it, though you can feel a tension that suggests he wants to — like the glimmering heat off a flame. There’s something strangely gentle in his palpable restraint; a simple courtesy that costs him nothing, though he seems to take a private pride in offering it nonetheless.

“You needn’t be frightened,” he tells you, gentler now. “You’ll be treated kindly here. Enith keeps a fair house, as I’m sure you know, and Daeron is no great trial— are you, boy?”

He glances over his shoulder towards the hearth, where Daeron stands with his hands folded behind his back and his eyes watching the exchange with an attentive, green-eyed stare — a future knight in the making no doubt.

“No, uncle," Daeron answers, firm but gentle, and with a deep voice that still fractures slightly with the remnants of boyhood.

Lord Ormund's pink mouth curves into a pleased grin. “Well, what do you think, then? Shall we keep her?"

He poses the question lightly, as if you were a piece of livestock being brought to market. You suppose he means it in jest, or at least, as something far more light-hearted than the words truly sound, but it strikes you deep in the chest anyway.

“If it please you, uncle,” Daeron responds politely. 

Lord Ormund turns back to you then, still sporting the same polite grin. His brows bounce with amusement as his pale gaze sweeps your form in a slow, daunting pass.

“Then yes…” he hums to himself. “I think we shall…”

Your days, for the first time since childhood, take a shape that feels almost permanent. 

You rise each morning before the sun, kneel through your morning prayers alongside Enith and the other septas in the hush of the sept, break your fast on stale bread and watered wine, and then report to the small, sunlit chambers where Daeron takes his studies. Septa Enith watches every day from her chair by the window, tending to her needlework while you lead the young prince’s lessons, and correcting you only rarely.

Daeron, as you had come to find after weeks within the Hightower keep, was a perfect pupil. He was quick, attentive, and always very sweet. He minds his histories well and his prayers even better, and only rarely drifts his attention out the window toward the training yards where the squires train with blunt swords. But you had been a child once, too, even though it felt a very long time ago now — and you deign to crack his knuckles with the pointer stick the way your teachers had once done to you.

“We’ll start easy,” you say from across the low table, where a scattering of parchment lay between you. “The Hightowers of Oldtown."

“‘An old, just, and true line,'" Daeron recites the text easily, with his eyes fixed out the window and his finger drumming with a boyish distraction. “‘Keeper of the light, guardian of the Citadel and the Faith.' Words: We Light the Way."

“Good,” you hum. “The Tyrells of Highgarden?”

“Words: Growing Strong. Their sigil is a… a golden rose on a green field. They hold Highgarden by right of the Gardener kings— though they were stewards once, not lords."

“The Lannisters of Casterly Rock?"

“Words: A Lannister always pays his debts—”

“A common phrase, yes, but not their true words,” you correct gently, lips pursed to keep from smiling. “Try again.”

“Words…” he trails off, wrinkling his freckled nose in thought. “Hear Me Roar. Their sigil is a golden lion on crimson. They say they're the richest house in the Seven Kingdoms, though Septa Enith says rich men are always saying that about themselves—”

“That was not meant for you to repeat, boy,” the older woman scolds without looking up from her stitching. Daeron ducks his head with a grin pursed to the side of his mouth, and you allow yourself the smile you’d been holding back all lesson.

A steward arrives in that moment, rapping twice along the door frame to announce his presence. “Begging pardon, Septa,” he says with a polite bow of his head, just before his eyes find you. “Lord Ormund has requested your presence in his office.”

“Oh—” Your eyes widen as you glance back at Daeron, then to the half-done lesson laid out before you, and then to the lanky man across the room. “I— We’re still at our studies, ser. Might I come after we’ve—”

“Girl,” Enith snaps, her voice cutting through the room like a whip. All eyes turn to her in an instant. Her wise, watery gaze hardens at you. “Lord Ormund does not wait on the patience of novices. You will go to him now, and you will be grateful he thought to send for you at all."

Heat crawls up your neck from the high collar of your woolen dress. You swallow through the distant shame of being scolded before your own pupil, as if you were a child of Daeron’s own age, and rise with a murmured apology to no one in particular. You follow a few paces behind the steward with your eyes fixed on the floor. 

Ormund’s office, you find, is washed in beams of silver-gold from the morning light spilling through the high windows. He stands within the rays with his strong hands clasped loosely behind his back as he gazes out over the tower's long descent to the river below. 

The sound of the door clicking shut behind you draws his attention. He turns his head, and the light catches in his sheared curls, turning them a richer shade of auburn. 

“There you are,” he greets with a kind smile, motioning to his desk in the center of the room with a broad hand. “Come in. Sit, if you like.”

You do not move from your place. You remain just inside the door, with your head bowed and your hands folded obediently in front of you, the way you had been taught. You say nothing in response until he asks.

“How does my nephew’s lessons fare?”

“Well, my lord.” Your voice comes out smaller than you mean it to, trembling at the edge of each syllable despite your attempts to steady it. “He’s very smart. He’s very clever, too, as I’m sure you already—”

“Come closer, won’t you?” he interjects suddenly, though not unkindly. “I can hardly hear a word from you all the way over there.”

Your slippers pad along the cobbles as you near him with small, hesitant steps, and with your breath caught somewhere in your throat. You stop an arm's length from him before the great stained-glass windows — Ormund closes what little distance remains himself, smothering you in his warmth and the incense clinging to the silver pomander hanging at his sword belt.

His wide hands lift to rest along the outsides of your elbows without warning. You’re perhaps more startled by the gentleness of his touch rather than the touch itself — you can feel the warmth radiating from his palms even through the thick sleeves of your dress. He dips his head the same way he had the first time he met you, trying once more to catch your downturned gaze.

“You needn’t be frightened of me,” Ormund tells you softly, though it did very little to loosen the perpetual knot in your chest.

“I am not, my lord,” you tell him, half-strangled, and wonder distantly if a lie is still a sin if it’s meant to spare someone else the trouble of you.

Ormund says nothing for a long moment. When you dare to lift your eyes, you find that he’s already leaning in — the way he had that very first day. Your pulse falters a beat when you hear him draw a slow breath beside your temple. You go very still, like a trapped animal going quiet in the hope of being spared.

“Lavender,” he muses to himself. “And… beeswax.”

He straightens once more, pleased with himself, and smiles down at you again. 

“The motherhouse must be running thin, if you've had to make do with the castle's plain milling,” he quips with an attentiveness that feels borderline intrusive. “I’ll have something better sent along to you at once.”

You say nothing. There is nothing to say to that, you think — nothing that wouldn’t feel like spurring on his kindness, which has started to feel like comes with a debt you didn’t agree to owe.

“Well,” he says in response to your silence, dropping his hands to his sides. The warmth in his strong face returns again, with the negligible tenderness of a lord dismissing one of his middling servants. “I won’t keep you from your duties any longer. Go on back to my nephew— I imagine Enith's grown fond of her needlework again, now that she's free to listen to you instead.”

You drop into your usual curtsy with a“yes, my lord,” murmured beneath your breath. You rise again and turn to go, but Ormund catches you before you can. 

He ducks down and presses his mouth to yours in a parting kiss that a great lord might bestow on any woman of his household. His lips are soft and light against your own, but lingering nonetheless — long enough that the peck turns from well-mannered to borderline indecent.

You go rigid at the shock of it, too stunned to do anything more than stand there with your hands clenched into fists at your sides until he pulls away from you again.

“May the Seven be with you, sister,” Ormund says with a kind, untroubled grin, as if nothing strange had passed between you at all.

“And with you, my lord,” you manage through the invisible hand still wrapped around your throat. 

It takes the length of the corridor outside for you to remember how to breathe again. You feel the ghost of his mouth on yours for hours after he’s let you go.

Something about Ormund sticks in you like a splinter under the skin. The thought of him grows on you like ivy on cobblestone — quiet and quick and everywhere. It was his unwavering tenderness, you think, or maybe the way his eyes always seemed to linger on you a beat longer than courtesy required, which left something raw and unfamiliar in its wake. Like what little you remember of love in your girlhood, a childhood infatuation that was usually very fickle but always very intense.

It was this same constant turning-over of him in your head that made it so easy to suspect him when your slips began to disappear.

It was a small thing at first — a sliver torn from the edge of your thin linen, leaving the hem pulled and frayed. A rat, you assumed, gnawing for fabric for its nest; or a splintered edge, maybe, from where your trunk had snagged it. And when a second strip vanished, this time cut clean from the chest, you believed it had been a rat then, too.

But then an entire slip had disappeared outright, gone from the wicker basket of unwashed linen, and no amount of searching your small chamber seemed to turn it up.

Septa Enith called you mad when you told her of your suspicions, but you knew what kind of man Lord Ormund was. 

You had felt his breath along your temple, heard him murmur rosewater and lavender and beeswax against your skin with the quiet reverence typically reserved for prayer. And, thus, the thought crept into your skull unbidden, shaped like that same warm breath along your skull. Try as you might to laugh it off as foolishness — the overactive fancy of a girl raised with gossiping novices, forever seeing shadows where none existed — the thought did not leave you. And after a time, you understood it would not leave you until you knew if it was true.

And so you lie.

You tell Septa Enith that you were feeling poorly and asked if she could take Daeron’s lessons herself that day. You bore her subsequent scolding with your eyes down and your hands folded — that you ought to have more of a backbone than to let a little queasiness keep you from your duties; that a septa's calling was not so easily set aside as that. You had already memorized the prayers of contrition you would say for it later, kneeling before the Mother to confess the small sin honestly.

But for now, you spend the rest of the morning in your chambers — sitting first upon your bed and then, when that grew tiresome, at the writing desk by the window. You watch the morning light drift across the ancient floorboards and feel more and more foolish by the minute. By midday you’ve nearly convinced yourself that you’ve wasted a perfectly good lie on nothing, and that the missing slips had simply been misplaced; that Lord Ormund had far better things to occupy his time than a novice septa's undergarments.

Then you heard his voice in the corridor, exchanging some brief word with a passing servant outside — “See that the eastern rooms are aired before the Citadel men arrive,” he says.

It would have meant nothing to you at all if it hadn’t been drawing nearer to your bedchambers. Your heart lurches wildly in your chest as you scramble from the desk and into the small adjoining bathing room — easing the door shut until only a hair’s-breadth crack remains. You press yourself against it, scarcely daring to breathe.

A knock comes at your door a moment later. It’s soft and courteous, two sharp raps against the wood, as if to make certain that no one at all was behind it. The heavy door creaks open without invitation. You hear the scuff of boots against the floor and the click of the door easing shut, just before Ormund comes into view.

Through the crack in the door, you watch the man move slowly through the narrow confines of your quarters. The late morning light catches the auburn flecks in his curls as he passes the window by your writing desk. He lingers there for a long moment, studying the things scattered across its surface as if he were already well acquainted with them. 

He lifts the smooth river stone you’d kept since childhood, somehow already knowing where to find it, and runs his thumb mindlessly over the smooth edge. As he does so, he dips his head to skim through the parchment scattered there — clumsy sketches, scant prayers, and miscellaneous writings of dried ink.

Ormund touches nothing else. He only looks, cataloging the smallest parts of your life with his eyes alone.

He sets the small stone down with a quiet thud and crosses to the hamper of unwashed linens tucked beside your washstand. He peers inside and, without hesitation, plucks one of your slips from the pile.

Your heart goes still but very loud all at once as you watch the man bring the linen up to his nose to inhale the scent of you upon it — of rosewater, soap, and faintly of sweat. His strong chest rises beneath his emerald doublet as he takes a slow breath in. His eyes fall shut on the long, lingering exhales that follow. 

You see only the profile of his broad form from where you stand. He goes quiet and still thereafter with something that seems almst peaceful.

When his hand moves into his trousers, with the linen slip still caught in his fist, you do not move from the doorway. You stand frozen in disbelief while his hand disappears in his pants, while the rest of your slip hangs lazily at his thigh. You scarcely breathe — because your heart has moved so far up into your throat that you cannot, maybe; or because you long to hear the man’s grumbled groan as he works himself hard with his fist.

His adam’s apple bobs in his throat when he tips his head back. His moan comes from the very back of his throat, sounding like distant thunder as it rolls across the quiet room. The pleasured sound feels like a hand between your thighs, where a strange throbbing has started to settle — an ache that longs to be smoothed out.

“Yes…” Ormund groans to himself through a jaw clenched tight. 

And, as if spurred on by his own words, you feel your hand reaching down to lift your skirts — and to shove your fingers where the dull pulsing has settled. 

Your pointer and forefinger slot wet between the velvety folds of your cunt. You pierce yourself with them slowly, the way it had been down to you by a young knight somewhere between The Twins and Riverrun in your girlhood. 

You remember the way he attempted to pleasure you with his fingers, dragging them in and out and in and out of you. And even though you failed to orgasm then the way the knight said you ought to have, you fight now to chase that pleasure warming in the very pit of your stomach now.

You brace yourself against the doorframe with your free hand and watch the man stroke himself with a lidded gaze — with the same violating scrutiny he always seems to watch you with. 

You’re no different than he is, a cynical voice screams in the very back of your head. The two of you are made out of the same kind of sin. But even still, you find yourself hunting the feeling simmering in your stomach; a knot pulled tight and threatening to snap.

Ormund tenses in place, bracing himself with a strong hand along your bedframe as his towering body quakes with the tremors of his orgasm. His knuckles go white around the ancient wood, gripping there hard enough to splinter it. 

His moan sounds like thunder in his chest — “Fuck…” he grumbles lowly. “Fuck, yes…” 

He reaches his pinnacle before you do, and when the aftershocks have subsided and his limbs have stopped shaking, Ormund pulls your dress from his trousers. Something sticky darkens the pale fabric where his fist had held it. You catch only a sliver of the stain before he tosses it back into the basket of unwashed linens.

Your heart slams against your ribcage; hard enough that you worry he might hear it through the door as he slips back out of your bedchambers, just as quietly as he had come in.

You remain in the crack of your own bathing room door long after the sound of his footsteps has faded down the corridor. 

You wonder how many times Ormund has let himself into your chambers while you attended your lessons and prayers each day. You wonder how many times he’s pleasured himself using your garments as a rag, and how many of those garments you must have washed without noticing his pleasure stained upon it. 

You wonder, even more so, if you should feel more violated by the thought than you do — if it would be such a sin to take pleasure in the thought of being so carnally desired.

You drag your fingers, finally, from the depths of your pulsing confines. The pads of them have started to prune with the slick gathered upon them, shiny with honey and slightly stringy when you separate your middle and pointer finger from one another.

What are these hands supposed to do now? the voice berates you still, while your loins tingle with a lingering pleasure. Because they are certainly far too stained now to pray.

You need a mother to comfort you; a father to shield you; someone older and wiser to cry to, because the skies are empty and no god has answered you yet. 

Your attempts to tell Septa Enith what you’d seen had failed you entirely. You had gone to her that afternoon, before the courage could leave you, and found her in the small garden off the sept where she typically took her afternoon needlework. You told her what you had witnessed (and nothing of what your own fingers had done to yourself while you witnessed it). 

Her needle stilled mid-stitch. For a moment, you thought she might believe you, as her wrinkled face twisted in shock at your confession. But when she finally spoke, her voice came flat with something closer to anger than alarm.

“So you lied to me this morning?” she asked after several moments of daunting silence.

“Yes. I did,” you answered honestly from where you knelt beside her chair, with your hands clasped in your lap like a penitent child. “And I do mean to repent for it, Septa, for however long you think fit. But I saw him. With my own eyes, in my own chambers. I saw him take my—”

“Oh, enough of that,” she grunted, as if she were dismissing a child mid-fancy. Her face screwed with annoyance as she berated you. “I have known you since you were a girl of seven years. Sniveling and friendless and full of stories that were never true; stories you told yourself to escape the real truth of things. I remember it. The other septas remember it besides.” 

You cowered at her words. Her mouth thinned into a tight seam; her watery blue eyes hardened in a way that you had not seen since your earliest, clumsiest days under her instruction — when you were still learning which lies got a girl a slap and which got her days of confinement.

“And now you would have me believe that Lord Ormund — a kind man who has shown you nothing but courtesy since the day you set foot in this tower — has been sneaking into your chamber to steal your smallclothes and use them to… pleasure himself like a lovesick stableboy?"

“I saw it," you repeated, voice cracking with a desperation to be believed. You blinked away the haze of tears burning at your waterline as you begged her. “Septa, please—"

“Enough,” she shoved your pleading hand away and stood, smoothing out her skirts with hands that were not quite steady. “I’ll not hear any more of it. You'll do your penance tonight as you've promised, and you'll pray besides for honesty — and for gratitude, perhaps, that a house such as this took in a girl with no name and no prospects and gave her some purpose at all.”

You stayed where you knelt as the woman moved towards the tower, heavy with the sinking feeling that she was moving to Lord Ormund’s solar to carry your confession to him herself. 

“I’d have thought you'd grown past your stories by now,” she scolded without looking back at you.

The summons, which you knew was inevitable, doesn’t come until the sun has dipped low over the horizon — turning the cloudless sky into a mixture of deep orange and dark lavender. A steward knocks at your door and does not meet your eyes when he tells you that Lord Ormund awaits your presence in the castle sept. You had lain through the afternoon anticipating exactly this, but your stomach still flips in spite.

The sept is empty and quiet with the remnants of evening prayer. The air is stale and thick with the scent of burning incense and glowing candles. What little light remains falls through the stained glass in slanted beams of color across the ancient wood — deep red where it touches the Warrior’s carved shield, soft green pooling at the Mother’s feet, and jewel-blue catching the folds of the Father’s robes where he stands in eternal judgment above the altar. 

You find Lord Ormund standing near the front with his back to you, and with a leather-bound copy of the Seven-Pointed Star in his hands. His voice is low and even as it carries through the empty nave, reading aloud to no one at all: “…And the Crone raised her lantern, saying: truth is the light by which the righteous find their road, while falsehood is a mist that leads only to darkness.” 

He speaks the words as if he knew precisely when you would arrive, and had arranged the moment accordingly to catch you in some sort of trap.

Ormund does not look up when your slippers pad along the narrow aisle. He lets you linger there instead, like a stupid lamb walking itself to the slaughter. The silence grows too suffocating to bear. You feel the weight of the sept pressing down on either side of you — old wood and candle-smoke and the watchful, carved eyes of seven gods who had never once troubled themselves to answer your prayers.

“Septa Enith came to speak with me this afternoon,” Ormund says in lieu of a greeting when he turns finally to face you. His smile is thin-lipped and gentle, if not a little disarming. “She tells me you’ve become… distressed.”

It takes you a long moment to find the courage to speak. The words well up into your throat like bile but refuse to come out, lingering bitterly on your tongue instead. The candles crackle in the silence you leave behind.

“I— I only told her the truth, my lord,” you tell him. And though your voice does not waver, your folded hands start to tremble despite your effort to keep them still.

“The truth…” he echoes, as if he were tasting the word on his tongue for the first time. He saunters down the steps of the altar with the leather-bound book tucked beneath his strong arm.  “You believe, truly, that I entered a novice’s chambers without invitation? That I used her garments for something so sinful? That I’ve been… stealing pieces of her garments for my own keeping?” 

A laugh leaves him then, warm with amusement.

“Surely, you do not think so little of me as that.” 

“I only know what I saw,” you answer and hold his gaze until it feels like a little rebellion. It’s the first time you’ve ever offered him your eye contact so freely, to be sure, and it feels like it costs you something to do it.

“Would you swear it?” Ormund asks, approaching you like a hunter would a prey animal caught in a snare. The candlelight catches in the strong curve of his jaw and the blue of his eyes, carving him out of flickering gold and shadow. “You would swear it before the Father himself. Invoke His judgment upon your soul, should you speak false."

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water until you find the breath to answer. “I… I would never lie before the Seven, my lord.”

“No,” the man hums with a shake of his head, studying you still from a few paces off. Something in his chiseled features turns gentle, or seemed to besides. “I do not believe you would.”

You think the words are meant to comfort you. 

They do not.

“But I do believe something else," Ormund continues without his gaze straying from yours. “I believe loneliness makes strange companions of the mind. Wouldn’t you agree?”

You stiffen from where you stand before him, bracing yourself for his following words, which you know are bound to find you like a rod to the thigh.

“You grew up without mother or father. Without kin of any kind, as I’m told,” Ormund rambles with all the tenderness of a man delivering some sad, gentle truth. “A child left alone in such a place learns to invent reasons for the things she cannot understand, does she not? It is not a fault in her, to be sure. It is only what loneliness does to a mind left too long to its own devices."

“I am not a child,” you try to argue, though the words come out more strangled than you intend.

“No,” Ormund grins, devilish enough to squint the edges of his eyes. “But perhaps some distant part of her lingers in you yet."

Your hands clench into fists. Your dull nails bite crescent shapes into the delicate skin of your palms. “I saw you—”

“You've always had a fondness for stories, haven’t you?” he interjects, almost fondly so. “Septa Enith told me as much herself— said that you used to… frighten all the other girls with tales of dragons in the rafters, of shadows that moved on their own in the dark.”

“I was a child then—”

“She said you often mistook the wind for voices; and shapes in dark corners for things with faces,” Ormund continues with a grin, tilting his head until the candlelight pools in the hollows of his eyes. “So tell me, sister, and weigh it honestly, as the Seven would have you weigh it… What is more likely— that a lord of this tower crept into a servant's chamber to steal her smallclothes like a common thief? Or that a girl who has spent her whole life inventing stories has done so once more?"

His words close around your throat like a pair of cold hands. You search desperately for a response but find nothing immediately waiting. Your voice has sealed itself shut around whatever truth you might have offered him, choking instead on the smothering weight of his.

Ormund steps closer and holds the Seven-Pointed Star out between you. His voice comes out sterner this time as he commands, “Read. I’ve already marked the page for you.”

“My lord—"

“Read."

Your hands tremble when they reach for the book he motions towards you. You find the leather still warm from his palms and impossibly heavy between your fingers as they fumble for the scarlet ribbon tucked inside. The thin pages turn heavily, until the inked words swim finally before you, blurred at the edges with time and something hot building behind your eyes.

“Aloud,” Ormund presses at your silence.

Your voice is scarcely more than breath when it finally comes to you.

“False witness is… is a wound upon the soul. For the tongue that fashions lies… distances itself from the light of the Father— and the Mother turns Her face from deceit until repentance is sought…” you swallow hard through a tight throat, fighting the tremor in your voice. You press on before you lose the nerve, and pretend not to notice the weight of Ormund’s stare fixed upon you.

“Let he who bears false tales examine his own heart before… before casting stones upon another. For the Crone's wisdom teaches that the eye deceived is— is no less guilty than the tongue that speaks the falsehood aloud—”  You cut yourself off with a shake of your head, a stubborn refusal at Ormund’s plain attempt at manipulation. “I cannot.”

“You can,” the man nods, warm and almost encouraging. “Continue.”

Your voice cracks in two, but you obey regardless — because some well-worn part of you never learned how to do otherwise.

 “…And let the penitent seek not to defend his pride, but to humble himself before the Seven. For truth asks no champion, and innocence need fear no judgment,” you continue, voice thick and wet with unshed tears, breath hitching occasionally in your throat. “Bow thy head before the… the Father, confess thy trespass before the Mother… and the Smith shall make whole— that which falsehood hath broken. So shall mercy be granted— unto the contrite, but the stubborn shall… shall dwell in the Stranger's shadow… until the last of their days—”

By the time you reach the passage's end, your vision has dissolved entirely into tears. They burn hot and humiliating down your cheeks and chin until one strikes the page before you could catch it. It blooms dark against the old vellum. You scrub at it with your sleeve, as though you might undo the stain before it set.

“I—I’m sorry," you stammer — to the book, maybe, or to Ormund, or to the Seven watching from their carved and unmoving faces. 

The man says nothing for a long while. When he finally speaks again, the sternness has slipped entirely from his voice — replaced by something that sounds, almost, like kindness.

“You’ve carried a great deal on your own, haven’t you?” Ormund wonders suddenly aloud. You peer up at him with your eyes still glittering like stained glass. His hardened face has softened slightly, because of the tears clouding your vision maybe, or perhaps due to a newfound warmth.  “You've spent your whole life learning to survive on what you need. But tell me, my girl— What do you want?"

You don’t realize until then that no one has ever asked you that before — not once, in all your years of learning to be small,  useful, and no trouble to anyone who might otherwise have turned you out into the cold. The question moves through you like a key turning finally into an old lock that’s long rusted shut.

“I…” you try hard to speak, but your breath catches somewhere in your throat before you can. “I don't know, I… I’ve never…”

You trail off, shaking your head. Ormund ducks down to catch your gaze when it falls away once more.

“Tell me,” he presses gently, brows softly furrowed. “Speak true.”

“I’ve… I’ve never belonged anywhere, my lord,” you confess for the first time aloud. “I don't remember my mother's face. Nor my father's. No one’s ever… ever chosen me before. The only reason the sept took me in was because there was nowhere else for me to go, I… I think that— I’ve always been in… in someone's way. I don't— I don’t even know what I’m supposed to want.” 

A laugh sputters from your mouth, all watery and ashamed. You trail off again, so quietly you can barely hear your own voice over the pounding of your heart. 

Your face screws into a pained sort of look as you admit to him, “I think… I think I only want someone to— to tell me what to want, what to do.”

The candles gutter along the altar, though no draft has moved through the sept. Your words cling so ardently to the incense-thick air between you that you wish so desperately that you could reach out and put them back in your mouth again — suddenly terrified that you’ve given away far too much of yourself.

Ormund steps forward, close enough to smother you with the warmth radiating from his towering form. He plucks the leather-bound scripture from your trembling hands, closes it with a resounding thud in one broad fist, and tosses it blindly to a pew just beside him without once looking away from you. The book hits the wood like a door slamming shut. Your shoulders jerk as the sound echoes through the quiet sept.

You try to will your hands to stop shaking at your sides as you peer at the man from beneath lashes clumped wet with tears. He spends a long moment staring down the bridge of his nose at you, chest rising and falling with even breaths beneath the clasps of his doublet.

When he speaks again, his words come out low and steady from his mouth — far gentler and far more certain than any god has ever been to you before.

“Kneel,” he commands plainly, needing no further adornment to carry the weight of the word.

You stand frozen before him for several long moments thereafter. 

The last color pooling from the stained glass thins now as the sun sinks somewhere beyond the windows — crimson bleeding to rust, green fading to a negligible yellow, blue fading to the color of an old bruise. Above the altar, the Seven look down upon you with nothing but judgment. They offer you no counsel, no rescue, no sign that they had ever been listening to all your years of prayer.

Then, with your cheeks still wet with thick streaks of tears, you clasp your hands tightly together and lower yourself to your knees. They meet the cold wood with a quiet thud, and the chill of it climbs up through your skirts. 

Your lowered gaze lifts slowly to the man towering above you. You find no comfort waiting in his strong features. There is nothing behind his light eyes except the flickering candlelight and the same coldness as the Father looking down from his stone alcove — as if Ormund, too, felt owed something you had not yet given.

“There can be no absolution without obedience…” he says without taking his eyes off yours, even as his hands reach for the buckle of his sword belt. 

The gold clinks faintly together; the leather hisses faintly when it’s pulled through. At first you think he means to spank you with it — bend you over his knee, lift up your skirts, and whip you bruised. Your stomach twists with excitement at the thought. 

A mixture of dread and self-deprecation consumes you a moment later, when he tosses the scabbard aside and reaches for the tie in his trousers instead.

“…Show me the second,” Ormund continues, this time with his fist hidden in his pants, massaging himself there the same way he had in your chambers. “And perhaps I’ll be gracious enough to give you the first.”

Your mouth waters like a starving hound when he frees his cock from the confines of his slacks, tucking the hem beneath his balls. It’s heavy and half-hard in his fist — a shade paler than the rest of his skin, and glowing a faint pink color at the tip. This one is far bigger, far prettier than the cocks you’d seen throughout your teenagehood — when high lords and lanky knights would pull it out for you, “c’mon, just kiss it,” they’d beg, right before berating you when your face screwed in disgust instead.

All that repulsion seems to leave you now. Your mouth parts without further command from him, as if an unconscious part of you had longed to wrap your lips around his cock and taste the glittering spend he’d buried into your slip that morning. Your tongue darts out in a soft kitten lick to collect the pearls drooling from the tip, more salty than sweet.

“All of it now. C’mon…” you hear the man coo above you, like a parent urging their child to finish their supper. 

You abide him willingly and take the rest of his cock into your mouth. Your eyes squeeze shut as your hands ball the fabric of your dress into fists, fighting back the gag that rises in your throat as you force yourself to take the entire length of him — if only to prove to yourself that you could, that you would lay the whole of your obedience at his feet for the smallest word of praise from his lips.

Ormund’s head tips back. A mixture of a laugh and a moan rumbles in his throat when the tip of your nose buries in the coarse thatch of brunette hair above his cock, smelling of sour sweat and musky bathing oils. Tears prick at the backs of your eyes like burning embers. His wide hand splays along the crown of your skull, more gentle than forceful, and it feels like an act of clemency.

“The gods weren’t enough for you, were they?” Ormund says, a lazy grin audible in his voice, as his thumb smooths over your hair. “No, you needed someone real to teach you, didn’t you? Someone real to belong to…”

His words make you nauseous. 

You feel the urge to puke, but stronger still is the urge to make him feel good. You want to please him and murder him — you want to be obedient to him alone; you want to make him smile; you want to make him proud; you want him to forgive you and hate you and desire you all at once. You want to kiss him all over, and then beat him for making you so unholy, and then kiss him so more, and then let the hounds consume his sin to the bone.

You let him cum in your mouth instead.

“Take it all. There you go…” he praises in murmured slurs, keeping you pressed against him while he tenses above you. You nearly gag when the first drop of his spend stains your tongue, heavy and slightly bitter. “Take it all, and I’ll make you holy again,” Ormund babbles, almost to himself, as he shivers against you. “I promise… I promise…” 

He pulls you off him with his fingers twisted tight in your hair, though not quite hard enough to hurt. He stares down at you with lust still swimming in his glassy blue eyes, and you wonder what you must look like from his perspective — on your knees, swollen-mouthed, heavy-eyed, wearing a mixture of cum and saliva down to your chin. The statue of the Father looms just behind him. You pretend not to notice.

“Open your mouth,” Ormund commands before you can swallow. 

You do as you’re told, careful not to let the pearl-colored spend drip off of your tongue when you show it to him. Ormund’s chest heaves at the sight, as if it had snatched the breath from his lungs entirely. And then, before you can blink, he kneels before you — holding you by the chin with the hand not knotted in your hair, and kissing you hard enough to swallow you whole.

His tongue swipes against yours to collect his own cum and sighs hard through his nose at the taste of it, a mixture of himself and you. You can taste the ale on his lips and the lemon dessert from his dinner right before he pulls away from you; still close enough to run the tip of his broad nose over the bridge of your nose.

“Have you ever done that before?” he whispers, breath fanning warm against your mouth. You shake your head against him, too breathless for words. “Good…” he hums, then wonders aloud with all the sheepishness of a young boy. “Has anyone ever made you cum before?” 

“They’ve tried,” you confess.

A smile curls slowly on his lips at that, pleased by your answer.

Ormund drops his hand from your chin to your dress skirts. His palm is warm and calloused as it creeps up the hem. You hold your breath in anticipation, waiting to feel his fingers slip into your cunt the way yours had done when you watched him pleasure himself. They slip around your thigh instead, digging into the skin hard enough to leave bruises when he drags you suddenly into his lap.

You brace yourself on his broad shoulders at the sudden shift in position, reminding yourself to breathe when the newfound proximity forces him to lift his chin to look at you properly. He keeps one hand on the back of your head and his other on the swell of your ass. His whisper fans across your jaw as he says, “If absolution is what you want… Then claim it.” 

Before proper reasoning can take over, you grind your hips up and down his strong thigh, chasing the same pleasure you’d been so close to giving yourself earlier that day. 

With your dress skirts now pushed up to your hips, your cunt is able to press fully to his trousers — the delicate skin parts along the fabric with every pass, exposing your sensitive clit to the merciless rhythm. You can already feel the wet spot you’re leaving on him there.

Your broken whine of pleasure and embarrassment echoes throughout the empty sept.

Ormund grins wider at the pathetic sound. “It’s okay, my girl… Take it… You can do it…” he praises lowly, helping you rock your hips up and down his thigh with his free hand. “There is no sin here that I cannot pardon for you. Leave your guilt to me and let go. That’s it… Let it go.”

Your hips lose their rhythm, hopelessly chasing the warmth swelling in the pit of your stomach — a rope pulled tight and fraying, bound to snap at any moment. 

“You’re so needy for it now, aren’t you? After you couldn’t pleasure yourself with your fingers earlier? Hm?” he whispers in your ear, then smiles wider when you falter. “No, don’t stop now. Keep going. There you go.

You bury your face in his shoulder and twist your trembling hands in his shirt, choking on the pleasured moans welling in your throat. You feel dizzy and half-disgusted with yourself, as your heart hammers harder with every word from his mouth.

“You thought I didn’t notice, did you?” Ormund hums with an audible grin. “I could hear you whimpering behind the door… You liked watching me using your dress to make me cum, didn’t you? …Hm?”

You nod wordlessly into his neck, and feel the rumble of his laughter there as he chuckles to himself. 

“I knew you would… I knew the kind of girl you were when you stepped into my office— the kind who mistook her loneliness for devotion…” he mumbles against you, helping your hips move up and down his thighs when your own rhythm falters. “The kind who prayed for guidance and got only silence in return… Well, the gods might’ve abandoned you, my girl— but I will not.”

You peer at the altar ahead with teary eyes, where all the eyes of the Seven look down upon you as you unravel in your sin. You cum with a fragile whimper in your throat a second later, trembling in Ormund’s lap and holding onto him like a raft while your sensitive cunt drools on his thigh.

“Yes…” the man praises in your ear, smoothing his nose across your temple just before he presses his mouth to the burning skin there. “There it is… Give me all of it, my girl. I can take it...” 

Ormund continues his sweet murmurings until the aftershocks have passed – until you’ve gone lax on top of him, with your body heaving enough to melt against his. You want to be soldered to him, just like this, with his cheek against your cheek and his hands in your hair and your cunt to his thigh. Perhaps this was your purpose, you think to yourself, as the last of your pleasure drips onto his thigh. Perhaps the gods sent you here to find religion in the crooks of his body, and Ormund in the crooks of yours.

“Am I forgiven now?” you ask in a small, teary voice. Though whether the question is meant for the gods staring down at you from their alcoves, blurred now by the unshed tears clouding your vision, or for the man holding you through every wave of pleasure and guilt — you cannot say.

“Yes,” Ormund answers instantly, soft mouth brushing the shell of your ear as he smooths your hair from your temple. He feels your body slacken with a breath of relief against him, as if some unbearable weight has finally been lifted from your shoulders. “You will always be forgiven, my girl… So long as you remember that you must kneel to me to ask for it.”

You close your eyes at that, distantly ashamed of the relief blooming in your chest, unable now to tell where the comfort ended and the feeling of captivity began.

You’re kneeling next to your mother with your hands folded as you look up at the statue of the Mother. Your eyes are welled with tears as you pray for the strength to get through the journey to Oldtown. You know you’ll have your uncle and a small company but you haven’t seen your uncle in ages. You’re scared to travel with so many strangers and all of them men no doubt. You blink back your tears as your mother grabs your arm and helps you rise.

She leads you out of the sept and your guards fall into a protective formation around you. You both enter the carriage and allow the silence to wash over you as you look at the passing city that you won’t be seeing for some time. Your mother grabs your hands as you pick at your nails and brings them to her lips. 

“Tell me what is bothering you, sweet girl.” she rests your hands in her lap. “I can tell something is the matter.” she nods and searches your eyes. 

“I’m scared.” you whisper. “If it’s so dangerous, why am I the only one leaving?” your voice cracks. “How will all of you stay safe? Protected? I pray to the Gods daily, yet I’m still weary at how this is to end.” you whisper. 

“Do not worry yourself with such things.” she leans over and brushes your hair back. “Your brothers will see that we prevail. You’ll be home with us soon enough.” she offers you a reassuring smile. 

“I’m nervous for the journey to Oldtown.” you whisper looking down at your intertwined hands.

“Your uncle will be by your side the whole time. He has personally picked your company himself. I promise that he will keep you safe. I know this.” she nods. 

“That still doesn’t mean I know him. He is as a stranger to me as the men that he picked to accompany us.” you shake your head as the carriage stops. 

“Once you see him all of the memories will come back.” she looks you over before exiting the carriage. 

You follow her out into the main courtyard and hear your heart pounding in your ears as you see Oldtown knights and soldiers flooding the walkways. You grab onto your mothers arm and she holds you closer guiding you to the steps of the Keep. You keep your gaze down as you follow quickly behind her and sigh in relief when the familiar stone greets your eyes. 

“Sister.” you press against your mother when she suddenly stops.

“Gwayne.” she turns around with a smile. 

“And surely this isn’t my sweet little niece?” your breath catches as your eyes meet his.

“Hasn’t she grown?” your mother turns to you with a smile. “You remember Gwayne don’t you, sweet girl?” she adjusts your hair. 

“I’m afraid my memory doesn’t serve me.” your cheeks burn as his full attention is on you.

“Then might I introduce myself.” he holds his hand out waiting for yours. You place your hand in his and he brings it to his mouth to place a soft kiss on you. “Sir Gwayne, Princess.” he bows his head to you. “I’m here to escort you to safety.” you blink up at him and nod. 

Your mother ushers you into the castle while she continues to speak with her brother. You glance behind you and find him looking after you already. He offers you a small smile before you turn and walk up the steps. You seal yourself in your chambers trying to think of anything besides how you’ll be leaving your home at day break. 

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A week on the road

You’ve slowly become more relaxed with Gwayne as your traveling companion. He’s been nothing short of doting and you can’t help but to think of another life where you got to spend your life growing up in Oldtown with his kindness, his gentleness. He wakes early with you and sets up your candles and makes a small area for you to have your time and silence as you pray to the Gods. 

Gwayne stands at your back, ever the faithful watcher, protector. When you rise and come to his side he gathers your materials and packs them into the bag and clips it to his horse. By this time the men are awake and finishing breakfast before the lot of you start off on your journey once more. You stay glued to his side until your legs tire then he lifts you up the horse and guides you down the path. 

“Might we stay at an Inn tonight?” you whisper and Gwaynes neck is craning up to you before you finish your sentence. “I would like a bath.” your cheeks redden at the thought of how many days it has been. 

“Of course.” a small smile spreads across his features. “I would welcome a night on a bed. Not that our blankets aren’t comfortable.” he raises his brow at you and you let out a small laugh. 

“Thank you.” you nibble your lip before turning back to the road. 

Gwayne lets his mind travel to laying in a warm bed for once. He knows you don’t feel too many of the effects of sleeping on the ground because you’ve been draped across him every night. He stares at the top of the tent as you curl on top of him. The first night you both shared a tent it was because he wanted you close by, safe. Now he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to find sleep without you curled against him. 

He trusts his men but not with you, Gods he’s not even sure he trusts himself with you. The mornings are the hardest for him. Your night dress is bunched up, legs tangled with his, and your warm breath fanning across his neck. He always brushes your hair back to wake you and he’s greeted by the smallest whimper as you cling onto him tighter. 

“We’re off the trail.” he’s brought back to the present by your soft voice. 

“I am so sorry Princess.” he shakes his head and watches his men turn back at him and snicker. “We’re stopping at the next Inn.” he calls to his men and they sigh in relief and continue walking once more. 

“Can we still share a bed?” you hope you don’t sound too desperate. 

“Of course.” he looks up at you. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.” you smile at his words and whisper a thanks before letting your mind drift to hot water and soap. 

                                         ᓚᘏᗢ

Your face falls when the Inn finally comes into view. If you hadn’t thought about a bath for the past couple of hours you would’ve requested to just keep going and stay in the tent once more. Gwayne lifts you off the horse and you frown as mud tracks on the bottom of your skirts. He winces at how upset you look and hopes a bath can distract you, but when he leads you into the Inn he watches your frown deepen. 

“At least there will be a bed and a bath.” Gwayne glances at you and sees your scrunched face.

“Yeah.” you force a smile and he sighs leading you up to the Innkeeper. 

The steps that lead up to the small room keep snagging on your dress and Gwayne cringes at every whine that comes from your mouth. When he pushes open the door he hears your gasp and ushers you inside quickly. He sets your bags down and turns to find you standing near the small tub, more like a large bucket before you turn and look up at him with round eyes.

“Just for tonight.” he cups your face and you nod once. “After we get to Oldtown you’ll never want for anything else.” he searches your eyes. “The finest gowns and the sweetest smelling soaps and oils. I’ll see to it.” he nods.

“Do you think they even have soap here?” he can’t help but crack a smile. 

“I’m sure they do. It might not be the best but it’ll do the job.” he watches you nibble your lip. “What’s wrong?” 

“Could you help me?” you whisper and he tilts his head confused.

“With what?” he searches your eyes.

“My bath.” your cheeks redden. “I’ll put one of my night dresses on but..” you shake your head. “I don’t know..” your voice cracks and you feel your eyes well with hot tears. “I don’t want to be traveling anymore.” he’s cupping your face the second your tears start to fall. 

“We’re almost there. We can travel through the night, if it would please you.” he nods. “I can carry you so you can sleep in my arms. Anything, just say the words.” you fold against his chest and he holds you as you let out soft sobs. 

“How much longer?” you mumbled against his chest. 

“Just a week.” he smooths your hair back and holds you closer. “You’ve been so brave.” he whispers. “The best traveling companion I could’ve asked for.” you pull back and look up at him with puffy eyes. “Go put your night dress on and I’ll go fetch some water and soap.” you nod and he watches you walk over to your bag. 

He clicks the door shut behind him and thuds down the stairs in search of what you require. He knows he shouldn’t be bathing you but who else would? Gods and now he’s thinking about you in a wet night dress. He stops on the stairs and closes his eyes trying to get the picture out of his mind. He starts down the stairs once more and thanks the Innkeeper when he hands him a bucket for water and a bar of soap. 

Gwayne shoves the soap in his pocket and walks over to have his bucket filled. When the man grabs the bucket from him he grunts and fills it until water is sloshing out the sides. As Gwayne makes his way back to the stairs he jumps when some of the water seeps into his sleeve and groans at how cold it is. He’s half tempted to say they didn’t have any water for a bath but he doesn’t want to upset you further. He pushes the door open and finds you sitting on the bed with your hands in your lap. 

“It seems as if this is all they could spare.” your eyes catch on the small bucket that has water dripping down the side of it.

“Okay.” you nod and rise from the bed. “I’m sorry I’m causing so much trouble.” you look at the uneven floors as you walk to the small basin. 

“You’re not, sweet girl.” he sets the bucket on the ground and offers you his hand to help you step into the tub. He watches your skin pebble as you sink into the empty basin and curl your legs up to your chest. “I just don’t think they expected to be housing a Princess.” 

“Did they give you soap?” you look up at him and he pulls the bar out of his pocket and watches your face fall. “I don’t want that in my hair. Can you get me something to tie it up?” you look from the offensive bar of soap to his crumbling face. 

“Yes, of course. I’m so sorry.” Gods he should’ve never taken you here. This has to be worse than the tent. Surely you must loathe him by now. When he turns back to you he sees your cheeks are flushed and he steps behind you and starts to scoop up your hair. “I could braid it later if you’d like.” he whispers, trying to delicately pull it up to secure it off your neck. 

“You can braid?” you look up at him with a hint of a smile. 

“I was practically your mothers most trusted handmaiden growing up.” he cups your cheek and caresses your jaw with his thumb. “I can do your hair however you would like.” his heart swells seeing a smile back on your face. 

“I would like that.” you nod and watch as he grabs the bucket of water. 

“The water is cold.” he watches you close your eyes and nod. You hear his footsteps and fabric being ripped and you peek open your eyes and see that he tore apart one of his tunic. “They seemed to be out of cloths as well.” he offers you a half smile. 

“You didn’t have to.” you look up at him with scrunched brows. 

“Of course I did. It’s for you.” he cups your cheek before squatting down next to the basin. 

For the next couple of minutes he dips the fabric in the water and rubs the soap into it before bringing it to your arm. He tries his best to ignore your small whines about the temperature and get it done as quickly as possible. You push his hand away, shivering and rising out of the basin. He watches you stand there hugging yourself and when he offers you his hand to get out his eyes widen at your now see through night dress. 

“Let’s get you into something warm and dry.” he turns and grabs your bag. He pulls out a dry night dress and turns to you. “I’ll go stand by the door so you can change.” he lays the fabric on the chair and faces the door, shutting his eyes as he hears you shuffle around. 

He knows he shouldn’t be feeling anything he’s been feeling for you the past week. You’re his niece. Gods you’re just so sweet and innocent. Somehow unsullied from growing up in the Godless city of Kings Landing. He never wants to let you go back there. He just wants to keep you for himself. To protect you and keep you safe. He wants to braid your hair and give you hot baths with towers of bubbles and petals. Yet all he’s done is have you sleep on the ground and take you to an Inn that is probably worse than any building in flea bottom. 

“I’m still cold.” he turns and finds you in your dry night dress hugging yourself. 

“Let me tuck you in and I’ll start a fire in the hearth.” he nods and leads you over to the bed. 

“I want you to come to bed with me.” you pout. “You’re always so warm.” you curl against him and he swears his heart stops when your cold fingers press under his tunic into his skin. 

“I will once I get the fire going.” he squeezes you against him once before tucking you into the bed. 

You watch from under the covers as he moves about the room. The walls whistle from the breeze outside and you can feel the cold creeping back in. He quickly gets a fire going and gets rid of some of his layers before getting under the covers with you. He knows he shouldn’t and that his sister would probably have his head for this but he can’t help it. He’s just making sure you’re safe and protected. He smiles when he hears your even breathing in his neck as you cuddle on top of him. 

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A week after arriving in Oldtown

Oldtown is grander than you ever could have expected. Gwayne has been showing you around from sunup to sun down and you can’t recall the last time you were so happy. The great sept here has never made you feel closer to the Gods and you can almost hear them whispering to you in the breeze to be happy. Gwayne never lets you out of his sight and has even allowed you to continue to share a bed with him. 

Gwayne was sure the servants were going to cease to exist at the thought of you both sharing chambers but he had come up with something they couldn’t argue. You were still scared, unsure and he just wanted to make sure you’re safe. He told them if you weren’t by him you wouldn’t get any sleep and would be plagued with night terrors. When these excuses left his mouth he was wondering if he did it for you, himself, or the others within the walls of the castle. These thoughts leave his head when he sees you yawning and stretching in your silk pouting for him to come to bed. 

When he first brought you to his chambers he leaned against the wall and watched you inspect every surface. Your eyes lingered on the massive tub and then you turned to his bed and fell back onto it in a fit of giggles. His heart warmed and he stepped over to you and asked if there was anything else you would like to be brought in. You shook your head and pulled him into the bed with you and curled against him and fell asleep. He watched you as you napped that first day and vowed to himself that he would never let you go, never leave Oldtown.  

The moon has been high in the sky for hours and he’s been content to listen to you tell him about your life growing up in Kings Landing. Your complaints of not wanting to marry Aemond solidifies his decision to keep you here with him. You’re too kind to your two brothers, too kind for this world. He’s half tempted to steal you away now and take you far away and keep you all to himself. 

“So what do you think?” you blink up at him and he shakes his head cursing himself for letting his mind drift. 

“I’m sorry, sweet girl. What did you say?” you offer him a small pout. 

“I asked for a kiss.” he chuckles and presses his lips to your forehead. “No,” you whine. 

“Then where would you like a kiss? Hm?” he presses his lips to your cheek. “Here?” he kisses your other cheek. “Or here?” he kisses your nose quickly. “Where would you like a kiss, sweet girl?” he hovers over you on the bed and peppers kisses across your face as you giggle. 

“On my lips.” you watch him lean back and tilt his head. 

“I can’t.” he watches your smile fall. 

“Why not?” you search his eyes. “I want my first kiss to be with someone gentle and kind like you.” you search his eyes. “Please?” you blink up at him and the reality of his situation comes crashing down on him. 

He moves from above you and sits up on the bed next to you. He’s allowed himself to think too far into this fantasy world where he could have you. Take you away from here. Build a life, a family with you. He buries his head in his hands and focuses on his breathing until he feels you drape against his back. His shoulders relax when you bury your fingers in his hair and softly rake your nails against his head. 

“Did I do something wrong?” you whisper and he shakes his head. “Do you think I’m a whore?” he hears your voice crack and he turns around in an instant. 

“Gods no.” he shakes his head. 

“Am I not good enough for you?” his heart cracks watching you frown. 

“You are too good for me.” he cups your cheeks. 

“It’s just one kiss.” you blink up at him with glossy eyes. 

“Just one?” he feels his will breaking. 

“Please,” you scoot closer to him. 

“Close your eyes.” he whispers and you snap them shut. “Are you ready?” you can feel the heat coming off his body. 

“Please,” you lean forward. 

His hands engulf your cheeks as he softly presses his lips to yours. He starts to pull back before he can’t but you push forward and connect your lips again. He pulls back but you start to crawl into his lap, “Please, Gwayne please.” He pulls you back against his lips and wraps his hands around you back holding you closer. When he pushes his tongue into your mouth you let out a small whimper and melt into him. He doesn’t care, he can’t. Not when you’re begging like this and pleading for him. You both stay mended together until you have to pull back for more than just gasps of breath. 

“We need to go to bed.” he looks at your swollen lips and flushed cheeks. 

“No.” you shake your head. 

“Yes.” he clears his throat. “Under the covers.” he nods and starts to pull them back as you pout.

“If I go under the covers can I have another kiss?” you tilt your head and he groans. 

“And you must go to bed after.” you nod and scoot under the covers. 

He’s barely under the covers when you’re on top of him and pressing your lips to his. Everytime he lifts you off you press against him harder, whining into his mouth. He can feel every curve of your body, the way your nipples are peaked and pressed against his chest. Your night dress slowly bunching up as you absentmindedly rock against him. Every small gasp and whine is the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. He pulls you off of him and presses you into the mattress next to him. 

“Go to bed.” he settles into the bed beside you. 

“Please.” you whisper. “Can I still cuddle with you?” you turn on your side. 

Gwayne sighs and pulls you against him. You smile and tangle your limbs with his as you do every night now. You press your lips to his neck and he squeezes your sides with whispers of going to bed or he’ll move to the couch. 

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A month after being in Oldtown

Gwayne waits patiently for you outside of the sept as he’s done every morning since bringing you here, yet he’s never been this tired. You spent hours after you were supposed to be asleep attached to his lips. Then this morning you stayed attached to his neck. He's sure a mark is blossoming under his collar at this very moment. Every morning he looks up at the sept as you scuttle up the stairs and then turns and stands guard as if he hasn’t broken every rule. Once the sun crests over the walls you’re skipping down the stairs and clinging onto his arm.

“I’m ready for our day in the forest.” you lean onto his arm. “Though I don’t know why we must go back out there.” you sigh. 

“I wish for you to see how enjoyable it can be. How beautiful and bountiful the land is.” he leads you over to his horse and helps you up before taking a place behind you. “It’ll be just us. No company of men. No tents, we can sleep in our bed tonight.”  he nods. 

“If you insist.” you lean back into him, enjoying the way his arms hold you as he grips the reins. 

“I do.” he leans closer and whispers in your ear. 

As Gwayne leads you through the city he smiles watching you so at ease and happy. You wave at the people you both pass by and they wave back offering you a warm welcome. As the city gates come into view he feels you tense as you approach them. He wraps an arm around your waist and holds you closer and you seem to relax at the comfort. 

“You promise we won’t sleep out here tonight.” you look up at him. 

“I promise, sweet girl.” he nods at the guard as they open the gates for the both of you. 

You turn back when the gates close behind you both and then back to the greenery all around you. You crane your neck and take in how tall the trees truly are. Gwayne watches as you let your eyes close and listen to the sounds of different life. The soft breeze blows through your hair as he continues to lead you down the path. When the horse comes to a stop you open your eyes and tilt your head at him. 

“May I offer you a walk?” you look down at him on the ground and his outstretched hand. 

“For a kiss.” he grins at your soft words. 

“That could be arranged.” he grabs your waist and helps you down but you wrap yourself around him, wanting to be held by him. “One kiss. I still want to show you around.” you nod and press your lips to his. He lets you get caught up in the kiss for another minute before he’s pulling you off and setting you down. “You are so beautiful.” he brushes his fingers on your cheek. 

He watches a blush rise to your cheeks before he grabs your hand and leads you deeper into the forest. You both come to a clearing and his heart starts to thunder. He looks down at you as you look up at the small opening in the canopy and back at the clearing bathed in sunlight. You walk through the long grass and wildflowers and turn with a pout when you see him still standing at the edge. 

When he starts to walk towards you he watches you turn once more and smell the flowers. Your hands delicately trail through the tall grass catching on a few flowers but letting them be. You turn and find him standing in the tall grass. You slowly walk back over to him and he engulfs you in his embrace. You can hear his heartbeat through his tunic as you rest your head on his chest. 

“I don’t wish to see you go back to Kings Landing.” he whispers. 

“Did my mother call for me?” he can hear the small amount of fear. 

“No, the war is still waging. You are safe here with me.” he holds you closer. “I just.. I want to keep you here with me forever.” you bury your head further into his chest. “Right here. I’d clear out the field and build you such a beautiful home.” he hums. “Far enough away where we won’t be disturbed but close enough where I can get you supplies, maesters if needed, the sept is there..” he trails off. “But I’d make you your own praying circle with candles and a bench. I’d build you your own sept if it would make you stay with me.” he nods. 

“I would do all these things for you. I would do anything you ask. I’d be your protector, I’d hold your secrets,” you’re holding onto him so tightly now. “I’d be your husband if you’d wish it. Give you all of the kisses you want. We could build a family.” he lets his mind drift to the thought of you round with his child. 

“Please,” he pulls you back and searches your eyes. “I want that so badly. Please.” your voice is so soft he can’t take it anymore. 

He presses his lips to yours and you wrap yourself back around him. You smile against him when he slowly lowers you to the ground and the grass envelopes you both. His lips press against yours once more and you wrap your legs around his waist enjoying the way he’s pressing against you. You feel so safe, so loved. You relish in the silence only hearing yours and his panting. He’s trying to show restraint but he’s rarely the one on top because he knows it would just take one small moan and he would devour you. 

He lifts up and looks at your lips before kissing down your neck. The high pitched whines leaving your mouth cause him to push his hips into yours and you hold him tighter with a small plea. He rolls his hips once more just wanting to hear your noises again before he stops but this time it’s a moan of his name. His hands find your thighs to untangle you but he’s met with your skin as your skirts have risen up your thighs. He digs into your soft flesh as he continues to kiss and suckle at your neck. 

“Move your hips again.” you whine jerking your hips up. “Please, please Gwayne,” you claw into his back. “Oh, yes,” you squeak as he grinds into you. “More.” you feel your body heating. 

“We mustn’t.” he pulls back from your neck and takes in your red cheeks. “We’re not even married.” he shakes his head and unwraps your legs from him. 

“Then let’s marry.” you whine when he pulls your skirts back down your legs. “Then you can build our house while I carry our child.” you nod. “Please,” his heart is thundering so loudly at your words. “Tomorrow at daybreak.” you nod. “I know just the septon to do it.” he watches a smile bloom on your face. 

“What about a gown?” he chuckles, watching you stand and pull him up. 

“I have plenty of gowns to choose from.” you put your hands on your hips. 

“Show me where you want the house to be.” he presses his lips to your forehead. 

For the next couple of hours he lets you lead him around the clearing telling him where you would like everything set up. He takes dutiful mental notes and nods at every suggestion. You steal small kisses from him throughout the afternoon and once the sun starts to sink he begins to lead you back to the horse. He helps you up and smiles when you lean against him as he takes his place once more. 

You smile and wave at the people again as you both pass through town. He takes you on a longer route back to the castle, letting you both off when something catches your eye. By the time you both make it back the sun is set and you’re now carrying a bag of new jewels and sweets. He asks a couple of servants to bring up some supper to his chambers for the both of you before he leads you up the stairs and seals you away with him. 

Once the doors are shut you’re on him. Kissing at him, pulling at his clothes and whining when he grabs your wrists to stop your wandering hands. He chuckles into your mouth when you press yourself against him. He grabs your waist and pulls you back and places one last kiss on your lips to rid you of your pout. Both of your heads snap to the door when there’s a couple soft knocks. 

Gwayne opens the door and accepts the trays from the servants and closes the door behind him. He turns and finds you clearing the table and setting up places for you both to sit. He spreads the food across the table and fills your plate and cup. You both glance at each other with smiles and thoughts of how this will never cease. Your mind drifts to asking the septon in the morning and being wed under the rising sun. You clean up the table and drift over to the wardrobe to pull out the gown you had in mind for the morning. 

He watches you float around the room readying your clothes for tomorrow. His heart swells when you start to pick his clothes, having a vision of what he’ll be wearing as you seal yourselves together for eternity. He watches you start to pull on the laces of your dress and he takes quick steps over to you to replace your fingers with his. Once the dress is on the ground he helps you step out of it before he turns to the wardrobe and reaches for your night dress. 

“Gods above.” he fists the fabric in his hands when he turns and finds you standing naked and your slip in the pile with your gown. 

“Take me.” you whisper, stepping towards him. “I just want to be close to you.” 

“We can wait another day.” his voice hoarse. 

“Gwayne,” you whine and he drops the night dress to the floor. “Please,” you’re directly in front of him now blinking up at him. 

He lifts you up and smashes his lips to yours. You sigh into his mouth and melt against him. One of his hands is holding onto your ass and you whine when he squeezes the tender flesh. His other hand is wrapped around your waist and splayed against your back holding you closer. He starts to walk you back over to his bed and reluctantly pulls back from your lips. He gently lays you back on the bed and starts to remove his clothing. 

“Your trousers.” you whine when he starts to crawl over you with them still on. 

“I’m not taking you tonight.” he shakes his head before pressing soft kisses against your neck. 

“Why not.” you arch up into him as his hands roam down your sides. “Please,” he starts to kiss down your chest and presses his forehead just under your collarbone trying to reel himself in. “Oh,” you gasp as you jerk your hips up against his. “This feels different.” you grind against his trousers. 

“That’s because you’re not wearing any small clothes.” he groans, grabbing your hips and stilling them. 

“Take them off. I just want to feel you.” you start to move your legs up and try to push them down with your feet. “Gwayne,” he groans at the breathlessness of your voice. 

“Okay, okay.” he shushes against your chest and untangles from you. 

He stands at the edge of the bed and watches your head pop up as he starts to unlace his trousers and push them down. He sighs in relief when he’s free from the fabric. Your cheeks flush when you take in his length bouncing against his stomach. He smirks as you slowly lay back down, spreading your legs giving him the perfect view of your glistening slit. He starts to crawl over you once more leaning down to kiss up your torso, between your breasts, and finally stopping at your lips. 

“Gwayne,” your voice trembling almost as much as your body at his soft touch. 

“What would you like, sweet girl?” he leans down, letting his lips brush against yours. 

“Just touch me, kiss me, anything.” you wrap your arms around the back of his neck and bring his lips to yours. 

Gwayne is positive he must be dreaming or dead because there is no way this is his reality. The second your legs wrap around his waist he knows this is real at the feel of his tip sliding through your wetness. You whimper into his mouth and start rocking your hips and his head spins. He tries to press you back into the mattress but he just ends up sliding through your wetness even more. 

“Take me.” you plead. “Please, just take me.” you hold him closer and rock your hips. 

He presses his lips to yours and brings one of his hands between the both of you. The second he slides a finger up your slit you cry into his mouth. You’re practically dripping and when he brings his finger down to your entrance you arch up into him and he’s greeted by a pool of your arousal. He brings a second finger down to circle your entrance before sliding them both back up to your bud. The noise that leaves your mouth after his first swirl has his cock aching. 

“Mm, more,” he circles his fingers faster and your legs squeeze around his waist. “I- I’m,” you feel such immense pleasure as you try to keep kissing him. You hold onto his neck and he watches your face scrunch as you pant into the small space between you both. 

“How does it feel?” he leans down to press his lips to your neck. 

“Good.” you gasp. “So good, ple- mm,” he chuckles into your neck and speeds up his fingers. “Gway-Ah,” you claw onto his back and pleasure slams through you. 

He lifts up as he’s still swirling his fingers to watch your face. Your lips are parted and your eyes are squeezed shut as you continue to whimper. He slides his fingers down and circles one of his fingers around your core. He dips a finger into you and groans as he feels you fluttering around him. He brings his thumb up to your bud and watches your face as he slowly pumps his finger. 

“Yes,” your chest heaves as he slowly works your body. “Please,” you roll your hips against his hand. 

He watches you squirm beneath him and his resolve is starting to weaken. Your soft whimpers and pleas are going straight to his cock which has been aching for some time now but this is about you, it’ll always be about you. He starts to press a second finger into you and you cry out his name. You peel your eyes open and find him already looking at you. 

“Kiss me.” you pant and his lips are on yours the next second. “I want you, not your fingers.” you whine into his mouth. 

“Tomor-“ he grunts when your hands wrap around his cock. 

“Please,” he can hear your pleasure in your voice as it soaks his hand. “Just the tip then,” you swipe against his leaking tip and he presses his forehead to yours. 

“Alright,” he wraps his hand around yours and removes it. “Tell me if it’s too uncomfortable and we’ll stop.” he searches your lidded eyes. 

“Please, please, I need it please,” you’re panting and squirming underneath him. He groans and takes his pleasure coated hands and strokes himself, mixing his pleasure with yours to slick his cock. “Mm,” you chew your lip as he starts to press the head in. 

“Fuck,” he softly curses as your cunny sucks in his tip. “This is as much as-

“Mor- oh,” you gasp when you jerk your hips pushing him further in. “Please,” your chest is heaving as he stills all of his movements. 

“We shouldn’t.” he pants but his cock is already inching further into your warm cunny. 

“Move.” you whisper, holding onto him tightly. “Gwayne, please,” you move your hips and gasp at the continued stretch. 

Your eyes lock with his as he continues to push into you. He watches for any sign of genuine discomfort or pain as he continues. He watches your lids get heavier and when his hips are flush with yours you let out a small whimper. You both stare at each other and breathe heavily until he leans down and presses his lips to yours. He starts to slowly pull out as he swallows down all of your whines. 

“You’re doing so good for me, sweet girl.” he starts to kiss down your neck as he pushes back in. “Taking me so well.” he starts a steady rhythm that has a continuous string of whimpers falling from your mouth. 

He presses his lips to yours once more as he continues to rock into you. Soon to be his wife. Soon to be carrying his child. His hips snap into yours with a little more force at that thought. Your walls hug him as he starts to move faster. The high pitched moans coming from your mouth only spur him on to move faster. He feels his pleasure approaching and from the way you’re squeezing him he knows you’re right there with him. 

“I can’t wait to start a family with you.” he mumbles into your mouth. “Keep you all safe.” he rolls his hips. “Keep you swollen with our children for a couple years.” your nails dig into his back as you nod your head. “Yeah? Would you like that?” 

“Please, yes, I’m,” you babble, nodding your head feeling your toes curl. “Mm I,”

“Shh shh, I've got you.” he kisses back down to your neck. “I’m gonna fill you up and give you the life you want.” he grunts. “I’ll do whatever you ask of me.” his words are filled with pleasure and outright devotion. 

With one last cry of his name you fall apart around him which causes him to follow with his pleasure. He slowly pumps his seed into you watching your face scrunch with every slow thrust. He presses his lips to yours and gently pulls out. He collapses onto the bed next to you and you turn and curl into him immediately. His hand rubs your back soothingly as he whispers soft words of praise. He watches your eyes shut and pulls the blanket over the both of you. 

“We’ll marry in the morning and I’ll start making plans to build you a home by the afternoon.” he presses his lips to your forehead before letting sleep take him over as well. 

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6 months later 

Gwayne stands behind you in the once overgrown clearing just beyond the city gates. You’re sitting at the stone bench he made for you with a couple candles lit in the small patch. Your eyes are shut and your usually clasped hands for prayer are instead tenderly holding onto your bump. You had insisted you could still kneel but once he saw you wince when he helped you up he wouldn’t allow it anymore. Now he brings out a feather pillow for you and helps you settle more comfortably. 

You rise from the bench with ease but he’s still next to you with a hand on your lower back and the other protectively on your bump. He places a chaste kiss on your lips, then your nose, and lastly on your forehead. He begins to escort you back to the house and the candles and incense caress your nose as he leads you over to the couch before he goes to prepare your tea. He knows you’ll say he’s overbearing but it’s his job. To protect you. To see to every single one of your needs. To dote upon you. To love you. 

“Gwayne,” he drops everything at the slight worry in your tone. 

“What’s wrong? What’s happened?” he’s kneeling before you and looking over every inch of you. 

“There’s some people coming.” you look out the window and he sees a couple guards and someone walking in the middle of them. 

“Stay here.” he goes to the front door and clenches his jaw when he feels your hands wrap around his arm. “At least stay behind me.” he whispers and you nod. 

“Her Grace, Alicent Hightower, requests entry.” one of the men grunt out. 

You push Gwayne aside and pull open the door. Alicent takes you in and her eyes widen but you pull her into a fierce hug. Tears flow freely down your cheeks as you cling to your mother. Alicent holds you and is all too aware of your swollen stomach. Her eyes move from you to Gwayne who looks at the guards and back to her. He opens the door wider and shuffles the both of you inside and seals the door shut. 

“I have prayed for you everyday.” you sniffle, wiping your eyes. 

“And I for you.” she hums watching Gwayne help you sit back on the couch. 

“Could I get you a drink? Something to eat? How was the journey?” she’s aware of his nervous ramble, something he’s been doing since they were kids. 

“Tea.” she nods once and turns her attention back to you. 

Alicent settles back into the chair and looks around the home. Your touch is all over the place with small accents of Gwayne. The house is warm and inviting and she softly shakes her head because this is the home she wanted to have when she was a girl. Her eyes move back to you and take in the soft glow coming off of you. Pregnancy looks well on you, you’re so at ease. Your white curls spilling over your shoulder as you wear a sage dress. How is it that she's looking at her little girl but before her sits the Mother?

“My sweet girl,” she can’t help the tremble in her voice. “Are you happy here?” she chokes back her tears. 

“I don’t think I’ve been happier.” a smile spreads across your face and seems to illuminate the room. 

“Tea for you.” Gwayne hands her a cup on a saucer with shaky hands. “And tea for you.” he takes a seat next to you and offers you the cup. 

His eyes slide over to his sister and she takes a sip of her tea. The warmth settles into her chest, “Our childhood tea.” 

“It’s my new favorite.” you hum. “The babe seems to dance everytime I drink it as well.” you place a hand in your bump. 

“I..” Alicent shakes her head at a loss for what to say. You look between them and grab Gwayne's hand. 

“Our love was a surprise to us.” you whisper. “It took us both by surprise. I..” you shake your head. “He is so very gentle and sweet. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so safe and loved.” you don’t mean for your words to stab your mother but you see the impact of them. “I’m sorry.” 

“Do not apologize for choosing love and gentleness.” her glassy eyes snap up to yours. “I’m sorry.” she grabs her chest. “I just l..” she can’t blink away her tears as they fall. “I wanted a life like this long ago.” she whispers. “The Gods had chosen differently for me.” she offers you a weak smile. 

“The Gods did not choose that for you. Our father did.” Gwayne shakes his head and reaches out for her hand. 

“I want you to remain here with Gwayne.” she looks at you and swallows back her sorrow. “I’ll say you were lost to the war.” she shakes her head and looks up at the ceiling. 

“What of my siblings?” your words hushed. 

“Do not worry.” she quickly wipes away her tears. 

“Mother,” you start to rise. 

“No.” she shakes her head and stands. She walks over to you and cups your cheeks. “My sweet girl.” she presses her lips to your forehead and offers Gwayne the same. 

“Stay here with us.” he grabs her hands. “I’ll build you your own home.” he searches her eyes. “Anything.” he starts to rise. 

“My fate has been decided long ago.” her voice cracks. “I find solace knowing the Gods were gentler with the both of you.” she nods and turns to the door. 

You look after her in confusion and send Gwayne after her. When he steps out of your home Alicent and her guards are already clearing the tree line. He turns back to you and seals the door and kneels before you. He wipes away the tears that keep flowing down your face. He engulfs you in a hug and you curl into his chest. 

ততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততত

5 years later

You bite your lip to hide your smile as your little girl tugs at your dress. You shush her and clasp her hands back together as you continue to pray with a soft smile. Your two sons are next to you softly giggling and you hear Gwayne silently scold them. You open your eyes, abandoning prayer until they’re down for their nap. Gwayne helps you up and places his hand on your once again growing bump. 

“Soon you will need to be on your bench again.” he whispers, pressing his lips to your forehead. 

“Soon you’ll have to build another bench.” you smile up at him. “I don’t think two will suffice anymore.” you chuckle as your three children circle around the both of you. 

“Then expand our house, get more livestock, plant some more vegetables..” he trails off, pinching your children’s cheeks causing them to squeal and run around in the wildflowers. 

“Father,” your little girl tugs on his tunic. 

“Yes, my sweet little princess?” he scoops her up. 

“Could you braid my hair like mothers?” she smiles shyly. 

“Of course I can, Ali.” she wraps her arms around his neck before wiggling out and running off with her brothers. 

Gwayne helps you take a seat and takes his place next to you as you both watch your children frolic around the tall grass and flowers. The sun shines on your boy's silver hair while it radiates warmth in your daughter's red locks. You lean against Gwaynes side and shut your eyes listening to the laughter and the breeze. 

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masterlist  ⏾  wips  ⏾  taglist

bruh when i was writing the Inn scene i had to show so much mf restraint bc im a hoe for the ‘only one room and one bed’ trope but it wasn’t their time yet 🥲

and we already got another gwayne fic in the works let’s gooooo 

You’d had your fair share of lovers and experienced more than a good deal of fun. With everyone in the past, climax came the same way, every single time: clitoral stimulation, and clitoral stimulation alone.

By this point in your life, you suspected your g-spot was probably just a figment of your imagination, no more real than Atlantis, Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.

That was, until, you met your boyfriend, Simon.

And things had only been official for a week.

You and him had fooled around a handful of times—made love, as he called it, and kissed and cuddled and occasionally dry-humped until the two of you were both panting, groaning messes—but all of this was new. Simon was still learning you, as you were him.

He finished between your tits. You came on his tongue. He fingered you to the point of tears, and you learned how to touch his sac just right to get him to blow his load in seconds. On this night in particular, you were fucking missionary, and holding hands while you did.

Lovesick puppies, Price would say. Neither one of you seemed able to unglue your lips or unlace your fingers or keep your hips from colliding again and again and again in frantic search of the other’s furthest depths. You were perfectly wrapped up, with no desire to move

Except, you needed to reach down between your bodies to actually get off. That was a minor detail.

You didn’t think the man above you would mind if you moved your touch from his, but then that grip tightened the second you tried pulling away.

“Keep it there, lovie. Like holding you like this,” he said.

You enjoyed it, too. It was intimate, and sweet, and with your hands pinned on either side of you, locked securely in his, you felt safe. You just couldn’t finish.

“But I…I need to come,” you whispered against him. You rolled your hips and felt his cock twitch inside you.

Simon grunted, then swallowed. Nodded slowly.

“Yeah. I’ll get you there. Feel this?”

He slid deeper for emphasis.

You didn’t.

You rarely did, or at least not in the way you figured you were supposed to get when something pressed there.

“I think…sort of, yeah,” you hedged your answer.

Don’t bruise his ego, don’t hurt his feelings.

This is all on me, Si, I promise it’s not you.

Cutting in over your thoughts, Simon moved swiftly. Took your hips in his big, strong hands, lifted up, and plunged his cock to the hilt. The girth of him was enough to knock the air out of your lungs, and you felt your walls stretch, sting, and weep sweet liquid warmth around that intrusion. You moaned.

“Better?” The man’s question was simple.

Before you could answer it, he was sliding a pillow underneath your backside. Sawing his long, thick, leaking cock in and out of you, he reached a new spot.

You made a face, feeling good from that but…strange.

Simon snatched your hands up again and planted them beside your head on the mattress. He thrusted steadily. He peppered kisses all over your face and your neck while the bed frame squeaked in time, and you had to dig your heels into his ass to ground yourself.

“Talk to me, baby. Can’t make it better if you don’t.”

“I—I know, I just can’t—”

At the same time, Simon tilted your hips slightly once more, and the tip of his cock kissed something soft and wet and dizzyingly pleasurable inside your body. A loud, embarrassing cry slipped out between your lips.

You wanted to clap a hand over your mouth, hating the way you’d just sounded, but your fingers were stuck to his. Simon grinned down at you, toothy and approving.

“Can’t do what, now, darlin’?”

The warm, bulbous head of his cock had found its mark, and he just kept prodding that spot, like it entertained him to do it. The fingers laced between your own constricted their grip even more, and Simon leaned down to kiss you while his cock carved a mind-numbing path. In between kisses, he praised you.

“That’s my girl. She’s likin’ it now, isn’t she?”

“Feel good when my cock hits that spot?”

“Your pussy’s fuckin’ soakin’ me, baby.”

But still, somehow, it just wasn’t quite enough.

Maybe you’d never found that place after all.

This was where most men gave up—after a few good minutes of fucking when their balls had gotten to be as swollen as stones and their bodies were aching for release, more often than not, they’d go off chasing their own high. That was when you usually started rubbing your clit, or waited for your partner to finish so they could get you off with their tongue or something.

You hated to feel like a burden, and you really despised the thought of being the reason your sweet Simon couldn’t get to orgasm. So you squirmed again.

Straining to reach down, to try and touch yourself, you whimpered, “Si, please, it just—it takes me too long—”

“Good thing we’ve got all night,” Simon replied bluntly.

Then, once again, he twisted your bodies like you were as soft and malleable as putty in his hands, and this time, he hitched one of your legs around his hip, high.

With one slow-rolling thrust and an audibly squelching sound, Simon’s cock stretched your hole to maximum capacity, and then a little more. Your juices leaked down his shaft, aiding the slide, and he stabbed in a few shallow strokes. Probing. Testing the waters, as if he were trying to find something hidden inside you.

You sucked in a breath. Simon’s gaze slid to yours.

“Let’s find that precious spot, lovie. Easy, now.”

Gently coaxing your body open, he drove a slow, measured pace. He split your cunt like it was the easiest thing in the world, delving within your wet, velvety heat to tease every contour and crevice of your pussy. His tip leaked precome. His balls glistened in your arousal and landed with the gentlest plap, plap, plaps while he explored your insides with his member.

It really was as simple as that, nothing more and nothing less than poking around. Having patience.

“S-Si,” you stammered, nose wrinkling slightly.

“What’s’at, baby? Got something to tell me?”

Like a teacher, almost, he pressed for more.

Like his cock was showing you something new about your body but he needed your help to tell him just how and where to find it, Simon took care to be kind. He smoothed a hand over the crown of your head and then cradled the back of it, one massive set of fingers splayed out against your skull and engulfing it wholly.

He still held onto your other hand tight.

Your cunt pulsed. Ached. Fluttered around him.

Stuffed to the brim, you had only to feel, and murmur:

“Higher.”

“Higher?”

“Um, to the…to the left.”

Simon tilted his hips left.

Yes.

That was just it. So close.

Almost…

Or, maybe…

“Maybe it just…isn’t there,” you huffed out, deflating. “Know you’re trying so hard, baby, but I think I can’t—”

Then Simon hit the same spot as before, only higher.

Just like you’d told him: to the left, and then…

“Oh, fuck,” you cursed. “Oh, fuckfuckfuck.”

The grin above you stretched even wider.

“There, lovie?” Simon goaded you on.

“Right there.” You nodded furiously.

A wave of pleasure swept through your limbs, from your core down to the soles of your feet. Your toes curled, and you squeaked, feeling Simon’s cock graze that soft, spongy, sensitive place—except he’d pushed in deeper. The sensation made your eyes roll back.

“Little dove doesn’t mind my pokin’ after all, huh?” Simon’s words were a tease, but you heard a strain in them, too. The second you were caught in the throes of real pleasure, your cunt must’ve clamped like a vice.

“Keep…keep pokin’, Si,” you choked out. “I like it.”

Your lover kept at it—poking from the inside.

The routine almost felt like losing your virginity all over again, together. Simon cradled your head, told you how good you were doing, how sweet you were for him, and you whimpered under his hold. Squirmed and clung to him for dear life, then kissed him feverishly.

Simon’s mouth was hard and hungry, his thrusts deep. His cock throbbed within the wet, clenching confines of your pussy, and he seemed to be going wild at the feeling. With the idea that he was driving you wild, too.

You realized as much when he whispered it to you.

“Could lose my bloody mind when you’re like this—” Another sharp, labored breath. Another shudder passing through his body when your insides squeezed. “—so why didn’t you talk? Ask for what you needed?”

Your voice was small. “Didn’t wanna be a bother.”

Your eyes were locked with Simon’s, and in his irises, you caught a shade of concern. It flared, hot as anything, then mixed with disbelief. Disappointment.

“Don’t be angry, Si, I—” you started, hurried.

“‘M’not.” Simon blinked. But he gritted his teeth, and he withdrew his cock until the head was bumping and teasing between your folds, then he shook his head. “It’s those fuckin’ pricks who should be sorry, yeah?”

The ones that you’d been with before.

You wanted to protest, insist that you were at least partly to blame, but you never got the opportunity.

Simon was back inside you in a blink.

Hitting that same spot again, and again, and again.

He grinned, the tic of a muscle in his jaw telling you that he was less amused this time around, but proud.

Vindicated.

“Well. It’s not like they’re ever gettin’ a chance in between these pretty legs again, are they, lovie?”

You nodded in agreement.

You smiled back at him, only to have that gentle curve falter a little when you felt Simon’s thrusts accelerate.

“Only thing that’s gonna touch this spot other’n my cock is my seed, splatterin’ all over your walls, right?”

When he gave a playful nip to your lower lip and squeezed your hand tighter, you knew that he meant it. The man had plunged so deep inside you that his pubic bone was now grinding against your skin, and the rest of him was buried. His balls, all full and warm and heavy with his release, rested firmly in your cleft.

And the steady, measured strokes of his cock landed with near-surgical precision on the G-spot you’d convinced yourself up until tonight didn’t exist.

Simon beamed. You were overcome with ecstasy.

“This it, lovie? This spot right ‘ere?” he cooed.

His cock bobbed against that gummy and indescribably dizzying place, causing your last moan to morph into something more akin to a shriek.

You nodded your head: “Y-Yes. Yes.”

“Feel good when I hit it?”

“Fucking perfect, Si.”

You sighed when the man bottomed out for what felt like the millionth time, and the pleasure never waned. He felt just as good now as he did when he first got in.

“Yeah? Gonna come on my cock then, pretty girl?”

“Yeah. I’m— I’m so close.”

“Go on then, love.”

And, shortly, you did.

Maybe three, four, five more stabs of his cock to your most precious, intimate place and you were unraveling beneath him, stars bursting in your line of vision. It seemed dramatic to say, but that was really what it came to—your mouth hanging open, eyes wide, gaze peering into Simon’s while he fucked you through the most intense orgasm of your life. You clung to him, and your walls spasmed again and again and again, milking the man’s release in the next few seconds. Simon shuddered and grit his teeth as he unloaded a thick, gooey load inside, dousing that spongy, body-numbing spot and then some. The two of you moaned in unison.

Your body was boneless, your head a hazy mess.

It took several seconds for your conscious mind to come back online fully, and when it did, Simon was leaning in again and planting kisses along your face.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, breath fanning hot across your skin. “My perfect girl. You did so good.”

You smiled and caught his mouth for a proper kiss.

“Thank you,” you murmured against him.

Then Simon squeezed your hand—the one he’d been holding this entire time. He lifted it gently, like he was afraid too rough of a movement might split you in two.

He turned your wrist and kissed the back of your hand, eyes locked on yours and expression soft while he did.

Prince Baelor Targaryen had never been a suspicious man by nature. He trusted you, completely, but he knew the kind of man Prince Oberyn was, from his countless paramours, to the many bastards he had sired throughout Dorne, the Red Viper, was not a man Baelor admired, something he had more often than not expressed to his mother when she had informed him that he'd be visiting her.

“Then do me the kindness of keeping that man away from my wife,” Baelor loved his mother dearly, but even now as he stood before her, arms folded behind him, he could not contain the disdain in his voice, “she does not know him as well as I.”

“I cannot recall a single moment where you had been this fierce over Lady Jena Dondarrion. I know who and what Oberyn is. I did not think after Jena died you'd love another.”

Baelor did not answer immediately.

The silence stretched between mother and son, heavy as castle stone.

His jaw tightened, mismatched eyes drifting toward the open balcony where the sea glittered beyond the walls of the Red Keep. For a fleeting moment, he looked less the celebrated prince who had broken rebel lines and more the weary man who had buried his first wife beneath cold earth.

“When Jena died,” he said at last, his voice low enough that only his mother could hear, “I believed that part of me had gone with her.”

His mother watched him quietly.

Baelor's shoulders tensed for a moment. “I never intended to wed again.”

“I know.”

“I certainly never intended…” He paused, almost sounding irritated with himself. “...to love again.”

Queen Myriah's expression softened, “And yet you have.”

Baelor gave a short, humorless breath. “I have.”

There was no shame in the admission. Only resignation, as though he had lost a battle he had never agreed to fight.

“You speak of Jena.” His gaze settled upon his mother once more. “I honoured her. I respected her. I cared for her deeply.” His brow furrowed. “But what I feel for my wife now…” He shook his head once. “...it is a far more dangerous thing.”

“Dangerous?”

“I think of her before councils. Before battles.” His mouth became a hard line. “I look for her whenever I enter a room.”

His mother smiled knowingly.

“If she smiles…” he continued quietly, “...the day becomes easier.”

“And if she cries?”

Baelor's eyes darkened, “I would burn kingdoms to discover who caused it.”

The Queen reached forward, resting a hand upon his arm. “You are your father's son.”

“I pray not.”

“You love with frightening devotion, Baelor.” Myriah murmured as she watched Baelor.

“I know.”

“And Oberyn?” For the first time, genuine irritation flashed across the prince's face.

“Oberyn flirts because it amuses him.”

“Likely.”

“He enjoys seeing men lose their composure.”

“Also likely.”

“But he will not use my wife for sport.” His words carried no heat, “I trust her with my life.” His gaze sharpened. “It is him I do not trust.”

His mother regarded him for a long moment before speaking again. “You are aware that Oberyn is nearly twice her age.”

“I am painfully aware. He has lived a life of indulgence. He has charmed noblewomen, common women, widows, wives, and maidens alike.” There was no admiration in his voice, only fact. “He knows precisely which words to use, which smiles to offer.”

Baelor's expression hardened further. “And she," he said quietly, “has not spent her life learning to defend herself against men like him.”

“No.”

“She is young. She sees kindness where others hide intention.” A faint crease appeared between his brows. “She would sooner believe a compliment sincere than wonder what lies beneath it.”

“That is why you fear this.”

“I do not fear that she would betray me.” His answer was immediate. “I fear that she would not even realise she was being pursued until someone less honourable believed he had been encouraged.”

His mother's eyes softened. “You have never doubted her.”

“Never.”

“But you doubt Oberyn.”

“I doubt any man who finds amusement in testing another husband's restraint.”

Baelor had no intention of allowing that dance to begin. “If your brother so much as corners her alone,” Baelor said with unsettling calm as he turned toward the door, “he will discover that I inherited more from the blood of the dragon than a name.”

It was the fierce protectiveness of a husband who knew his wife was young enough to believe the world kinder than it truly was, and who knew Prince Oberyn Martell was more than old enough to exploit that innocence if it entertained him.

His mother watched him leave, shaking her head with the smallest smile. “Gods help Oberyn,” she murmured, “for my son certainly will not.”

The feast had begun as such celebrations always did.

Music drifted through the great hall beneath painted rafters where dragons and heroes watched from faded frescoes overhead. Hundreds of candles burned in polished chandeliers, casting warm light across crimson banners and cloth-of-gold hangings until the Red Keep itself seemed wreathed in flame.

Silver goblets were lifted in endless toasts, servants threaded gracefully between crowded tables bearing roasted boar, lemon cakes, river trout, and sweet Arbor wines, while laughter rose and fell like waves against the vaulted ceiling.

King Daeron II had spared little expense in honour of Prince Oberyn Martell's arrival from Dorne.

The occasion pleased more than the court. At the king's right hand sat Queen Myriah, once Princess Myriah Martell, whose composed expression had softened into a smile warmer than many had seen in years. Her youngest brother had finally come to King's Landing.

He simply had not come on time.

The lateness itself scarcely occupied your thoughts. Your attention had been claimed by your husband long before the feast began.

Prince Baelor Targaryen was not a man inclined toward grand declarations of affection. His love revealed itself in subtler ways, in the quiet certainty of familiar gestures.

A steady hand resting against the small of your back as the two of you crossed a room. Fingers brushing yours beneath the table whenever conversation grew tedious.

A brief glance cast your way to ensure your cup remained full and that you had eaten enough before he thought to touch his own plate.

It was the sort of devotion few people ever noticed. You always did. Tonight, however, there was nothing subtle about it.

From the moment you had entered the great hall, Baelor had scarcely allowed more than an arm's length between you.

Whenever another lord lingered overlong in conversation, his hand settled naturally around your waist. Whenever you moved through the hall, he guided you with effortless gentleness, never hurried, never rough, yet always unmistakably present beside you.

No one remarked upon it.

Very few men possessed the courage to question the heir to the Iron Throne.

Still, something felt... different.

You leaned closer until your shoulder brushed his sleeve, lowering your voice so only he could hear.

“Is something troubling you, my love?” you asked softly.

Baelor did not immediately answer as his mismatched eyes remained fixed upon the great doors at the far end of the hall. “No,” he replied at last, the answer came too quickly, too smoothly.

You followed his gaze toward the entrance before looking back at him. “You are waiting for Prince Oberyn.”

“I am,” Baelor admitted.

You studied his face for another heartbeat before asking carefully, “You do not sound pleased.”

For the briefest instant, a muscle tightened along his jaw. “I am not.” His voice remained perfectly calm.

Somehow that unsettled you more than anger would have. You tilted your head. “Has he offended you?”

“Not yet.” Baelor turned his head towards you, leaning forward to place a tender kiss against your brow, “But I suspect he might.”

The evening stretched onward.

Musicians exchanged lively dances for softer melodies. Servants cleared one course only to replace it with another. Lords drifted from table to table, exchanging gossip while cups were emptied and filled again.

Even King Daeron's patience began to show signs of strain.

He checked the entrance more than once.

So did Queen Myriah.

Then, at last, the towering doors to the great hall swung open, conversation faltered and Prince Oberyn Martell strode inside wearing the unmistakable smile of a man entirely satisfied with himself.

His embroidered tunic remained immaculate by most standards, though his dark curls had been left pleasantly disordered by hurried fingers. His collar sat ever so slightly crooked, and lingering beneath the perfumes of feast and court clung another scent entirely.

Sweet perfume.

Heavy perfume.

The unmistakable fragrance of a King's Landing brothel.

Queen Myriah closed her eyes for the briefest moment before pinching the bridge of her nose.

Across the table, several Dornish retainers developed an intense fascination with their wine cups.

King Daeron tipped his head back, staring toward the painted ceiling as though appealing silently to the Seven for patience.

Baelor did not sigh, yet beside you, every muscle beneath his embroidered doublet hardened until he seemed carved from stone.

His hand, still loosely holding yours beneath the table, tightened almost imperceptibly, never enough to hurt—not that you would have minded the pain— only enough for you to notice.

Prince Oberyn crossed the length of the hall with effortless confidence, seemingly oblivious to every disapproving stare fixed upon him, or perhaps he simply enjoyed them.

Stopping before the king's table, he placed one hand over his heart and inclined his head with exaggerated courtesy.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” Oberyn said cheerfully. “King's Landing insisted upon delaying me.”

King Daeron regarded him with patient disbelief. “I somehow doubt King's Landing itself bears the blame.”

“It is a city overflowing with distractions.”

“It possesses brothels,” the king observed dryly.

“It does.”

“I imagine one detained you.”

Oberyn's grin widened. “I would hardly describe the experience as detention.” Laughter rolled through the hall, even a few members of the Kingsguard struggled to hide their amusement.

Only one man remained entirely unmoved, Baelor watched him without so much as the flicker of a smile.

The heir's gaze never wavered, steady enough to make lesser men reconsider every decision that had brought them into his presence.

Oberyn noticed immediately and the smile lingering upon his lips sharpened. “Baelor,” he greeted warmly, eyes filled with hidden amusement as he shifted his stance, curious eyes falling briefly towards you.

“Oberyn,” Baelor answered with equal politeness.

“You look well.”

“I was about to return the compliment.” Baelor straightened quietly, head cooking to the side.

Oberyn raised an eyebrow. “You changed your mind?”

“I remembered where you had been.”

Silence settled between them, you felt yourself frown quietly, shifting as Baelor's mismatched eyes briefly flickered towards you.

Then Oberyn laughed, the rich, unrestrained sound echoed easily through the hall. “It would seem rumours travel faster than I do.”

“They needn't travel,” Baelor replied evenly. “You were thoughtful enough to bring the evidence with you.”

Curious, Oberyn glanced down at himself before discovering the faint crimson imprint staining the edge of his collar.

His laughter only deepened. “So I did.”

You looked from one prince to the other, sensing a tension unlike ordinary dislike.

It was something infinitely more dangerous.

Two men who recognised capability when they saw it and men who respected one another's intelligence and who trusted the other's judgement about as far as either could throw the Red Keep itself.

Without drawing attention to the gesture, Baelor's arm settled securely around your waist.

The movement was slow enough to appear entirely natural.

He drew you just a little closer until your shoulder rested comfortably against his side.

Not for the benefit of the watching court.

Not to parade possession before curious eyes.

He had never needed such displays.

It was for one man alone.

For Prince Oberyn Martell.

A quiet, unmistakable reminder that the young woman standing beside the heir to the Iron Throne was not merely under his protection.

You were his wife.

And Baelor intended that, from the instant the Red Viper entered the hall until the feast's final candle guttered into darkness, there would not be a single moment in which Oberyn Martell could forget it.

Only after the laughter had faded did Oberyn's attention finally drift from Baelor.

It settled upon you.

The shift was subtle, yet every instinct in the room seemed to sharpen alongside it.

Prince Maekar Targaryen, seated further down the royal table, noticed it at once. Unlike his elder brother, Maekar's displeasure rarely concealed itself behind measured courtesy. His pale violet eyes moved from Oberyn to Baelor, studying the heir with quiet vigilance.

Baelor had not moved, not so much as an inch, yet Maekar knew his brother too well.

The rigid line of his shoulders. The almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. The hand still resting at your waist, steady enough to appear relaxed, though Maekar knew the strength contained within it.

Oberyn smiled as though the silence belonged entirely to him. “So,” he said, turning fully towards you, “this is the lady who has stolen the heart of the Dragon Prince.”

His dark eyes lingered only long enough to admire, never straying into outright impropriety, though there was an unmistakable warmth behind them.

“My sister neglected to mention that her gooddaughter possesses such remarkable beauty.”

Before you could think to respond, Oberyn reached gently for your hand, the movement was graceful, almost courtly. His fingers barely enclosed yours as he bowed his head, pressing a light kiss against your knuckles. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Princess.”

Heat blossomed across your cheeks almost instantly, as no man save your husband had ever greeted you with such effortless confidence.

Flustered, you offered a timid smile before instinctively drawing your hand back towards yourself, your fingers curling against your skirts as though uncertain what to do with the attention.

“Th... thank you, my prince,” you murmured, your voice scarcely louder than the music surrounding the feast.

Oberyn's smile softened. “Shy,” he observed lightly. “How refreshing.”

Before another word could leave his lips, Baelor spoke. “My wife blushes easily.”

Oberyn noticed that innocence almost immediately and Baelor Targaryen noticed the lingering amusement that remained in his uncle's eyes as they followed you like a viper scenting something delicious to sink it's fangs within.

Yet beneath those few words rested an unmistakable message.

Oberyn met Baelor's gaze again and for a heartbeat, neither man spoke and then, with the faintest hint of amusement dancing in his dark eyes, the Dornish prince released the matter entirely, lifting his goblet instead.

“As you say, Baelor.”

Across the table, Maekar exhaled quietly through his nose. The storm had not broken.

But it had certainly announced its arrival, and Maekar suspected that this visit would only awaken something in his brother he was not comfortable naming.

The conversation lingered only a little longer before the weariness of the evening finally settled upon your shoulders.

You turned towards your husband, your expression softening as his attention immediately shifted from the gathering back to you.

“My love,” you murmured quietly.

Baelor inclined his head, lowering it enough that only you might be heard. “Yes?”

“I believe I have had enough of feasts for one evening.”

The corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly. “I feared as much.”

You smiled in return, leaning close enough to press a gentle kiss against his cheek. It was a fleeting gesture, tender and entirely unselfconscious. “I should like to retire.”

His hand instinctively tightened at your waist. “I shall accompany you.”

“There is no need,” you assured him softly, laying your hand over his. “Remain a little longer. Your father will expect the heir beside him, especially now that Prince Oberyn has finally decided to grace us with his presence.”

Baelor frowned.

“I would rather see you safely to our chambers.”

“I know,” you whispered. “But I am hardly embarking upon a perilous journey. The Red Keep is full of guards, and I know the halls better than most.”

For a long moment he simply looked at you.

There was reluctance in his eyes, protectiveness and then, with visible effort, he relented. “If anything delays you…”

“I shall send for you.”

“If anyone troubles you…”

“I shall send for you.”

“And if Oberyn wanders the corridors…”

A quiet laugh escaped you. “I shall most certainly send for you.”

That, at last, earned the faintest smile from him. “You have my leave to retire, then.”

“As though I required it,” you teased gently. His answering look was one of fond exasperation.

You squeezed his hand once before offering respectful farewells to the king and queen. With your ladies trailing behind, you slipped from the warmth and noise of the great hall, the heavy doors closing behind you until the music became little more than a distant murmur.

Your absence did not go unnoticed.

Oberyn watched the doors for a thoughtful moment before lazily swirling the wine within his goblet and only when several heartbeats had passed did he glance back toward Baelor.

A slow, knowing smile spread across the Dornish prince's face. “I confess,” Oberyn said conversationally, as though remarking upon the quality of the wine, “I had expected you to follow her.”

Baelor met his gaze without expression, “My wife wished to retire.”

“And you obeyed.”

“I respected her wishes.”

“Hm.” Oberyn took an unhurried sip of wine before resting his elbow upon the table, “Tell me something.”

No one missed the change in his tone.

Prince Maekar's attention sharpened immediately.

Queen Myriah closed her eyes for the briefest instant.

King Daeron sighed quietly into his cup as Oberyn's dark eyes never left Baelor.

“Does the formidable Breakspear hammer his wife?” he asked with infuriating casualness. “Or does the knowledge of having such a young woman at his side temper even your legendary stamina? I must admit, I thought your blushing wife would be older. Not such a spirited little thing.”

The hall fell utterly silent.

A goblet stopped halfway to a lord's lips.

Somewhere near the musicians, a serving girl froze where she stood. Maekar slowly set his cup upon the table with a deliberate clink.

His stare fixed upon Oberyn with open disbelief. “...Have you truly decided,” Maekar said at last, his voice low and edged with warning, “that provoking my brother in the king's own hall is a sensible use of your evening?”

Baelor did not answer immediately.

He remained perfectly still, one hand resting upon the arm of his chair, his expression composed enough to be mistaken for indifference by anyone who did not know him.

Those who did knew better.

His silence was rarely empty.

It was the silence of a man deciding precisely how much restraint the moment deserved. “You speak boldly of another man's wife,” Baelor finally admitted, setting down his own goblet, “especially mine.”

Oberyn's gaze sharpened, intrigued. “I wonder if you fuck her like you used to fight,” he said, voice dropping lower. “All that raw power unleashed without mercy.”

Baelor bristled, jaw tightening, fingers curling against the armrest.

Oberyn muttered, almost to himself but loud enough for the table to hear, “A young thing like her should know the beast beneath his skin.”

Oberyn leaned in closer, the glint in his eyes sharp as a dagger. “You think she fears your wrath, Baelor? Or is it the quiet storm you carry that unsettles her?” His voice was silk and steel, designed to wound and provoke.p

Before Baelor could respond, Queen Myriah Martell’s voice cut through the charged air, firm and commanding. “Enough, Oberyn. Your words serve only to inflame what peace we have left. Do not tempt the dragon further.”

Oberyn’s smirk flickered, a shadow of respect crossing his features as he glanced at his sister, but the fire in his gaze didn’t dim.

Baelor rose abruptly, his chair scraping back sharply against the floor, a storm brewing in his eyes. His hands clenched into fists at his sides—every muscle taut with barely contained fury.

But before he could move, Maekar stepped forward with calm authority, placing a steadying hand on Baelor’s arm. “This is not the moment, Baelor. Temper your fire, or you risk burning those you care for most.” His voice was a grounded force, steadying the tempest ready to break loose.

Baelor’s breath hitched, the tension coiling within him fought down by Maekar’s timely intervention. Slowly, he sank back into his seat, eyes locked on Oberyn with a dangerous promise lingering in their depths.

The room exhaled collectively, the fragile balance restored for now, yet the undercurrents of rivalry and restraint thrummed just beneath the surface.

Baelor’s voice dropped low, hard as steel. “Silence your tongue, Oberyn, lest I cut it from your mouth.” His eyes burned with a fierce intensity, a clear warning that his patience was threadbare.

Oberyn laughed, a rich, dark sound that filled the room with defiance. He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. “Tell me, Baelor,” he murmured, voice almost a whisper yet carrying venom, “have you ever truly lost control… in fucking her?”

The question hung in the air, dripping with insinuation, daring Baelor to confront the chaos beneath his carefully maintained restraint.

Baelor’s breath hitched, the room suddenly tighter, heavier, as silence stretched between them, charged with unspoken truths and raw challenge.

Baelor’s chair flew backward with a harsh scrape against the floor, the sudden movement shattering the tense quiet. For a brief, electrifying moment, his mismatched eyes, one piercing blue, the other a deep, restless brown, darkened, shadows flickering across their depths like storms brewing beneath calm seas.

“I pray that you take this moment and reflect on how close you were to losing that tongue of yours, for one more fucking words and I shall deprave your whores from singing songs of it.”

A low growl rumbled from deep within him, raw and guttural, barely held in check. Without another word, Baelor turned sharply and strode from the room, his departure leaving a charged silence hanging in the air, words left unsaid, emotions unleashed in his absence.

The tension lingered palpably, a fragile calm on the edge of eruption.

Baelor’s steps slowed as he made his way through the corridors, Oberyn’s mocking words echoing relentlessly in his mind. The sharpness of the insult cut deeper than he cared to admit, stirring a storm of anger, doubt, and something darker, an uneasy introspection he wasn’t prepared to face.

When he reached the shared chambers, Baelor hesitated at the threshold, the weight of his own turmoil pressing down on him. Then, as if drawn by some silent need, he stepped inside, the world narrowing until it was only you and the churning emotions he could no longer keep at bay.

The chamber door clicked shut behind him, the iron latch settling into its cradle with a sound that felt louder than a war horn. Baelor stood with his back to the oak, his knuckles still white from the grip he'd kept on his sword hilt all the way from the hall, from the moment Oberyn's smirk had curled around those words and slid them into his chest like a Viper's fang.

“Does the formidable Breakspear hammer his wife? Or does the knowledge of having a young woman at his side temper his sexual stamina? Do you ever lose control in fucking her?”

The question had been poison wrapped in silk, delivered with that Dornish lilt that made everything sound like a joke at someone else's expense.

His hand was still shaking. He could feel the tremor climbing from his fingers into his wrist, the residue of a rage that had no battlefield to spend itself on.

Across the chamber, the window seat caught the last light of dusk. You sat there, your hair spilling over your shoulder in a loose braid, the red of your gown pooling around you like a promise. “Baelor? You are shaking.”

You were reading, or had been. The small leather-bound volume rested open on your knee, your finger marking the page, but your eyes were already on him. They were always already on him, as if you sensed the exact moment he crossed the threshold, as if some invisible thread between them tugged at your attention whenever he drew near.

You rose without a word. “Do not,” Baelor murmured quietly, mismatched eyes ablaze with unrestrained fury, “do not come any closer.”

The movement was unhurried, unafraid as your bare feet found the cold stone floor, and you crossed to him through the amber glow of the fire, your gown whispering against your ankles, “What has made you so upset?”

The candle on the sill guttered and steadied. The room smelled of beeswax and the faint lavender you kept in a sachet beneath your pillow, the scent that had become, in the two years of their marriage, the scent of home. Of safety and the one place in this court of knives where he did not have to be the Breakspear or the Hammer.

Your palm settled flat against the leather over his heart, “Is it Prince Oberyn? Has he said something?”

Through the boiled hide, through the wool beneath, you must have felt the thrum of his pulse, still too fast, still hunting for an enemy that was not here.

Your voice was quiet, not a whisper, you never whispered, not even in the godswood, but pitched for his ears alone, a current that flowed under the noise of the world and found him every time. You said it without accusation, without concern. Just a fact, laid out between them like a piece on a cyvasse board, waiting to see what he would do with it.

He caught your wrist, “I despise that man. He is my mother's brother, but he does not think when he provokes me.” The grip was firm enough to hold you there, to stop your hand from moving, but he could feel the delicate bones beneath his fingers, the flutter of your own pulse against his callused palm.

He had never touched you with those hands the way he wanted to. He had been so careful. Two years of gentleness, of holding you like you were made of glass, of pulling every blow before it landed. Every night they shared, he had kept himself leashed, had loved you with a tenderness that left him aching and unfinished, had fallen asleep with his hands fisted in the sheets to stop them from gripping you too hard.

You had never complained. You had only ever looked at him with those warm eyes and said I am here, and he had wanted to tell you that was the problem, that he had killed men who looked at him the way you had looked at him, that the hunger you woke in him was the same hunger he fed on battlefields, and he did not know how to separate the two.

But he had never said it. He had only held you gently, night after night, and felt the leash grow thinner.

Tonight, Oberyn had snapped it.

You did not pull your wrist free, nor did you flinch when you held his gaze, your gaze calm steady and unmoved, “What did he say to you?”

“He wanted to know whether I fuck you like I fight? If I know how to make you scream,” Baelor's breath hitched when you reached up and unlaced the throat of your gown, the fabric parting to reveal the column of your throat, leaving the skin bare and visible, the pulsing beat of your heart vulnerable, “if I hammer into you like a dragon given flesh.”

You took his hand, the one he had wrapped around your wrist and lifted it.

His fingers splayed across your throat. He could feel the weight of your head in his palm, the fragile architecture of your spine, the flutter of your pulse against the calluses of his sword hand. Your skin was warm, impossibly soft, and his hand covered almost the entire breadth of your neck.

He could close his hand. He could squeeze. He could —

“I am not afraid of you,” you said. “Husband.”

The word cracked something in his chest. The leash he had held for two years snapped in a single breath, and the hunger that had been pacing behind it, patient and starved, surged forward.

He bent and took your mouth like a man starved.

There was nothing gentle about it. His free hand fisted in your hair and he yanked your head back, opening your throat to his mouth. “Gods,” you gasped against his lips, a sound that was not quite a surprise, and he swallowed it, licked into your mouth, took everything you offered and demanded more, “Baelor.”

You gave it.

Your hands came up, not to push him away, but to grip the leather of his doublet, to hold him closer. Your nails scraped against the stitching, and the small sound you made, low, hungry, wanting, sent a bolt of heat straight to his cock, “Please, tell me to stop. Tell me now.”

He walked you backward, each step a claim as his body pressed against yours, the solid bulk of him driving you across the room until your spine met the carved oak of the bedpost and you had nowhere left to go, “I have been afraid. I have been afraid of breaking you, of wanting to fuck you without the gentleness.”

The post dug into your shoulder blades, and he pinned you there, his hips grinding against yours, letting you feel exactly how hard he was, how long he had been hard for you, how much of that hunger he had been hiding.

His hand was still on your throat, he did not squeeze, “That man has sunk his fangs into me, poured poison into my veins and I cannot stop thinking about proving that I am capable of not being the man the realm adores, I want to show you I can pleasure you in ways I never have before.” Baelor felt the shape of it beneath his palm, the temptation of it, the way your pulse beat against his fingers like a small animal trusting him not to close his hand.

“Is that what you want, my sweet husband? Do you wish to fuck me?”

The question hit him like a blade between the ribs.

He wanted to say no. He wanted to tell you that he had kept you separate, had protected you from the part of him that broke across the battlefield. But the truth was there, raw and undeniable, and you were looking at him with those eyes like you already knew the answer and were waiting for him to find the courage to speak it.

He pressed his thumb against the hollow of your throat, felt you swallow against the pressure. “Yes,” he said, and the word came out like a confession. “I should not, but the thought of what he had said, what he had made me feel, it unlocked something in me and I cannot,” he shook his head, kissed you once more, grinding against you, because this was not who he was, this was not the Baelor you had come to love and cherish. “I will frighten you.”

You reached up and covered his hand with yours, your fingers threading through his, pressing his palm harder against your neck. “You won't.”

Something in him wanted to argue, but you were looking at him, steady and unbroken, and your grip on his hand was not a plea, it was a dare.

He took it.

His other hand found the lacings of your gown, and he pulled. The fabric gave way with a sound of parting seams, sliding from your shoulders to puddle at your feet. You wore nothing beneath it, you never did, not when it was only him and the firelight painted your skin in gold and shadow, the soft curves of your body laid bare for him.

He stepped back just long enough to tear at his own clothes. The leather doublet hit the floor, then the linen tunic beneath, then the laces of his breeches. He was already hard, his cock curving up against his stomach, and the sight of you, naked, flushed, wanting, made him ache in a way that was almost painful.

He pushed you back against the bedpost, one hand bracing against the wood beside your head, the other finding your hip and he dug his fingers into the soft flesh, squeezing harder than he ever had, and you moaned.

Not a whimper.

A groan, low and hungry, that vibrated through your chest and into his.

He dropped to his knees, the shift was sudden, and you looked down at him with wide eyes, the question forming on your lips. But he did not wait for it. He hooked your leg over his shoulder, the skin of your thigh warm against his ear, and he pressed his mouth to the curls between your legs.

You gasped.

He had done this before, of course he had, every time they coupled he had knelt between your thighs and worshipped you until you shook, but never like this.

Never with teeth.

Never with the edge of hunger that made his hands grip your thighs hard enough to bruise. He licked into you, broad strokes of his tongue that parted your folds and found the bud of your clit, and you cried out, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling, holding him there.

He did not need the encouragement.

He ate you like a man who had been starved. “Fuck!” Tongue flat and wide, pressing into you, lapping at the wet heat of you. You were already slick, your arousal spilling onto his chin, and the taste of you, salt and something darker, something that was only you drove him further.

He moaned against you, the vibration making your hips jerk, and he pressed his tongue inside you, fucking you with it while his thumb found your clit and circled hard.

“Baelor —”

Baelor didn't let you finish. He swallowed the sound of his name, his mouth clamping down on you with a feral intensity that stole the breath from your lungs. He wasn't just tasting you anymore, he was claiming you, his tongue driving deep into your soaking heat, mimicking the rhythmic thrust of a cock.

The sensation was overwhelming, the wet, sliding friction of his tongue combined with the brutal pressure of his thumb grinding against your clit. He was relentless, his movements fast and hungry, pushing you toward a ledge you hadn't even realized you were approaching. Every time your hips bucked, trying to escape the intensity or pull him closer, his grip tightened, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, marking you as his.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” he growled, the words muffled against your pussy. He pulled back for a split second, just long enough to let the cool air hit your drenched folds, before he lunged back in.

This time, he used his teeth. He nipped at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, a sharp sting that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core, and then he sank his teeth lightly into the plump flesh of your labia. You shrieked, your back arching off the surface beneath you, your fingers clawing desperately at his scalp. The pain was a thin, sharp line that only served to heighten the pleasure, turning the arousal into something jagged and desperate.

He felt you begin to tremble, the tell-tale rhythmic pulsing of an impending climax. Baelor sensed it, and he doubled his efforts. He abandoned the teasing and went for the kill, his tongue flattening out to lap at you in broad, greedy strokes while his thumb maintained a punishing, circular friction on your clit.

“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating rumble against your skin. “Give it all to me.”

The world narrowed down to the point of contact, the heat, the wetness, and the sheer force of his hunger. You felt the tension snap. A violent shudder ripped through your body as your orgasm crashed over you in waves of blinding white heat.

Your internal muscles clamped tight around his tongue, milking him as you sobbed his name, your hips jerking uncontrollably against his face.

Baelor didn't pull away. He stayed right there, drinking in every drop of your release, his tongue continuing to flick and probe your sensitive depths even as you collapsed, shaking and spent, your breath coming in ragged, broken gasps. He looked up at you then, his face smeared with your juices, his eyes dark and predatory, showing no sign that he was finished with you.

His name on your lips, broken and desperate, and he wanted to hear it again. He wanted to hear it until you screamed it.

He pulled back, his chin slick with you, his eyes dark and hungry. “More,” he said, and it was not a question. “I want more.”

You did not argue. You let him stand, let him guide you away from the bedpost and toward the bed, let him push you down onto the tangled furs face-first.

The breath left you in a huff as you landed, your hair spilling across the pillows, your ass raised in the air because that was how he had put you.

He climbed onto the bed behind you.

His hands found your hips, yanking you back toward him, and you went willingly, your knees spreading, your back arching. The sight of you, open, wet, waiting, made his cock throb, a bead of precum already leaking from the tip.

He did not make you wait.

He guided himself to your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against your slick folds, and he pushed in without warning. The sound you made, a sharp, keening cry, was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. You were tight, so tight, your body clenching around him as he buried himself to the hilt in a single, brutal thrust.

He stilled, just for a moment, his forehead dropping to the curve of your spine. You were hot and wet and his, and the feeling of you around him, yielding but not broken, was almost too much.

The stretch was a burn that melted into pure, blinding pleasure. He felt every inch of you yield, your walls rippling, trying to accommodate his girth, then gripping him as if to pull him deeper, letting you feel the fullness, the way his cock pulsed inside you, a second heartbeat buried in your warmth.

Then he pulled back, almost all the way out, leaving only the tip nestled between your folds. You whined, your hips pushing back, chasing the friction, but he held you there, teasing. A shiver ran down his spine as he watched your pussy cling to him, glistening and desperate. He slammed back in.

This time, the sound was a wet, slapping noise that echoed in the room. Your body jolted forward onto the mattress, your fingers gripping the sheets. He followed, leaning over your back, his chest pressed to your shoulder blades, his mouth finding the curve of your neck. He bit down, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make you gasp, and he fucked into you with a steady, punishing rhythm.

“That’s it my sweet girl, take it.”

Each stroke hit that sweet spot deep inside, the one that made your toes curl. Your moans turned into broken words please, yes, don't stop spilling from your lips like a prayer. He answered by wrapping a hand around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, a possessive claim, while his other hand found your clit, slick and swollen. He circled it with his thumb in time with his thrusts, driving you higher, pulling you toward that edge.

Your body began to tremble, your walls fluttering around his cock. He felt the telltale squeeze, the way your breath hitched, and he pushed harder, faster, chasing your release as much as his own.

When you came, it was with a scream that dissolved into a sob, your cunt clenching in waves, milking him. He buried his face in your hair, groaning, and let go, pumping his cum deep into you, each pulse a hot rush that seemed to go on forever.

When he finally stilled, your bodies were slick with sweat, your breath mingling in the quiet. He stayed buried inside you, softening, unwilling to let go just yet.

But Baelor Targaryen was not done.

His hips slammed against you once more, the sound of skin on skin filling the chamber, and you took every inch of him, your body riding the force of his need. He reached around and found your clit, rubbing hard circles as he fucked into you, and you bucked against his hand, a stream of wordless sounds falling from your lips.

He pulled out and flipped you onto your back before you could gasp for breath, your legs falling open, and he settled between them, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance once more. This time, he held your gaze.

This time, his hand found your throat.

He wrapped his fingers around your neck, not squeezing, but just resting there, a reminder of the power he held, the trust you had given him.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did.

Your eyes locked onto his, steady, unafraid, burning with the same heat that was consuming him.

He pushed inside you.

His hand tightened on your throat as he filled you, a ring of pressure around your neck that you did not fight. Your body arched, your mouth falling open, and the sound you made, a moan that was almost a sob, was the surrender he had not known he needed.

He fucked you like that. His hand on your throat, your gaze locked on his, each thrust driving him deeper into you, deeper into the trust you had laid bare. Your hands came up to grip his wrist, not to pull him away, but to hold him there. To guide his pressure. To tell him, without words, that you were his to take, and that you wanted to be taken.

The orgasm built in him like a wave, cresting toward a shore he had kept at a distance for two years. He wanted to hold it back, to stay inside you forever, but you clenched around him, your body shuddering as you came, a sharp, broken cry of his name and the wave broke.

He emptied into you with a groan, his hips grinding against yours as his release poured into you in hot pulses. He collapsed against you, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, his breath ragged, his body sheened with sweat.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

The fire crackled, the candle guttered. His hand was still on your throat, but the pressure had gentled, his thumb stroking the hollow where your pulse beat steady and alive.

“I did not break,” you said, your voice hoarse, your lips brushing his temple.

He laughed. A broken sound, almost a sob. “No.”

“I told you.”

He lifted his head and looked down at you. The shadows from the fire carved his face into planes of light and dark, and in his mismatched eyes there was something raw, not a fear conquered, but a door left open. “I know.”

Your hand came up to cup his cheek. You felt the tremor still running through him, the aftershock of everything he had held back for so long. “Come back to me,” you had said softly. “You do not have to be gentle. But I need you here.”

He turned his head and kissed your palm. “I am here.”

He pulled out of you slowly, the loss of heat making you shiver. The sheets beneath you were damp with sweat and the evidence of your fucking, and the sight of you, marked, satisfied, whole, sent a quiet satisfaction through him that was nothing like battle.

He pulled you against his chest, your back to his front, and wrapped an arm around your waist. Your hair spilled across his arm, and you sighed, a sound of contentment that he had not earned but that you gave him anyway.

The door was still closed.

But here, in this chamber, with your pulse steady beneath his palm and your body warm against his, Baelor Breakspear Targaryen felt the leash he had worn for two years fall away — and he knew, with a certainty that settled in his bones like a second sword, that he would never pick it up again.

His thumb pressed into the hollow of your throat, not hard enough to block, hard enough to feel the slow drum of your pulse beneath the pad of his finger, steady now, no longer the rabbit-fast flutter of before, but something deeper, more settled. The rhythm of a woman who had been taken and was not sorry for it.

You lay against him, your back to his chest, as the fire had burned low, casting the chamber in a dim orange glow that made the shadows long and soft. The damp sheets clung to your skin, and the air between you was thick with the smell of sex and sweat and the lavender that lived in your pillow.

He traced the line of your throat with his thumb, following the column down to the dip at its base, then back up to the angle of your jaw. You sighed at the touch, a sound of pure contentment, and tilted your head back to give him more access. Like a cat offering its throat to a trusted hand.

The question sat at the back of his throat, heavy as a stone.

He had never asked for it. In two years of careful nights, of holding himself back, of pulling every blow before it landed, he had never once spoken the words that had paced behind his teeth like a caged animal. He had been afraid of what you would say. Afraid of what you would think of him for asking. Afraid that the asking itself would crack something between them that could not be mended.

But you had met him tonight with your throat bared and your trust unbroken, you had looked at the beast he kept leashed and had not flinched. You had told him you were not afraid and then you had proved it, taking every inch of his hunger and returning it with your own.

His thumb stilled.

He felt his own pulse in his temples, a thrum that matched the slow beat beneath his hand. The room was quiet except for the crackle of the dying fire and the sound of your breathing, soft and even. He could feel the curve of your spine against his chest, the warmth of your ass against his spent cock, the way your fingers had curled loosely around his forearm where it crossed your waist.

“Sweet girl,” your name followed and it came out rough, scraped raw by the thing he was trying to give shape to. You did not open your eyes, but you hummed, a small sound that meant I am listening.

He pressed his thumb into the hollow of your throat again, just resting there, a reminder of where his hand had been, of what you had let him do.

“There is a question I have never asked you.”

You opened your eyes then and turned your head just enough to catch his profile in the firelight, and your hand came up to cover his where it rested on your throat. Your fingers were warm, your grip gentle but present.

“Ask it now,” you had said quietly, not a command, not a plea. Just an opening, held steady for him to step into.

He looked at the shadows on the ceiling. At the canopy of the bed, dark velvet that had witnessed every night of his careful restraint. He thought of Oberyn's smirk, of the way the words had slid into his chest and found the fear he had been carrying since the day he first held you in his arms.

“Do you want me to hurt you?”

The words fell into the silence between you like stones into still water. You feel the ripple of them move through your chest, through your hand where it rests on his throat, through the air that suddenly seems too thin to fill your lungs.

You do not stiffen. You do not pull away.

You are still for a long moment, your amber eyes fixed on some point in the darkness beyond the firelight. Your hand remains over his, warm and steady. You can feel his pulse beneath your thumb, still slow, still even. You are thinking. Turning the question over, tasting it, finding the shape of your answer.

“I have thought about it,” you say, and your voice is so quiet he almost misses it. “I have wondered what it would be like. Not in fear as I have never feared you, Baelor. But I have wondered.”

His throat tightens. The air in the room feels heavier, denser, pressing against his chest from the inside.

“What did you wonder?”

You shift in his arms, turning fully to face him. The movement brings your body flush against his, your breasts pressing to his chest, your thighs sliding against his. Your hand falls from his throat to cup his jaw, your thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone with a tenderness that feels almost cruel after the question you just asked.

“I wondered what it would feel like,” you say, “to be marked by you. To carry proof of your wanting on my skin.”

Something in his chest cracks open. A door he has kept barred with two years of gentleness, of careful hands and measured hunger, swings wide on its hinges.

“It is not the pain I want,” you continue, your voice still soft, still steady, your eyes holding his mismatched ones in the dim light. “It is you in it. The part of you that you hide from everyone. The part that fights and kills and comes home with blood on your hands and tries to wash it off before you touch me.”

He flinches.

You had named something he had never spoken aloud, and your hand on his jaw held him there, would not let him look away.

“I want that part of you too,” you said. “I want him in our bed. I want him to take me.”

His hand found your hip, gripping it hard enough that you gasped, a small sound, not pain, not quite surprise. His fingers dug into the soft flesh, and you did not pull away. You leaned into it, your eyes darkening, your breath catching.

“He would not be gentle,” Baelor said, and his voice was not his own. It was lower, rougher, the voice he used on the training ground, the one that made squires flinch.

“I know.”

“He would leave marks.”

“Show me.”

The words hit him like a blow, but not one that hurt. One that woke something in him that had been sleeping too long. He rolled, pinning you beneath him in a single sharp movement, his weight settling over you, his thighs parting yours.

You looked up at him, your hair spilled across the pillow, your lips parted, your amber eyes bright and unafraid. The firelight painted your skin in gold and shadow, and there was no hesitation in your face.

His hand found your throat again. This time, he squeezed.

Not hard.

A test.

A question asked through his fingers. Your eyes widened, just a fraction and your mouth fell open, a soft sound escaping you, not out of distress but rather something in between, something that looked like surrender and tasted like trust.

His grip tightened, “Fuck, sweet girl. You should not allow me to do such things to you.”

The pressure was deliberate, measured, a slow closing of his hand around the column of your neck. He watched your face as he did it, watched the way your breath caught, the way your pulse beat against his palm, the way your pupils blew wide until your eyes were nearly black.

You did not fight. Your hands came up, but they did not push at his wrist. They settled on his shoulders, your fingers curling into the muscle there, holding him.

“Tell me if—” he started.

“I will.” Your voice was thinner, compressed by the pressure on your throat, but steady. “I will tell you.”

He believed you.

He held you there, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress, his hand a ring of pressure around your neck. The moment stretched, taut and electric, and he could feel everything, your breath against his wrist, the flutter of your lashes, the slight tremor in your thighs where they bracketed his hips.

He bent and kissed you.

It was not gentle, his mouth hard on yours, his tongue pushing past your lips as his hand held your throat. You made a sound against his mouth, a muffled moan that vibrated through your chest and into his, and your nails scraped across his shoulders.

He released your throat. His hand slid down, over your collarbone, between your breasts, down the plane of your stomach to the thatch of curls between your legs. You were slick again, your body ready for him even after everything you had already done, and the discovery of it, that you still wanted him, that you were still open and wet and hungry sent a pulse of heat through his blood.

He pushed two fingers into you without warning.

You cried out, your back arching, your head pressing into the pillow. He watched your face as he fucked you with his fingers, watched the way your mouth fell open, the way your eyes squeezed shut, the way your hips bucked against his hand, chasing the pressure.

“Look at me,” he said.

Your eyes opened. Dark, dazed, fixed on his.

“You want me to hurt you?”

You nodded, a jerky motion.

“Then beg for it.”

The words hung between you, heavy and charged. He saw the flicker in your eyes, not fear, but something like surprise, as if you had not expected him to ask for that. As if you had expected him to simply take, to show you the beast without making you name it.

But he needed to hear it. He needed to know that this was what you wanted, not just something you were willing to endure. He needed you to speak the wanting aloud, so that he could believe it.

You swallowed. Your throat moved beneath his gaze. Your hand found his wrist, not to pull it away, but to grip it, your fingers tight on his skin.

“Please,” you said.

Your voice was small, but not weak. It was the voice of someone stepping off a ledge, trusting that they would be caught.

“Please hurt me. I want to feel you. All of you.”

He pulled his fingers out of you. You whimpered at the loss, a sound that went straight to his cock. He settled between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, slick with your wanting.

He did not push in.

He held himself there, at the threshold, his eyes locked on yours. His hand found your throat again, his fingers curling around the soft column of your neck. The trust in your gaze was absolute, terrifying, beautiful.

“Remember,” he said, his voice low, “you asked for this.”

He thrust into you in one hard, brutal motion. Your body clenched around him, a sharp cry breaking from your lips, and his hand tightened on your throat, not cutting off your air, but pressing, a constant pressure that reminded you who was taking you.

He fucked you like he meant to leave a mark.

Each thrust was deep, punishing, the angle driving him into you with a force that made the bed frame groan. His hand stayed on your throat, and he watched your face, watched the way your eyes fluttered, the way your mouth stayed open on silent gasps, the way your body surrendered to every drive of his hips.

Your nails raked down his back, leaving lines of fire in their wake. He grunted at the sting, and it only made him fuck you harder.

He released your throat and caught your wrists, pinning them above your head, one of his hands spanning both of your small bones. You were trapped beneath him, completely at his mercy, and the sight of you, spread open, marked, wanting, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“Mine,” he said, the word torn from his chest.

“Yours,” you gasped, and the word was a prayer. “Baelor, please more.”

Baelor releases his grip on your wrists, “Gods, sweet girl,” he leans down and kisses you with such fierceness, his restraint snapping, and then his fingers curl around and tighten around your throat and then his other hand grips your jaw, smushing your cheeks together. “You want me to hurt you?”

“Yes.”

Baelor didn't hesitate. The word "yes" was the only permission he needed to strip away the last remnants of his control. He slammed his hips forward, burying his cock deep inside you with a violent force that knocked the wind from your lungs. He didn't give you a second to recover before he ripped himself out and drove back in, the wet, slapping sound of his balls hitting your ass echoing through the room.

His grip on your jaw tightened, his fingers digging into your cheeks and forcing your mouth open, stretching your lips wide. He wanted to see every flicker of pain and pleasure crossing your face. He began to fuck you with a rhythmic, brutal intensity, each thrust designed to bottom out against your cervix, jarring your entire frame.

“You're a pathetic little thing, aren't you?” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Begging for it. Begging for me to break you.”

He shifted his weight, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder to open you up even further, exposing your soaking pussy to the harsh light and his hungry gaze. The change in angle allowed him to drive even deeper, his cock stretching your walls to their absolute limit. You screamed, the sound muffled by his hand crushing your face, your eyes rolling back as the friction ignited a fire in your core.

He released your jaw only to slide his hand back down to your throat. He didn't just press this time, he squeezed, his thumb digging into the side of your neck, cutting off the air just enough to make your vision swim and your heart hammer against your ribs. “Is this what you wanted? Is this what you have craved?”

The oxygen deprivation heightened every sensation, making the feeling of his thick cock sliding in and out of you feel like electric shocks.

You thrashed beneath him, your hips bucking instinctively, trying to meet his punishing pace. He chuckled, a dark, predatory sound, and increased the speed. He was no longer just fucking you, he was conquering you. He hammered into you, his movements frantic and raw, the bed sliding across the floor with every violent shove.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his own release.

You forced your eyes open, locking onto his. His pupils were blown wide, his expression one of pure, unadulterated dominance. He saw the desperation in your gaze, the way you were completely undone by him, and it pushed him over the edge.

He let out a guttural roar, his hand tightening one last time around your throat as he delivered a final, devastatingly deep thrust. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, as his body shuddered with the force of his orgasm. You felt the hot, thick jets of his cum erupting deep inside you, filling you up, marking you from the inside out.

As he collapsed onto you, his heavy chest heaving against yours, he didn't let go of your throat immediately. He lingered there, feeling your pulse race under his palm, ensuring you knew exactly who owned every inch of your shaking body.

You followed a moment later, your inner walls clenching around him, your body shuddering through a climax that pulled a broken cry from your lips.

The room was warm and dark and smelled of you.

He did not pull out. He stayed inside you, softening, his weight a comfort rather than a demand.

“I did not hurt you too much,” he said. It was not a question, but it was. A plea, wrapped in a statement.

Your hand found his hair, your fingers threading through the dark strands, stroking with a tenderness that made his chest ache.

“You gave me exactly what I asked for,” you said. “And you were still here, the whole time.”

He lifted his head. Your skin was flushed, your lips swollen, your eyes soft and glazed with satisfaction. There were red marks on your throat where his hand had been, fingerprints blooming like dark flowers on your pale skin.

He touched them with his fingertips, featherlight. You did not flinch.

“I will have to cover those,” you said, and there was a smile in your voice. “The gowns I wear to court do not come high enough.”

A laugh escaped him, rough, surprised, almost a sob. He dropped his forehead to yours, your breath mingling in the space between.

“I am sorry,” he said, but you shook your head.

“Do not be sorry. I am not, perhaps Prince Oberyn will now know that the formidable Breakspear does indeed hammer his wife.”

You held his gaze, steady and certain. Your hands came up to cup his face, your thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

“You are mine, Baelor. All of you. And I want all of you. Not the version you keep gentle for the court. Not the one you wash the blood off before you touch me. All of you.”

He closed his eyes. Let the words settle into his bones, into the places that had been hollow and guarded and afraid.

When he opened them again, something in him was quieter. Not tamed, never tamed but no longer fighting itself.

“And if I want to hurt you again?” he asked.

You smiled. A small, knowing curve of your lips that held no fear, only welcome.

“Then you will ask me first. And I will tell you yes. Or I will tell you no. And you will listen.”

It was not a demand. It was a promise, an agreement, forged in the space between his hunger and your trust.

“And if you say no?” he asked.

“Then you will be gentle with me, as you always have been. And I will love you in the gentleness, and wait for the next time you ask.”

The word hit him in the chest like a war hammer.

Love.

You had said it before, in quiet moments, in the dark of your bed, but never like this. Never as an anchor, holding him steady in the storm of his own wanting.

He kissed you. Soft, this time. A promise sealed with lips and breath.

The quiet settled around you like a held breath. The fire had burned down to embers, casting the room in a deep amber glow that made the shadows long and soft. He was still inside you, softening, the heat between you slowly cooling as your breathing steadied.

His hand had fallen from your throat to rest on your chest, palm flat over your heart, feeling the slow, steady rhythm beneath your skin.

You were watching him. He could feel your gaze on his face, tracing the lines of his jaw, the furrow between his brows, the way his lips were still parted from the force of his release. Your hand came up, not to his face this time, but to his hand on your chest, your fingers threading through his, pressing his palm harder against your heartbeat.

“There is more,” you said. Not a question. A statement, delivered with the same calm certainty you used to name the weather.

He looked at you. Your eyes were steady, unafraid, and there was something in them that had not been there before tonight, a knowledge, a hunger that had been awakened and was not yet sated.

“You are still hard,” you said, and your lips curved in that small, dangerous smile he was beginning to recognize. Not the smile of the gentle wife who greeted him at court. The smile of the woman who had asked him to hurt her.

He looked down. You were right. His cock, still half-sheathed in your warmth, was stirring again. The sight of you, the marks on your throat, the flush on your chest, the way your body had accepted everything he had given and asked for more was enough to kindle the fire that had barely banked.

“Yes,” he said. His voice was rough, still scraped raw by the confession he had made, the trust you had given.

You shifted beneath him. The movement was small, a subtle roll of your hips that made him slide deeper into you, and you gasped at the sensation.

The feeling of you, still wet, still open, still wanting sent a fresh ache through his blood.

“Then show me,” you said. Your voice was quiet, but there was iron beneath it. “Show me what else you have been holding back.”

He could have taken you again. Could have flipped you onto your stomach and driven into you with the same brutal hunger that had carried him through the last hour. But something in your voice, in the steadiness of your gaze, made him pause.

He had asked you what you wanted, and you had told him. You had begged for it. Now you were asking him for more, not with fear, not with hesitation, but with the same quiet courage you had shown every time you bared your throat to his hand.

He wanted to give you something you had never had. Something that would show you that his hunger was not only a beast to be unleashed, that it could be shaped, directed, used to carry you somewhere new.

He pulled out of you slowly. You made a small sound at the loss, a whimper that he felt in his chest. But you did not protest. You watched him, your eyes tracking his movements as he shifted away from you, as he sat back on his heels between your spread thighs.

The firelight painted you in gold and shadow. Your skin was flushed, your hair a tangled halo on the pillow, your breasts rising and falling with each breath. The marks on your throat were dark against your pale skin, fingerprints that would take days to fade. You were beautiful. You were his.

He reached for your hand. You gave it without hesitation, your small fingers wrapping around his, and he guided you, gently, turning you onto your side.

You went willingly, your body moving with his direction, your back curving as you settled onto your hip. He moved behind you, the solid wall of his chest pressing against your spine, his thighs slotting against the backs of yours. You were warm and soft and yielding, and the position was familiar, he had held you like this a hundred times in the quiet of your bed, your back to his chest, his arm around your waist.

But this time, his other hand found the nape of your neck.

He guided your head back, gently, your throat arching as you let him move you. His arm came around you, his bicep brushing against your jaw, his forearm settling across your collarbone.

It was a cage, gentle but absolute, his arm forming a ring around your head and throat that you could not easily escape.

“Baelor,” you breathed. Not fear. Curiosity. A question formed on the edge of his name.

“Trust me,” he said, his lips brushing your ear.

You did not answer in words. You relaxed into him. Your spine softened, your head settling into the crook of his arm, your body molding against his as if you had been made to fit there.

His cock was pressed against the curve of your ass, hard again, leaking a bead of moisture that smeared across your skin. He did not enter you.

He held you there, in the cage of his arm, and let you feel the weight of his body, the heat of his skin, the steady thrum of his pulse against your back. “You are safe,” he said. His voice was low, rough, but there was no edge in it. “You are always safe with me. But I want you to feel something.”

You turned your head, just enough to catch his profile. Your lips were parted, your eyes dark and searching. “What?”

“How it feels to be held by me. Not taken. Held.”

His arm tightened around you. Not enough to hurt, enough to remind you that it was there, that he could close the cage at any moment, that his strength was a constant presence around your neck and head. His hand found your hip, gripping the soft curve of flesh, and he pulled you back against him, the head of his cock pressing into the cleft of your ass.

You shivered. A full-body tremor that ran through you and into him, and he felt it in his chest, in the arm that cradled your head, in the hand that gripped your hip.

“I am going to take you like this,” he said. “Slowly. Gently. And you are going to feel every inch of me, from the inside, while my arm stays around your throat.”

Your breath caught. Your hand found his forearm, your fingers curling around the muscle there, holding him as if you were afraid he would disappear.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, please.”

He guided himself to your entrance. The angle was different, your thighs pressed together, and the head of his cock slid against your slick folds, searching for entry.

He found it, the wet heat of your opening and he pushed in, slow, steady, the pressure building as he sank into you inch by inch.

You moaned. A low, trembling sound that vibrated against his arm where it crossed your throat, and he felt it in the curve of his bicep, in the skin of his forearm. You were tight, so tight, and the angle pressed him deeper than before, the head of his cock hitting a place that made you gasp and arch against him.

He stilled when he was fully seated. His arm was still around you, his hand gripping your hip, his cock buried to the hilt inside you. You were trembling, small shivers running through your body, and your hand had tightened on his forearm until your knuckles were white.

“Breathe,” he said, his lips against your ear. “I am not going anywhere.”

You exhaled. A shaky breath that seemed to carry the tension out of you, and you softened around him, your body accepting the fullness of his presence inside you.

He began to move.

The rhythm was slow. Each thrust was measured, deep, controlled, his hips rolling against you in a steady wave that pushed him into you and pulled him back to the edge before driving forward again.

His arm stayed around your throat, not squeezing, just present, a constant reminder of where he was, of the trust you had placed in his hands.

You made small sounds with each movement. Whimpers, gasps, half-formed words that died in your throat. Your hand stayed on his forearm, gripping, releasing, gripping again, as if you were grounding yourself through the contact.

“Look at me,” he said.You turned your head. The movement brought your cheek against his bicep, your eyes meeting his mismatched ones in the dim light. The angle was awkward, intimate, your face cradled in the crook of his arm as he moved inside you.

“I want to see your face,” he said. “I want to watch you feel this.”

Your lips parted.

A soft moan escaped you, your eyes fluttering, and he saw it, the moment the pleasure crested, the moment you surrendered to the slow, steady rhythm of his body inside you.

Your eyes stayed on his, dark and dazed and full of trust.

He fucked you like that for a long time, slow, deep, kissing your brow, swallowing your moans, “You are so good for me,” he would murmur against your skin.

Gentle in a way that was not gentle at all, the gentleness was in the control, in the measured pace, in the arm that held your throat without pressing.

He was giving you the lie of safety, the pretense of softness, while his cock stretched you open, hitting depths you had not known you possessed.

Your breathing changed. Small, quick gasps that came faster and faster, your hips beginning to move against his, chasing something. Your grip on his arm tightened, your nails digging into his skin, and the small sounds you made grew higher, more urgent.

“I am close,” you gasped. “Baelor —”

His arm tightened around your throat.Not enough to cut off your air. Enough to press, enough to remind you who was in control, enough to make you freeze beneath him, your eyes flying wide.

“Not yet,” he said. His voice was low, rough, but there was no cruelty in it. “I want you to feel this longer.”

You whimpered, but you nodded, a small jerk of your head against his arm, and he felt you relax into his control. Your body was a wire drawn taut, trembling on the edge of release, and you held it, waiting for his permission.

He kept the rhythm slow, each thrust pressed him into you, the angle making you gasp, and he watched your face, watched the struggle between surrender and want, the way your lips stayed parted on silent breaths, the way your eyes stayed locked on his.

When he could feel you starting to shake, when your body was trembling so hard that he could feel it in his own, he loosened his hold on your throat.

“Now,” he said.

You came apart.

The orgasm hit you like a wave, your body clenching around him, your cry sharp and broken as you rode the release. He watched your face through it, the way your eyes squeezed shut, the way your mouth opened on a silent scream, the way your body arched and bucked against him, taking every inch of his cock as you pulsed around him.

He did not let you recover.

He pulled out of you, the sudden loss making you gasp, and he moved before you could draw breath. His hands found your hips, rolling you onto your stomach, and you went willingly, boneless and trembling, your cheek pressed to the pillow, your arms stretched above your head.

He settled behind you, his knees spreading yours, his cock pressing against your wet, waiting entrance. He did not enter you. He leaned forward, his chest covering your back, his lips brushing your ear.

“Now,” he said, his voice a low growl, ”I am going to stop being gentle, but you need to tell me, my love. You must tell me if it is too much.”

“Gods, please Baelor, fucking use me!”

He thrust into you in one hard, brutal motion.You cried out a sharp, keening sound that was not pain but the shock of fullness, the sudden stretch of him driving deep.

He did not pause. He set a rhythm that was punishing, each thrust slamming into you, the sound of skin on skin filling the chamber. “There you go, let them hear who's fucking you.”

The bed frame groaned beneath you, and you took it, your body yielding to every drive of his hips.

“Baelor!”

His hand found your hair, fisting in the strands, and he pulled your head back. Your spine arched, your throat exposed, and he drove into you from behind, the angle deeper, harder, each thrust hitting the place that made you gasp and moan and claw at the sheets.

“You are mine,” he said, the words torn from his chest. “Only mine.”

“Yours,” you gasped, the word broken by the force of his thrusts. “Yours, yours —”

He came with a groan, his release pouring into you in hot pulses, his hips grinding against yours as he emptied himself into you. You followed a moment later, your body clenching around him, your cry muffled by the pillow, your whole self shuddering through the aftershocks.

He collapsed against you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his breath ragged against your shoulder. For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breathing, the crackle of the dying fire, the slow return of the world beyond the walls of your chamber.

He did not pull out. He stayed inside you, softening, his body covering yours, his lips pressed to the curve of your shoulder.

Your hand found his, your fingers threading through his, and you squeezed.

“Well,” you said, your voice hoarse, your lips curving against the pillow. “That was not gentle.”

He laughed, a rough, surprised sound that was almost a sob. “No.”

You turned your head, just enough to catch his eye. Your smile was soft, satisfied, and full of love

“I did not want gentle,” you said. “I wanted you.”

He pressed his forehead to your shoulder and let the words settle into the hollow places, filling them with something that felt like home.

You turned in his arms, the movement slow and deliberate, your body sliding against his as you rolled to face him. The firelight caught the marks on your throat, dark fingerprints blooming like petals on pale skin and he watched your eyes, looking for any flicker of regret.

There was none.

Only warmth, only wanting, only the slow curve of your lips as you pressed your palm to his chest and pushed.

He let you. He let you roll him onto his back, let you settle over his hips, your thighs straddling his, the damp heat of your skin pressing against his half-hard cock.

You were beautiful like this, hair wild, skin flushed, the marks of his hands on your throat like a claim he had not known he needed to make.

“My turn,” you said.Your voice was low, husky, the voice of someone who had been well loved and was not finished. You shifted back, sliding down his body, your lips trailing a path down his chest, over his stomach, your tongue tracing the line of muscle that led to his navel.

He watched you go.

The sight of you, your hair spilling across his thighs, your eyes dark and fixed on his cock made his breath catch. He was already hard again, the blood rising at the sight of your mouth hovering over the tip.

You took him in your hand first. Your fingers wrapped around the base, and you held him there, examining him, your thumb tracing the vein that ran along the underside.

The touch was light, almost clinical, and he felt the ache of it in his balls, in the base of his spine, in the raw need that was already building again.

“I have wanted to do this,” you said, your voice a murmur against his skin, “since the first night you held me.”

Your tongue touched the tip.

A single, deliberate stroke, flat and warm, that tasted the bead of moisture already gathering there. His hips jerked, a reflex he could not control, and you smiled, he felt the curve of your lips against him, before you opened your mouth and took him in.

The heat of your mouth was a shock every time. He had felt it before, of course, you had taken him in your mouth on your wedding night, shy and unsure, and he had let you set the pace, had held himself still while you learned the shape of him.

But this was different.

This was hunger.

This was the woman who had asked him to hurt her, who had met his beast and called it by name, now taking him deep with a confidence that made his vision blur at the edges.

Your head moved, slow and deliberate. Your tongue traced the vein, the ridge, the sensitive spot beneath the head that made his breath stutter. Your hand stayed wrapped around the base, stroking in time with your mouth, and the wet sounds you made, the small, greedy sounds of a woman who was enjoying herself, filled the chamber.

His hand found your hair, “Gods,” he did not pull. He simply rested it there, his fingers threading through the honey-brown strands, grounding himself in the reality of what was happening.

You looked up at him. Your mouth was stretched around his cock, your lips slick with spit, your eyes meeting his with a question.

He nodded. Just once.

A permission he did not need to speak.

You took him deeper.

The head of his cock hit the back of your throat, and you did not flinch and that made him throw his head back, “Oh, fuck!”

You held there, your throat working around him, your eyes still on his, and the sight of you, the perfect surrender of your body accepting him, drove a groan from his chest that was almost a sob.You pulled back, gasping, a string of spit connecting your lips to his cock.

Then you went down again. Faster this time. Harder.

Your hand moved in rhythm with your mouth, and the sounds, the wet, obscene sounds of you sucking him, of your throat taking him, of your moaning around his cock, were the most beautiful music he had ever heard.

His hand tightened in your hair. Not to force you, you did not need forcing, but to hold you there, to feel the weight of your commitment, the trust in the way you let him guide you.

He breathed your name, and it was a prayer.

“Gods, that's it, my sweet wife,” he murmured, voice thick with a mixture of longing and relief, as if your presence was the only calm in the storm raging within him.

The moment held a fragile tenderness amid the chaos, a shared sanctuary where unspoken words found their meaning in the smallest of touches.

You responded to Baelor’s urgency with a soft, involuntary moan, the sound blending with his as the intensity of the moment deepened.

When he reached his release, you swallowed it with a gentle, caring motion, a shared expression of trust and intimacy between you.

A moan of your own escaped softly, mingling with the heavy breaths that filled the room, a quiet affirmation of the bond that held you both steady amid the chaos around you.

The space between you was charged, tender, and fierce all at once, a refuge where vulnerability and strength intertwined.

Baelor gathered you into his arms, the fierce tension of moments before softening into something tender and wholly vulnerable. His touch was careful, as if afraid to break the fragile connection you both shared.

He leaned in close, his lips brushing against yours with a delicate reverence. Then, slowly, he slipped his tongue into your mouth, swallowing your moans into a quiet, intimate exchange.

The kiss was gentle, lingering, an unspoken promise of healing and devotion amid the turmoil.In his embrace, time seemed to slow, and the chaotic world outside the chambers melted away, leaving only the warmth of your shared breath and the steady beat of two hearts seeking solace in each other.

“I quite liked that side of you,” you murmured, voice low and playful, “hmm, you know what they say. Why ride a horse when you can fuck a dragon.”

For a moment, Baelor simply held your gaze, the fire in his mismatched eyes flickering with both amusement and something rawer, pride, desire, and an unspoken connection that needed no further words.

He tightened his embrace gently, a quiet affirmation that the dragon within him, fierce and untamed, was yours alone.

“I love you.”

“I know.”

Baelor's eyes linger on the bruises on your throat and he strokes your skin, “I am sorry.”

“Don’t be, you get to rub it in that slimy viper’s face when he realises you do indeed fuck like you fight.”

“Hmm.”

“Gods, Baelor! Again?!”

“I cannot help that you have awakened the dragon.”