the curves of your lips rewrite history

When the septon bound your hands together with a ribbon and declared you one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, Ormund had smiled. It was a slow smile, a satisfied smile, the smile of a man who had gotten exactly what he wanted.

You should have noticed that. You should have understood what it meant.

The feast afterward had been a blur. The great hall had been transformed into a sea of candles and flowers and glittering silver, and the noise of a hundred conversations had washed over you like a wave. You had been seated beside your new husband on the dais, your hand in his, and course after course had been presented to you. You had barely eaten. Your stomach was too tight, too fluttery, too full of nerves.

But you had drunk. Oh, you had drunk.

The wine was sweet and it went down like honey, and every time your cup was empty, a servant was there to refill it. You had not meant to drink so much—you had never been much of a drinker, had never developed a taste for it—but the wine warmed your belly and softened the edges of your anxiety and made everything feel slightly distant, slightly dreamlike, like you were watching yourself from very far away.

Ormund had encouraged it. His hand had rested on your knee beneath the table, heavy and warm, his thumb tracing slow circles through the silk of your gown. Every time you glanced at him, he was already looking at you, and his eyes were so dark, so hungry, that you felt yourself blushing and had to look away.

"Drink," he had murmured in your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "It will help with the nerves."

And so you had drunk.

Now the feast was over. The guests had retired to their chambers or continued their revelry elsewhere. Your ladies had undressed you an hour ago their hands efficient and fast as they unlaced your wedding gown, unhooked your corset, removed your stockings and your slippers and your jewels. They had chattered as they worked, offering congratulations and advice and sly, knowing comments that made your cheeks burn.

They had dressed you in the shift. The bridal shift. It was beautiful, you could not deny that, pale ivory silk so fine it was almost transparent, the fabric clinging to every curve and hollow of your body like a second skin. The straps were thin as spider silk, the neckline dipping low enough to show the swell of your breasts. The hem barely reached your thighs. When you moved, the silk slid against your skin in a way that made you acutely aware of your own nakedness beneath it.

It was meant to entice. It was meant to be removed.

Your ladies had left you then, retreating with final words of encouragement and knowing smiles, and the door had clicked shut behind them with a sound that felt terribly final. You were alone. Alone in your husband's chambers, in your chambers now, yours and his together.

You had been standing by the window for what felt like a very long time. The wine cup was still in your hand—you had refused to give it up, had clung to it like a talisman—and you raised it to your lips again, letting the sweet liquid coat your tongue. The windows looked out over the city, over the Honeywine River glittering silver in the moonlight, over the distant shadow of the Citadel and the dark expanse of the Whispering Sound beyond. Somewhere out there, beyond the city walls, Aegarax was sleeping in a field. You wished, suddenly and fiercely, that you were with him. That you could climb onto his back and fly away, fly home to Dragonstone, fly anywhere but here.

But that was foolish. That was childish. You were a wife now. You had a duty to perform.

You heard the door open behind you. The soft click of the latch, the whisper of the hinges. Footsteps on the stone floor, heavy and deliberate. The door closed again.

"Are you well, my love?"

His voice was low and warm. The voice that had spoken so many sweet words to you during your courtship. The voice that had told you that you were beautiful, that you were precious, that you were the most desirable woman he had ever seen.

You did not turn around. You could not turn around. Your heart was beating too fast, your palms suddenly damp against the wine cup.

"Yes." Your voice came out smaller than you intended, almost childlike. "I am just... I am a bit nervous."

"There is nothing to be nervous about." His footsteps drew closer, slow and measured. You could feel him approaching, feel the heat of his body, the weight of his presence filling the room behind you. "It is only me. Only your husband."

"I know." You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. The wine had made everything soft and hazy, but it had not quieted the anxious flutter in your chest. "It is just that I have never... I mean, I do not really know what to..."

What to do. What to expect. What to say. What to feel. You did not know anything. Your mother had told you that it was your duty, that you must submit to your husband and let him guide you, that there might be some discomfort at first but that it would pass. She had spoken in euphemisms and poetic metaphors, her hands clasped around yours, her violet eyes searching your face as if looking for something she did not find.

"Shh." He was right behind you now. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell him, leather and wine and something musky underneath, something that made your stomach tighten with an emotion you could not name. "There is nothing to be afraid of, my sweet girl. I am going to take care of you. I am going to make you feel things you have never felt before. Do you trust me?"

"Yes." The word came out automatically, the way it had a hundred times during your courtship. "Yes, I trust you."

"Good girl. Turn around."

You took one last sip of wine for courage. The cup was almost empty now, and you wished it were full again. You wished you had drunk more. You wished you had drunk enough to make the world disappear entirely, and then, because you could delay no longer, you turned around.

The wine cup slipped from your fingers.

He was completely, utterly naked.

He stood not three feet away from you, and he was so much. So much bigger than you, so much more solid. His shoulders were broad and heavily muscled, his chest covered in a thick mat of dark hair that trailed down his stomach in a narrowing line. His arms were thick with muscle, his hands large and strong. And lower—

Your eyes dropped before you could stop them, a horrified fascination drawing your gaze downward. The hair continued, thickening again at his groin, and jutting from it, unmistakable and impossible to ignore, was his—

You jerked your eyes back up to his face, your cheeks flooding with heat, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat. Your hands were shaking. Your whole body was shaking. You had never seen a man's naked body before. You had never seen that before, that thing, that part of him, and it was so much larger than you had imagined, so much more intimidating. It stood erect, curving upward toward his stomach, and you could not comprehend how it was supposed to fit inside you. It looked impossible. It looked like it would split you in half.

He was smiling. It was a slow smile, a knowing smile, the smile of a man who had seen your shock and found it deeply satisfying. He stood there in his nakedness with the absolute confidence of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and had no doubt that he would get it.

"You are shy," he said. It was not a question.

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. You could not stop staring at his face now, clinging to eye contact like a lifeline, terrified that if your gaze dropped again you would see it again, that thing, that impossible thing.

"I—I have never—" The words came out in a stammer, broken and breathless. "I did not realize you were—that you had already—when did you—"

Your eyes flickered involuntarily to the pile of clothing on the floor behind him. His tunic, his breeches, his smallclothes, all discarded in a heap near the door. He must have undressed while you were standing at the window. He must have stripped himself bare while your back was turned, and you had not heard a thing. You had not heard anything except your own panicked heartbeat.

"I did not want to waste any more time." He stepped closer, and you instinctively stepped back. Your bare shoulders pressed against the cold stone of the window frame, and you realized with a jolt of panic that there was nowhere else to go. You were trapped between him and the wall. "I have been waiting for this night for a very long time. A year. More than a year. Every moment I spent with you during our courtship, I was thinking about this. About having you. About what it would feel like to finally be inside you."

The word inside made your stomach clench. You pressed yourself harder against the window, the stone cold through the thin silk of your shift. "Ormund, I—"

"Do you know how many nights I lay awake thinking about you?" He took another step, and now he was close enough to touch. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough that if you reached out, your hand would press against his bare chest. "Do you know how many times I imagined this? Imagined you? Imagined all the things I was going to do to you once you were finally mine?"

Your breath caught in your throat. His words were meant to be romantic—they were the words of a man who desired his wife, who had been patient, who had waited—but there was something in his voice that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

"I thought about you too," you whispered, because it seemed like the right thing to say. "I thought about... about tonight. About being your wife."

"Did you?" His hand came up, and you flinched before you could stop yourself. He noticed but he did not comment on it. Instead, he reached past you and took the wine cup from the windowsill where it had come to rest. He set it aside, his movements slow and deliberate. "And what did you imagine?"

You shook your head, your cheeks burning. "I do not know. I do not... my mother told me some things, but I do not really understand. I do not know what to expect."

"Your mother." He said the word with an edge that you did not quite understand. "And what did your mother tell you?"

"She said..." You swallowed hard, trying to remember the exact words. "She said that it was my duty. That I must submit to my husband. That there might be some discomfort at first, but that it would pass. She said that it was how children were made. That it was the marriage debt."

"The marriage debt." He smiled again, and this time there was something almost predatory in it. "Is that what you think this is? A debt to be paid?"

"No, I—I do not know. I do not know what to think."

"Then let me tell you." He reached out and touched your face, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. His hand was warm, almost hot, and you felt yourself trembling beneath his touch. "This is not a debt. This is a gift. The gift of your body to me, and my body to you. The gift of pleasure. The gift of children. The gift of becoming one flesh, the way the septon said. Do you understand?"

You nodded, even though you did not understand. You did not understand anything except that his hand was on your face and his body was so close and you were trapped against the cold stone window and you could not stop shaking.

"You are trembling," he said. His thumb stroked your cheek, gentle and slow. "Are you afraid of me?"

"No." The word came out too quickly. "No, I am not afraid. I am just... I am nervous. I told you. I have never done this before."

"I know you have not." His voice dropped lower, becoming almost a purr. "That is what makes this so precious. You are untouched. Pure. No man has ever seen you like this, has ever touched you, has ever been inside you. I am the first. I will be the only. Your body will know no one but me, for the rest of your life."

The words should have been romantic, but they did not feel like it.

"Lift your arms," he said.

You hesitated. Your arms felt heavy, weighted down by something you could not name. But he was waiting, his eyes fixed on your face, and you did not want to disappoint him. You did not want to be a bad wife on your very first night.

You lifted your arms. He grasped the hem of your shift and pulled it upward. The silk slid over your skin, cool and whispering, and then it was over your head and gone, discarded somewhere on the floor. You were naked. Completely, utterly naked, standing in front of your husband with nothing to hide behind.

The air in the room was warm from the fire, but you felt suddenly, terribly cold. You wrapped your arms around yourself instinctively, trying to cover your breasts, trying to hide, but he caught your wrists and gently pulled them away.

"No," he said. "Do not hide from me. You are my wife now. I want to see you."

He stepped back, just slightly, just enough to look at you. His eyes traveled over your body with an intensity that made your skin prickle. You had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, so utterly seen. He looked at your breasts, at the curve of your waist, at the curls at the juncture of your thighs. He looked at you the way a collector looks at a new acquisition. The way a hungry man looks at a feast.

"Beautiful," he murmured. His voice was thick now, roughened by something that made your stomach clench. "More beautiful than I ever imagined. And I imagined you a great deal."

His hand reached out and touched you. Just the tips of his fingers, tracing the line of your collarbone, down your sternum, between your breasts. Your skin broke out in goosebumps, and you shivered, and you did not know if it was from cold or fear or something else entirely.

"Please," you whispered, and you did not know what you were asking for. Please stop? Please continue? Please be gentle?

"Please what?" His fingers continued their slow exploration, circling one breast, brushing over the nipple. You gasped at the sensation, it was strange and sharp and not entirely unpleasant, a tingling that seemed to travel from your breast down to somewhere much lower. "Please what, my sweet girl?"

"I do not know," you admitted, your voice barely audible. "I do not know what to ask for. I do not know what I want."

"Then let me show you." He cupped your breast fully now, his palm warm and rough against your sensitive skin. "Let me teach you. That is my role now, as your husband. To teach you what your body is capable of. To show you pleasures you have never dreamed of."

He leaned down and captured your mouth in a kiss. You had been kissed before. Chaste kisses, the kind of kisses a betrothed couple exchanged in chaperoned parlors. This was not that. His mouth was hot and demanding, his lips pressing against yours with a force that made your head spin. His tongue pushed past your lips, filling your mouth, and you made a small, startled sound against him. You did not know what to do with your tongue—no one had ever told you—so you just let him take what he wanted.

One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back, holding you in place. The other continued its exploration of your body, sliding down your stomach, over your hip, around to grasp your arse. He pulled you against him, and you felt it, that part of him, that impossible part, pressing hard and hot against your bare stomach. You whimpered into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound.

"You taste like wine," he murmured against your lips. "Sweet. So sweet."

He kissed you again, deeper this time, and his hand slid from your backside to your thigh, gripping it, lifting it. He pressed himself against you, and you felt him there, right there, so close to where you had never been touched.

"Ormund," you gasped, breaking the kiss. "Wait. Wait, please. I am not—I do not—"

"Shh." He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath coming in harsh pants. "I know. I know you are nervous. But I have waited so long. So very long. And you are so beautiful. Can you feel what you do to me? Can you feel how much I want you?"

You could feel it. Gods, you could feel it. It was pressed against you, insistent and impossible, and you did not understand how this was supposed to work. You did not understand how any of this was supposed to work.

"Come," he said, and it was not a request. "Come to the bed."

He did not wait for an answer. He bent and scooped you into his arms as if you weighed nothing at all, one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back. You clutched at his shoulders instinctively, your face pressed against his neck, your heart hammering so hard you were certain he must be able to feel it. His skin was hot and smelled of sweat.

The bed was soft beneath you when he laid you down. The sheets were cool against your heated skin, and you sank into the feather mattress, feeling very small and very exposed. He stood over you for a moment, looking down at you with those hungry eyes, and then he was on the bed with you, his body covering yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress.

He was so heavy. So much heavier than you had expected. You had never had a grown man lying on top of you before, and the sensation was overwhelming—the weight of him, the heat of him, the sheer size of him surrounding you on all sides. You felt trapped. Pinned. You could barely move.

"Relax," he murmured against your throat. His lips were trailing down your neck now, kissing and sucking, and you felt a strange, tingling warmth spreading from each place his mouth touched. "Relax, my love. I am going to make you feel so good. You just have to trust me."

You tried to relax. You tried to let go of the tension coiled in your muscles, tried to surrender to the sensations washing over you. His mouth found your breast, and you gasped as his tongue circled your nipple, as his teeth grazed the sensitive peak. The sensation was sharp and strange and not entirely unpleasant, it sent sparks of something through your body, sparks that seemed to travel downward, settling low in your belly.

"Ormund," you breathed, and you did not know if it was a protest or an encouragement.

"Good," he murmured against your skin. "Good girl. You feel that? That is pleasure. That is what your body is made for."

His hand slid down your stomach, over your hip, between your thighs. You tensed immediately, your legs trying to close, but he was already there, his body blocking you, his hand pressing insistently against your most private place.

"No," you whispered, your face burning with shame. "Please, not there—"

"Yes." His voice was firm. "Yes, there. You are my wife. Every part of you belongs to me now. Even this part. Especially this part."

His fingers began to move, stroking and exploring, and you turned your face into the pillow, unable to look at him. No one had ever touched you there before. You had barely even touched yourself there—it had always seemed forbidden, shameful, something good girls did not do. But his touch was insistent, and despite your embarrassment, despite your shame, your body was beginning to respond.

The heat was building. That strange, unfamiliar heat, coiling low in your belly like a spring being wound too tight. Your hips moved without your permission, pressing into his touch, seeking something you did not understand. He made a low sound of approval.

"That is it," he said. "That is my good girl. Your body knows what it wants, even if you do not."

His fingers found a particular spot, a place that made you gasp and arch off the bed, and he laughed softly. "There. That is what I was looking for. Does that feel good?"

You could not answer. Words had deserted you. There was only sensation, his fingers, his mouth, his weight pressing you into the mattress. The pleasure was building and building, and you did not know what was happening, did not know what to expect, only that it felt like you were climbing toward something vast and terrifying and unknown.

"Let go," he said, his voice low and hypnotic. "Let go, my sweet girl. Let me see you fall apart."

And you did. The pleasure crested, and your body arched off the bed, and a sound tore from your throat that you had never made before, a cry, almost a sob, your fingers clutching at the sheets, at his shoulders, at anything you could reach. The world went white and hot and overwhelming, and for a long, suspended moment, you forgot where you were. You forgot your name. You forgot everything except the feeling of his hands on your body and the pleasure crashing through you in waves.

When you came back to yourself, he was looking down at you with a smile of pure, male satisfaction. His fingers were still between your legs, gentle now, stroking you through the aftershocks.

"Good," he said. "Good. Now you are ready."

He shifted his weight, settling more firmly between your thighs, and you felt him pressing against the place his fingers had just been. Your eyes widened, and the haze of pleasure began to clear, replaced by a cold trickle of fear.

"Ormund, wait—"

"This will hurt," he said, and his voice was strained now, tight with something that sounded almost like pain. "But only for a moment. Try to relax. It will be easier if you relax."

You tried. You tried to relax, tried to do what he said, tried to be good. But when he pushed inside you, the pain was not just a moment. It was sharp and tearing and all consuming, and you cried out—a real cry this time, high and startled, your hands flying to his shoulders to push him away.

He did not stop. "Shh," he said, but his hips were already moving, pushing deeper , forcing his thick cock deeper into a body that was not ready for him . "Shh. It will pass. Just breathe. Just breathe."

You breathed. You wrapped your arms around his neck and held on and tried to breathe through the pain. Tears leaked from the corners of your eyes and slid down your temples into your hair. You felt yourself stretching around him, felt a burning ache that radiated through your entire lower body, and you did not know if this was normal. You did not know if it was supposed to hurt this much. Your mother had said there might be some discomfort. She had not said it would feel like being torn apart.

"Fuck, there," he groaned against your shoulder, voice thick with lust. "Gods, your cunt is so fucking tight. So perfect."

He began to move. Slow at first, then faster. The bed frame creaked beneath you, a rhythmic counterpoint to the sounds he was making, low, guttural grunts that vibrated against your neck. Wet, obscene sounds filled the room as his cock plunged in and out of your clenching hole, each thrust punching deeper than the last.

You lay pinned beneath him, body jolting with the force of his fucking, your body rocking with each thrust, and tried to find the pleasure he had shown you before. It was there, somewhere, buried beneath the pain and the discomfort and the overwhelming strangeness of it all, but you could not reach it.

"Taking my cock so well," he rasped, sweat-slicked skin sliding over yours. "You were made to be fucked like this. Made to take every inch. Made for me. Say my name."

"Ormund," you whispered, and it came out as a sob.

"Yes. Yes. Again."

"Ormund—"

He slammed in to the hilt and came with a guttural roar, cock pulsing thick ropes of cum deep inside your stretched pussy. Hot seed flooded your insides, overflowing around his shaft and leaking down your crack as his fingers bruised your hips. You felt every heavy spurt, the wet heat filling you until it had nowhere else to go but out, you realized with a distant sort of shock that you did not even know what it was. Your mother had not told you. No one had told you anything.

He collapsed on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress, and you lay there pinned beneath him, staring at the canopy above the bed, feeling the tears drying on your cheeks and the soreness already beginning to bloom between your legs.

"That," he said, his voice muffled against your neck, "was worth every moment of waiting. Every single moment."

You did not answer. You did not know what to say. You stroked his hair because it seemed like something a wife should do, and you waited for him to move, to roll off you, to let you breathe.

But he did not move. Not for a long time.

When he finally stirred, you felt a rush of relief. It was over. You had done your duty. You could rest now, but he lifted his head and looked down at you, and his eyes were still dark. Still hungry. Still unsatisfied.

"Again," he said.

You stared at him, uncomprehending. "What?"

"Again." He pulled his cock free, leaving your raw, cum slicked cunt gaping and dripping. The sudden emptiness made you wince. Thick white seed leaked from your stretched hole and slid down your thighs "We are not finished. This is our wedding night, my love. Did you think once would be enough? I have waited a year for this. I am going to have you in every way I have imagined. And I have imagined a great many ways."

"But I am—I am sore—"

"This is your duty." His voice hardened, and the tenderness from a moment ago evaporated like mist in the morning sun. "You are my wife. Your body belongs to me now. And I will have it when and how I choose. That is what you agreed to when you said your vows. That is what it means to be married."

You opened your mouth to argue, but no words came out. Because he was right, wasn't he? This was what you had agreed to. This was what marriage was. Your mother had told you that your body would no longer be your own. She had told you that you must submit to your husband in all things. This was just... this was just what wives did.

Wasn't it?

"On your hands and knees," he said. "Like a bitch. I want to take you from behind."

The word bitch made you flinch, but you obeyed. You did not know how to disobey. You rolled onto your stomach, wincing at the soreness between your legs, and pushed yourself onto all fours, ass raised, thighs parted, your dripping pussy fully exposed. The position felt filthy and degrading. The position felt obscene, degrading, your body exposed and vulnerable in a way that made your face burn with shame.

"Good girl." His hand stroked down your spine, and you shivered. "You learn quickly. That will serve you well in this marriage."

He positioned himself behind you, and you felt him pressing against you again—still hard, still impossibly large. How was he still hard? You did not understand. You did not understand anything about male bodies or male desires or what was normal and what was not.

"Look at that pretty cunt already leaking my cum."

This time, there was no gentleness at all. He entered you in one rough thrust, and you cried out, your arms nearly buckling beneath you. He gripped your hips hard and started pounding you—fast, merciless strokes that made your ass ripple and your tits swing beneath you. There was no pretense of making you feel good this time, no gentle words, no coaxing. This was for him. Only for him. You cried out as his cock speared your sore walls again, forcing more of his previous load out around his shaft.

"This is what you were made for. To be bent over and used. To milk my cock until I fill you again, your cunt is clenching. You like being fucked like this. You like being my breeding bitch on our wedding night."

Each savage thrust punched deep, the wet slap of his balls against your clit sending sparks through the ache. His hand reached under you, fingers finding your swollen clit. He rubbed it in tight circles while he fucked you harder, the mix of rough pounding and steady stimulation making your thighs shake.

He grunted, his hips slamming against your backside. " This is your purpose. To take my cock. To give me pleasure. To give me children. Nothing else matters."

You buried your face in the pillow, trying to muffle the sounds you were making. Your body was still responding despite everything, your hips pressing back to meet his thrusts without your permission, your body betraying you in the most intimate way possible.

"You feel that? Your body is hungry for me. Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind does not."

The pleasure built fast and sharp. Your body betrayed you again, hips rocking back to meet every thrust. The dual sensations, his cock battering your cervix and his fingers working your clit, pushed you over the edge. You came with a broken moan, walls pulsing and fluttering around him as fresh wetness gushed down his shaft.

Your body obeyed. Your body had always been a traitor. The pleasure built and crested and crashed over you, and you collapsed onto the mattress, your arms no longer able to hold you up. He followed moments later with hot cum pumped deep, mixing with the first round until it overflowed and ran down your legs in thick rivulets. He stayed buried inside you, grinding slow as the last spurts emptied into your twitching cunt.

When he pulled out, and you lay there face, down on the bed, trembling, trying to catch your breath. You thought it was over. You thought surely, surely it must be over now.

But it was not over.

He let you rest for perhaps ten minutes. Maybe less. You could not track time anymore, it had become meaningless, measured only in the spaces between his desires. He lay beside you, his hand stroking your back, your hair, your thigh, and he spoke to you in a low, soothing voice. He told you that you were beautiful. He told you that you were doing so well. He told you that he loved you, that he had always loved you, that he would love you until the end of time.

And then his hands were on you again, and he was pulling you on top of him. "I want to see you ride me," he said, positioning you so that you were straddling his hips. "I want to watch your face while you take your pleasure from me, I want to watch that tight little cunt swallows my cock." he ordered, voice thick with lust.

You looked down at him, at his expectant face, at his hands gripping your thighs, and you felt a wave of exhaustion so profound it made your bones ache. "I do not know how," you whispered. "I do not know what to do."

"I will show you." His hands guided your hips, lifting you, positioning you over him. "Lower yourself. Slowly. Yes, like that. Gods, yes."

He lined his thick cock with your entrance and pushed your hips down. The fat head breached you again, stretching your swollen walls wide. A wet squelch filled the room as you sank onto him, his previous loads already leaking out around the intrusion. The new angle forced him deeper than before, the blunt tip grinding straight against your cervix and you gasped at the sensation. He began to move beneath you, thrusting up into you, and his hands guided your hips into a rhythm that matched his own.

"Good," he said, his eyes fixed on your face. "Good. You are learning.''

Each time you dropped down, his cock punched up to meet you, the wet slap of your soaked pussy against his pelvis loud and obscene. Your breasts bounced with every impact, nipples stiff and aching.

"Look at me," he growled. "Eyes on mine while you fuck yourself on my cock."

You met his gaze, cheeks burning, as he drove up harder. His hands slid to your ass, fingers digging in, spreading you wider so he could watch his shaft disappear inside you. "Say it," he demanded. "Tell me who this cunt belongs to." face was flushed, his eyes dark and intense, and there was something in his expression that made your stomach twist.

"Y-you," you gasped, the word breaking as another thrust knocked the air from your lungs.

"Louder."

"You! My cunt is yours!"

He snarled in approval and slammed upward, the brutal pace making your thighs shake. One hand left your ass to find your swollen clit, rubbing it in fast, rough circles while he fucked you from below. Your orgasm hit hard. Your pussy spasmed around him, pulsing and milking his shaft as fresh slick gushed out, mixing with the cum already inside you. You collapsed forward onto his chest, body jerking, but he kept thrusting up into your twitching hole, chasing his own release.

With a guttural groan he buried himself to the hilt and pumped another thick load deep into your womb. Hot spurts flooded you, forcing even more of the previous loads to squirt out around his shaft and run down his balls in sticky rivulets. He stayed buried inside you, grinding slow as the last pulses emptied, keeping you impaled and full.

You thought it was over. You thought surely, surely it must be over now.

But it was not over.

He took you twice more that night. The fourth time was on your side, your leg hooked over his hip, his mouth on your throat, his hands gripping your body with a possessiveness that left bruises. The fifth time, he woke you from a deep sleep—you had finally drifted off, your body giving out from sheer exhaustion—and took you from behind again, roughly, quickly, with no gentleness at all.

By the end of it, the sky outside the window was beginning to lighten. The bells rang for dawn, and you heard them as if from very far away, as if you were underwater and the sounds of the world above were muffled and distorted.

You were lying on your back, staring at the canopy. Your body was a landscape of unfamiliar sensations—soreness and exhaustion and a strange, hollow ache that had nothing to do with the physical. Between your legs was wet and sticky and sore, and you could feel his seed leaking out of you, soaking into the sheets. There was blood too, you thought, though you had not looked. You did not want to look.

He was asleep beside you. Finally, mercifully, asleep. His arm was thrown across your waist, heavy and possessive even in unconsciousness, and his breath came in slow, even rhythms. You stared at the canopy. You stared at the ceiling. You stared at the fire burning low in the hearth, and you tried to make sense of what had happened.

This was marriage. This was what wives did. This was your duty.

Was this normal? You had no one you could ask. The only married woman you knew well was your mother, and your mother had spoken of the marriage bed in such vague, poetic terms that you had no way of comparing her experience to yours.

Perhaps it was always like this. Perhaps the first night was always overwhelming, always painful, always disorienting. Perhaps you would get used to it in time. Perhaps you would learn to find pleasure in it—he had shown you that pleasure was possible, had coaxed it from your body even when you did not want to give it. Perhaps that was the key. Perhaps you just needed to learn.

You turned your head on the pillow and looked at him. Your husband. Lord Ormund Hightower, the man who had courted you so tenderly, who had written you such beautiful letters, who had made you feel like the most cherished woman in the world. In sleep, his face was relaxed, almost boyish, the lines of age and command softened by the grey morning light. He looked like a different man than the one who had taken you five times over the course of the night. He looked like the man you had fallen in love with.

His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer even in sleep. You felt his breath against your hair, warm and steady. You felt the heat of his body, the solid weight of him, the overwhelming reality of his presence.

Mine, you thought. He is mine now. And I am his.

The thought should have brought you comfort. It should have made you feel safe, protected, cherished. Instead, it made you feel something you could not name. Something that sat heavy in your chest like a stone.

You closed your eyes and tried to sleep. Your body was exhausted, wrung out, desperate for rest. But your mind would not quiet. It kept circling back to the same questions, the same confusions, the same half-formed doubts that you did not know how to examine.

Was it supposed to be like this?

Was this what love was?

You had no answers. You had only the grey morning light and the distant sound of bells and the weight of your husband's arm across your waist.

And the knowledge, slowly dawning in the back of your mind, that your life would never be the same again.

—

You woke to the feeling of lips on your neck. Soft and persistent. A mouth pressed to the curve where your shoulder met your throat, trailing slow, open mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin. You stirred from the depths of exhausted sleep, your mind foggy, your body heavy with a weariness that seemed to have seeped into your very bones.

For a moment, you did not remember where you were. The bed was too large, too soft, the pillows too many. The light filtering through the heavy curtains was grey and pale, early morning, the hour when the world was still half-asleep. The air smelled of sweat and sex and burned down candles, and beneath it all, the faint, musky scent of a man.

Ormund.

Your husband. He was behind you, his chest pressed to your back, his arm wrapped around your waist. His body was warm—almost too warm—and you could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your spine. His lips continued their exploration, moving from your neck to the curve of your ear, nibbling gently at the lobe. His breath was hot against your skin, and you felt the soft scrape of his teeth, barely there, a ghost of a bite that made you shiver.

"Good morning," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and something else. Something darker. "I was beginning to think you would sleep through the entire day."

His hand moved from your waist, sliding up your stomach to cup your breast. His palm was warm, slightly calloused, and he cupped you with a tenderness that seemed at odds with the roughness of the night before. His thumb found your nipple and brushed across it in a slow, deliberate circle. The sensation was electric, a jolt that went straight to your core, and you gasped—a small, involuntary sound that seemed to please him.

"You are so sensitive this morning," he said. "I like that. I like knowing that I am the first thing you feel when you wake."

His thumb continued its lazy circles, and you felt yourself responding despite everything. Your nipple hardened beneath his touch, pebbling against his palm. Your hips pressed back against him, between your thighs a pulse of heat bloomed, shameful and undeniable.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer, and you felt the evidence of his own arousal pressing against the curve of your backside. He was hard again, thick and insistent, and the knowledge sent a fresh wave of heat through you.

"That is it," he whispered against your ear, his voice low and rough. "Your body remembers last night. It remembers what I taught you. It wants more, does it not?"

You shook your head weakly, even as your body betrayed you. "I am tired," you managed. "I did not sleep."

"Neither did I." His hand slid lower, over your stomach, his fingers splaying across your belly before moving down to the thatch of hair between your legs. "I lay awake for hours, watching you. You looked so peaceful. So beautiful. I wanted to wake you, but I did not. I let you rest."

His fingers found your center, parting your folds with practiced ease. You were wet—embarrassingly, shamefully wet—and he groaned softly when he felt it.

"Oh, sweet girl," he breathed. "You are so ready for me. Even after everything. Even after I kept you up all night. Your body knows what it wants."

His fingers moved in slow, gentle circles, tracing the outline of your most sensitive places. The sensation was overwhelming—too much and not enough all at once. Your hips bucked against his hand, and you heard yourself whimper, a small, desperate sound that seemed to come from somewhere outside yourself.

"Ormund," you whispered. "Please. I am so tired."

"I know." He kissed your shoulder, your neck, the hinge of your jaw. "I know you are tired, sweet girl. I am not going to do anything you do not want. I only want to touch you. I only want to feel you. Is that all right?"

You should have said no. You should have told him to stop, to give you space, to let you breathe. But his fingers were moving in slow, gentle circles, and your body was betraying you, softening beneath his touch, your hips tilting to give him better access.

"That is not a no," he said. His voice was soft, almost playful. "That is a I do not know how to say yes because I am too shy. Am I right?"

You buried your face in the pillow, your cheeks burning. He laughed and kissed the back of your head.

"It is all right to want this," he said. "You are my wife. You are allowed to want your husband. There is no shame in it."

He rolled you onto your back gently, positioning himself above you. The weight of him was familiar now, the heat of his body pressing you into the mattress. But he did not push inside you. He only looked at you, his blue eyes soft, his curls tousled, his face relaxed in a way you had not seen before.

His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. He studied your face as though memorizing it, as though you were something precious and rare. His gaze moved from your eyes to your lips to the hollow of your throat, and you felt seen in a way that made your breath catch.

"Before you say anything," he said quietly, "I need to apologize to you."

You blinked up at him, confused.

"Last night," he continued. "I know I was... I know I got carried away. I promised you I would be gentle, and I was, at first. But then..." He exhaled slowly, his thumb still stroking your cheek. "It has been a long time for me, sweet girl, years since my wife died, years since I have laid with anyone. I had forgotten how overwhelming it could be. How consuming. The feel of you beneath me, the sound of your voice, the way your body responded to mine—I lost myself in it. I was too rough with you at times. I know I was. And I am sorry for that."

He leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours, his breath warm on your lips. His eyes were closed, his expression vulnerable in a way that made your heart ache despite everything.

"I did not mean to hurt you," he said. "You must believe that. I would never hurt you on purpose. You are my wife. You are the woman I have dreamed of for years. The last thing in this world I want is to cause you pain."

He took your hand and pressed it to his chest, over his heart. You felt it beating beneath your palm, steady and strong. His skin was warm, the hair on his chest soft against your fingers. You could feel the rise and fall of his breathing, the way it quickened slightly as you touched him.

"Can you forgive me for last night? For being too rough when I should have been more careful?"

You swallowed. Your throat was tight, your eyes stinging with something that might have been tears. You had not expected this. You had expected him to be pleased with himself, to preen and boast and make you feel small for your weakness. Instead, he was asking for forgiveness. He was acknowledging his fault. He was promising to do better.

"Yes," you whispered. "I forgive you."

His face broke into a smile, relieved and almost boyish. He leaned down and kissed your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. Each kiss was soft, lingering, as though he was trying to pour all his gratitude into the gesture.

"Thank you," he said. "You are so generous. So kind. I do not deserve you."

He kissed you then gently, the way he had kissed you at the altar. His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache. His hand cradled your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and you felt yourself melting into him despite everything. His tongue traced your lower lip, asking permission, and you parted your lips for him, a small surrender that made him groan softly against your mouth.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark with desire, but he did not push further. He only looked at you, his thumb stroking your jaw.

"It will get better," he said. "I promise you. The first time is always the hardest. But as you grow accustomed to me, as your body learns to welcome me, it will become easier. It will become pleasurable. And one day, you will wake up and you will want me. You will ache for me. You will not be able to imagine a morning without my hands on you."

His hand slid down your body, tracing the curve of your waist, the flare of your hip. His touch was reverent, almost worshipful, as though he was learning the geography of you by heart. His fingers trailed over your stomach, and you shivered at the sensation.

"I love the way you feel," he murmured. "So soft. So warm. So perfectly made for me."

He kissed your collarbone, then lower, his lips brushing the swell of your breast. His mouth was warm, his breath hot on your skin, and you felt yourself arching into him despite your exhaustion.

"I am going to be so good to you," he said against your skin. "I am going to take care of you. I am going to give you everything you deserve. You will never want for anything, sweet girl. Not while I draw breath."

His hand found your breast again, cupping it gently, his thumb circling your nipple. He lowered his head and took it into his mouth, and you gasped at the sensation, his tongue warm and wet, his lips soft, his teeth grazing just enough to send a jolt of pleasure through you. Your fingers tangled in his auburn curls, holding him there, and he made a sound of approval against your skin.

He moved to your other breast, giving it the same attention, and you felt yourself spiraling, the pleasure building despite everything. The pain of last night was still there, a dull ache between your thighs, but it was overshadowed now by the heat of his mouth, the tenderness of his hands.

When he finally lifted his head, his lips were red, his eyes dark. He looked at you with an expression that made your heart stutter.

"Beautiful," he said. "So beautiful."

He kissed you again, deep and slow, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as though he could taste your pleasure. His hand slid between your legs, finding you wet and ready, and he groaned against your lips.

"I want to make you feel good," he whispered. "I want to make you forget everything but me. Can I do that, sweet girl? Can I touch you? Make you come apart for me?"

You should have said no. You should have told him you were tired, that you needed rest, that you could not bear any more. But his fingers were stroking you, circling that sensitive place that made your vision blur, and the word that came out of your mouth was not no.

"Yes," you breathed. "Please."

He smiled and lowered his head to kiss your neck as his fingers continued their work. He was gentle, so gentle, nothing like the rough urgency of the night before. He took his time, building the pleasure slowly, watching your face as you gasped and moaned beneath him.

"That is it," he murmured. "Let go for me, sweet girl. I want to see you fall apart."

And you did. The pleasure built and built until you could not hold it back, and then you were crying out, your body arching off the bed, your nails digging into his shoulders. He held you through it, his fingers still moving, drawing out every last shiver of pleasure.

When you finally came down, you were trembling, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth.

"So perfect," he whispered. "So beautiful. I could watch you come apart forever."

He rolled you onto your side, pulling you against his chest, his arm wrapped around your waist. His hard length pressed against your backside, but he did not push inside you. He only held you, his lips pressed to your hair.

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON

The morning after, he would not let you leave the room.

You woke to find him already dressed, standing by the window with his back to you, his silhouette sharp and rigid against the pale grey light. The bed beside you was cold, he had not held you last night, not after what happened. You had slept alone on your side of the mattress, still trembling, still aching, still smelling the smoke from your burning dress even though the fire had long since died.

You sat up slowly, the blanket clutched to your chest. Your shift was thin and worn, the same one you had been wearing yesterday when he tore the dress from your body. You had not bothered to change it. You had not had the energy.

"Ormund?" Your voice came out small. Hesitant.

You swallowed. Your throat was dry, your eyes still swollen from crying. "You—you did not—"

He did not turn around. "I have been standing here for an hour," he said quietly. "Thinking. Trying to understand how we got here. Trying to understand what I did wrong."

"I did." He turned then, and his face was not angry. That was almost worse. He looked tired. Sad. Disappointed. The face of a man who had been let down by someone he loved. "I have been too lenient with you. I see that now. I trusted you to know how to behave, and you proved that you cannot be trusted. That is my fault. Not yours."

You stared at him, something cold settling in your stomach. "What do you mean?"

He crossed the room slowly, his footsteps heavy on the stone floor. When he reached the bed, he did not sit beside you. He stood over you, looking down, his expression full of what looked like genuine sorrow.

"I mean that I have failed you as a husband," he said. "I should have been clearer. I should have set firmer boundaries. Instead, I let you run wild, and yesterday happened. You embarrassed yourself. You embarrassed me. You paraded through my city dressed like a common—" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "I will not say the word. I promised myself I would not say it again. But you know what I mean."

Your face burned. The memory of the guards staring, the squire dropping his sword, the servants whispering, it all came rushing back. At the time, you had felt beautiful. Now you just felt foolish and cheap.

"I did not mean to embarrass you," you whispered.

"I know you did not." His voice softened, and he finally sat down on the edge of the bed. He took your hand in his, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over your knuckles. "I know you did not mean to. That is what makes this so difficult. You are not malicious, my love. You are not cruel or calculating. You are just… young. Naive. You do not understand the way the world works."

"I understand—"

"No." He squeezed your hand, cutting you off gently. "No, you do not. If you understood, you would never have worn that dress. If you understood, you would know that men do not look at a woman dressed like that and think about her wit or her kindness or her gentle heart. They think about one thing, and one thing only. And the thought of anyone thinking about my wife that way—" His jaw tightened. "It makes me sick. It makes me want to kill someone."

You flinched, he noticed.

"I am not going to hurt you," he said quickly, his voice softening again. "I would never hurt you. You know that, don't you? Everything I do, I do to protect you. Even when it seems harsh. Even when it seems cruel. It is all for your own good."

You nodded slowly. You did not know what else to do.

"But I cannot protect you if you will not let me," he continued. "I cannot protect you if you insist on making choices that put you in danger. And so I have to take steps. Difficult steps. Steps that hurt me more than they hurt you, I promise."

Your heart began to beat faster. "What steps?"

He sighed heavily, as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. "I cannot let you leave our chambers today. Not until I have gone out and… repaired the damage."

"Repaired the damage?" Your voice rose, sharp with confusion and fear. "What damage? What are you talking about?"

"The damage you did yesterday." He said it patiently, like a tutor explaining a difficult concept to a slow student. "Half the city saw you in that dress. The guards, the servants, the merchants in the streets. They saw my wife—the Lady of Oldtown—dressed like a woman of ill repute. They are talking about it right now. Whispering about it. About you."

Your stomach dropped. "They are not—"

"They are." He looked at you with such pity, such genuine concern, that you felt your certainty crumble. "I know you do not want to believe it. I know you want to think the best of people. But I have lived in this city my whole life. I know how people talk. I know what they say about women who dress the way you dressed yesterday. And I cannot—I will not—let them say those things about my wife."

You felt tears prick at your eyes again. You had not thought about that. You had not considered what people might be saying. You had just been happy to feel like yourself again.

"I have to go out there," Ormund said, his voice heavy with duty. "I have to speak to the guards who saw you. I have to make sure they understand that what they saw was an aberration, a mistake, a lapse in judgment from a young bride who does not yet know our ways. I have to repair your reputation before it is too damaged to salvage. Do you understand how difficult that is for me?"

You nodded, your throat too tight to speak.

"It is humiliating," he continued. "To have to go out there and make excuses for my own wife. To have to look men in the eye and pretend that everything is fine, that my wife is a respectable woman, when half of them saw her dressed like a—" He stopped again, pressing his lips together. "But I will do it. Because I love you. Because you are my wife, and your honor is my honor, and I will not let anyone drag your name through the mud. Even if it means swallowing my pride. Even if it means humiliating myself to protect you."

A tear slipped down your cheek. You wiped it away quickly, but he saw.

"Do not cry," he said softly, reaching up to brush the tear from your cheek with his thumb. "I am not angry with you. I am disappointed, yes. I am hurt. But I am not angry. I know you did not mean to cause this mess. I know you were just being thoughtless, not malicious. But thoughtlessness has consequences, my love. And now I have to clean up those consequences."

"I am sorry," you whispered. The words felt inadequate, pathetic. "I am so sorry, Ormund. I did not think—I did not realize—"

"I know you did not." He cupped your face in both hands, tilting your chin up so that you had to look at him. "That is the problem, my love. You did not think. And until I can trust you to think before you act, until I can trust you to consider the consequences of your choices, I have to keep you safe. Do you understand?"

You nodded, even though some part of you was screaming that this was wrong. That you were a princess, a dragonrider, a woman grown. That you should not need permission to leave your own chambers.

But that part of you was quiet. Muffled. Drowned out by the shame burning in your chest and the guilt churning in your stomach.

"So I cannot leave?" you asked. Your voice was very small.

"Not today." He stroked your hair gently, tenderly, as if he were comforting a child. "Today, I need you to stay here. I need you to reflect on what happened. I need you to think about the choices you made and how they affected both of us. And while you are doing that, I will be out there, cleaning up this mess. I will be talking to the guards, reassuring the servants, making sure that everyone understands that my wife is a good woman who made a foolish mistake. I will be restoring your reputation. Protecting your honor. Doing the things that a husband must do when his wife cannot be trusted to protect herself."

The words hit you like blows. Cannot be trusted. Foolish mistake. Cleaning up this mess. You felt yourself shrinking under the weight of them, your shoulders curling inward, your eyes dropping to your lap.

"I will make this right," he promised, lifting your hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "I will fix everything. But I need you to do your part. I need you to stay here, and reflect, and think about how you can be better. Can you do that for me?"

You nodded. You did not trust yourself to speak.

"Good girl." He kissed your forehead. "I know this is hard. Believe me, it is harder for me than it is for you. Do you think I want to leave you here alone? Do you think I want to go out there and have those conversations? It is humiliating. It is exhausting. But I do it because I love you. Because your honor is more important to me than my own comfort."

He rose from the bed, adjusting his tunic, smoothing down his sleeves. He looked every inch the Lord of Oldtown—commanding, dignified, in control. And you—you were still in your thin shift, your hair a mess, your eyes red and swollen from crying. You had never felt so small.

"I will send up a tray for you," he said, pausing at the door. "And I will check on you when I return. We will talk more then, about how we move forward. About how we rebuild trust between us."

He paused, his hand on the door handle, and looked back at you with an expression of such deep, sorrowful love that your heart clenched.

"I do love you," he said quietly. "You know that, don't you? Everything I do, I do because I love you. I just need you to be the wife I know you can be. The wife you were always meant to be. And I am going to help you get there. No matter how long it takes. No matter how hard it is. I am not giving up on you."

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him, and you were alone. Alone in the cold stone room, with nothing but your guilt and your shame and the faint, lingering smell of smoke from the fireplace.

You sat there for a long time, staring at the door. Thinking. Reflecting, just as he had asked.

Your face burned with shame. You pulled the blanket up around your shoulders, trying to disappear into its grey folds. He was right. He was right about all of it. You had been thoughtless. Naive. You had not considered the consequences of your actions, and now he was out there, cleaning up your mess. Defending your honor. Protecting your reputation. And all you had to do was sit here and reflect.

It was humiliating. But it was what you deserved.

You had embarrassed him. You had embarrassed yourself. And he was still willing to forgive you. He was still willing to fight for you. He was still willing to love you, despite everything.

You did not deserve him. You really, truly did not.

The hours passed slowly. A servant brought a tray of bread and cheese and watered wine, and you ate mechanically, barely tasting it. You tried to read, but the words blurred on the page. You tried to pray, but the words felt hollow and meaningless. Mostly, you just sat by the window and watched the clouds move across the sky and thought about all the ways you had failed.

When Ormund finally returned, the sun was low in the sky, painting the room in shades of gold and amber. You heard his footsteps in the corridor and straightened immediately, smoothing your hair, wiping your face, trying to look like a wife he could be proud of.

The door opened, and he stepped inside. He looked tired—worn, even—and your heart clenched with guilt. You had done this to him. You had exhausted him with your thoughtlessness.

"How did it go?" you asked quietly.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It was difficult. Humiliating. But I think I managed to smooth things over. I spoke to the guards. I spoke to the steward. I made it clear that what happened yesterday was a mistake, a moment of poor judgment from a young bride who is still adjusting to our ways. I think they understood."

"Thank you," you whispered. The words felt pathetically inadequate. "Thank you for… for doing that."

"I did it for you." He crossed the room and sat down heavily in the chair by the hearth. "I did it because I love you. Because I cannot bear the thought of anyone speaking ill of you."

You rose from the window seat and crossed to him, kneeling at his feet. It felt right. It felt like penance. "I am so sorry, Ormund. I am so sorry for everything. I will be better. I promise. I will be the wife you need me to be."

He looked down at you, his expression softening. He reached out and stroked your hair, his touch gentle. "I know you will. I believe in you. I just need you to prove it to me. I need you to earn back my trust."

"How?" You looked up at him, desperate. "Tell me how. I will do anything."

He considered for a moment. "For now, I think it is best if you do not leave our chambers without me. Just for a little while. Just until I can be sure that you understand what is expected of you. That you understand how a Lady of Oldtown should dress, should behave, should carry herself."

You nodded quickly. "Yes. Yes, of course. Whatever you think is best."

"It is not what I think is best for me," he said, his voice gentle and sad. "It is what I think is best for you. I am doing this to protect you, my love. Not to punish you. Do you understand the difference?"

"I understand." And you did. You really did. He was not being cruel. He was being careful. He was protecting you from yourself, from your own naivety, from the judgment of a world you did not fully understand.

"Good girl." He cupped your face in his hands and leaned down to kiss your forehead. "Good girl. I knew you would understand eventually. I knew you would come around."

You closed your eyes and leaned into his touch. His hands were warm, his voice was gentle, and he loved you. He loved you so much he was willing to humiliate himself to protect you. How could you not be grateful? How could you not love him back?

"I love you," you whispered.

"I love you too," he said. "More than you know. And I am going to take care of you. I am going to teach you. I am going to help you become the woman you were always meant to be. You just have to trust me."

"I trust you," you said.

And you meant it.

You sighed, your body aching with a pleasant soreness. Your legs, which just minutes ago had been resting on your husband's shoulders, trembled slightly, but you held onto the edge of a small three-legged oak table. It was hard not to feel watched. Your husband's eyes, clear and piercing, clung to every curve. In the first year of marriage, you might have tried to cover yourself, to hide your breasts in your hands, but now it spurred you to that boldness that drove him mad. You straightened up, thrusting your chest out with dignity, perfectly aware of what reaction this playful gesture would provoke in Ormund. His lips stretched into a feline smirk, his eyes gleaming predatorily. His hand landed on the spot on the bed that you had previously occupied.

"Come back, little wife, you look tired."

His body, utterly relaxed and carefree, sprawled out on the silks of your bedding, one arm behind his head. The sheet covered only part of his body, reaching his sharp, prominent hip bones. You licked your lips, wetting them. Your eyes dropped, following the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the dark green sheet.

"You look smug, husband," you teased him, lowering your voice.

"How else should I look after you called upon the Seven in such a sinful, improper way?"

You giggled, lowering a piece of cloth into a basin of water. Droplets of essential lavender oil jumped, settling comfortably in the copper tub.

"Hold your tongue, my husband, it is not proper to speak so ill of your own wife."

You whispered with playful reproach. You untangled your hair, which had become knotted in the heat of your passionate encounter. You tossed the heavy wave over your shoulder.

"I speak nothing but the truth, you little minx."

The water splashed playfully as you wrung out the cloth, preparing to wipe your body of sticky sweat.

Ormund rose slightly, looking as if he were vigilantly watching your every move. Your palms, holding the damp cloth, touched your shoulders and slowly slid to your collarbones.

You saw him swallow hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with tension. His fingers clenched, crumpling the sheet.

Encouraged by this hungry response, your hands moved lower. A loud moan escaped your lips as you squeezed one of your breasts.

"Do you need help?" your husband asked with undisguised impatience, his voice gone hoarse, becoming like thick, bittersweet honey.

"I think I'm managing quite well on my own." Your teeth bit into your lower lip mercilessly teasingly, your body on display. It would take nothing for Ormund to spring up and grab you, dragging you back to bed. "Or do you need me?"

The clear outline of his aroused cock was visible through the silk, speaking volumes about his need. He needed very little, just you in the sunlight with no unnecessary clothing.

On your thighs were the marks of his demanding kisses. In bed, he allowed himself these liberties, sometimes playing and biting the delicate skin of your inner thighs.

You wanted more. You were testing his patience.

"You still haven't answered the question."

Your fingers traced your ribs, moving down toward your lower stomach. Ormund almost jerked, his jaw clenched. You could only imagine how painfully his needy cock ached, leaking precum.

"I think it's quite obvious, dear."

He wouldn't be Ormund Hightower if he didn't retort, his tone low and radiating dangerously exciting energy. His pupils were feverishly dilated, the irises flooded with darkness, his eyes resembling the sky before a storm.

"I can't see anything, my love," you whispered with feigned innocence.

The cloth, exuding a herby-bitter aroma, moved exactly to where your husband wanted to be most in the world at that moment. Your pussy, already sticky from your previous lovemaking, responded to the coolness immediately. The mewling sweet sound you made threw all your husband's composure away.

"Can't see?" he rasped, walking with a heavy gait, and you felt as if everything around you was trembling or perhaps it was you trembling with anticipation.

His breathing was loud, like that of a horse exhausted from a chase, but Ormund's hands did not falter for a moment as he snatched the cloth away, which had become a call to attack.

He grabbed your hand with that tenderness that, despite the passion, husbands who truly love their wives radiate, and pressed it to his hard, erect cock.

"And now, hmm?" he whispered in a low, warning tone into your temple, so you could feel his hot breath.

Without wasting a moment, Ormund moved behind you, surrounding you and embracing your waist with his broad hands. Your bodies seemed glued together, part of something new and unified. The tip of his nose tickled the back of your neck, and his lips delivered a series of punishing kisses. When he reached the hollow between your shoulder and neck, his tongue darted out, tasting the oil you had so carelessly applied.

You shuddered all over, feeling the wet warmth on your skin as his cock pressed relentlessly against your backside.

Ormund cupped your face, gently turning it towards him.

"You are so sweet, beloved, I could eat you up," he whispered hotly into your lips before covering them with his, laced with a hint of authority.

His fingers, usually adorned with rings, were freed from the burden of metal. This was one of your favorite parts of the day, when your husband removed his rings one by one, their clinking promising a good time. His knowing hand found its way between your legs, his thumb pressing on your aroused clit.

Your cry was swallowed in the depths of his mouth as he entered you, not carefully but impetuously, unable to wait another second. You were wet enough for the penetration to bring only pleasure, erasing tension with one deep movement. You had to grip the table to keep from falling. Your legs were already weak, as this was not the first time that day your bodies had met.

You pushed back, wanting to be taken deeper and faster, but Ormund set the rhythm. His fingers massaged your wet pussy in time with the thrusts of his hips. Your eyes stung with tears as you tried to look at him, turning your head over your shoulder. Then your husband held you tighter, squeezing your body with such force as if he intended to break you.

His lips descended upon you again and again, alternating tenderness and passion. The Lord of House Hightower lowered his hands to yours, intertwining your fingers tightly as his movements grew more intense. His body leaned forward slightly, forcing you to do the same. You were not sure you could last much longer. Your knees buckled, aching with sweet pain.

"Beloved, I'm so..." you moaned loudly when his cock hit the walls of your pussy, pressing against that spot that made you see sparks every time. "I'm so close!"

Heeding your pitiful plea, his fingers quickly helped you reach a bright orgasm. You cried out something incoherent, sounding more like a scream than a moan. Your dripping pussy clenched tightly around his cock, and, as if continuing the sweet blissful torment, your husband slowed down, fucking you gently, almost lovingly, but still deeply, allowing you to prolong your climax.

Kissing your salt-stained face, especially the corners of your eyes and your wet lashes, he came inside you, spilling deep and hot.

"I'm afraid you wouldn't last for another round," he laughed hoarsely, leaving a sloppy, wet kiss on your shoulder blade.

Ormund didn't intend to pull away, but seeing how pitifully your legs trembled, how you gasped for air like a drowning woman, he stepped back. His hand slapped your ass, not hard, rather playfully, before he scooped you up into his arms and, with a triumphant and sated look, sank onto the bed, pulling you close.

"You'll be leaving soon. I can't imagine how you'll live without me."

"Write letters, but don't expect me to read them with pleasure, my little wife."

You punched him in the chest in mock indignation, even though you knew perfectly well that he read everything you wrote for him. He kept those little paper squares like gifts from the gods, for they carried the distinctive scent of the oils you used.

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The morning of the day everything changed began like so many mornings before it quietly, with the weight of someone else's choices pressing down on you before you had even opened your eyes.

You woke to the sound of the bells. Oldtown was a city of bells, something you had not known before you came here. They rang at dawn, at noon, at dusk, at every hour in between, marking time with a relentlessness that made you feel like you were living inside a heartbeat. The sound echoed through the stone walls of the Hightower, bouncing off the ancient masonry, seeping into your dreams. On Dragonstone, you had woken to the sound of the sea and the distant cry of your dragon. Here, you woke to bells.

You lay still for a moment, watching the light creep across the ceiling. The curtains were heavy but a single sliver of gold had found its way through the gap, painting a line across the stone above your head. You traced it with your eyes, following it from one corner of the room to the other, and tried to remember what day it was.

It did not matter. The days were all the same now.

You turned your head on the pillow. Ormund was already gone. His side of the bed was cold, the blankets pushed back, the indentation of his body already fading from the mattress. He rose early, your husband. He had a city to run and a household to command. You had learned quickly that he did not expect you to be awake when he left. He did not expect anything from you in the mornings except that you would be there with your legs opened when he returned.

You sat up slowly, pushing the heavy blankets aside. The air in the room was cool, carrying the faint, familiar scent of smoke from the fireplace. Your shift was wrinkled from sleep, twisted around your legs, and you smoothed it down automatically before swinging your feet to the floor.

You crossed to the window and pulled back the curtain, just a little. The view was spectacular, you could not deny that. The Hightower rose above the city like a spear thrust into the sky, and from your chambers near the top, you could see everything. The Honeywine River winding its way to the sea. The rooftops of Oldtown spreading out below, a patchwork of slate and tile and thatch. The Citadel in the distance, its domes and spires gleaming in the morning light. And beyond it all, the Whispering Sound, blue and endless, stretching toward the horizon.

It was beautiful. It was not home.

You let the curtain fall and turned back to the room. Your gown was laid out for you already. It always was. You had not chosen the dresses you wore since your wedding night. They simply appeared each morning, draped over the chair by the hearth, waiting for you. Today's was a deep charcoal grey with silver embroidery along the scooped neckline and long, tight sleeves. The fabric was heavy—it was always heavy—and the cut was modest. You had never worn anything like it before you came to Oldtown, and now you wore nothing else.

Your ladies arrived as you were washing your face. Three of them, all Hightower women, all chosen by Ormund's steward. They helped you into your dress without comment. The laces were pulled tight, the sleeves smoothed down, the high collar fastened close around your throat. You stood still and let them work, lifting your arms when they needed you to, turning when they asked. You had learned that it was easier to comply than to question.

"Your hair, my lady?" Ellyn asked, her hands already reaching for the brush.

You hesitated. "I thought I might leave it down today."

A pause. Barely a heartbeat, but you felt it.

"Lord Ormund prefers it up," Ellyn said. Her voice was neutral. Polite. The voice of a servant who had been given instructions and intended to follow them.

You opened your mouth to argue—it was your hair, after all, your head, your choice—but the words died on your tongue. It was not worth the fight. Nothing was worth the fight anymore.

"Very well," you said quietly.

Ellyn nodded and began to brush. You watched yourself in the mirror as she worked. The girl looking back at you was beautiful—you knew that, had always known that, had been told it so many times it had ceased to mean anything—but she did not look like you. She looked like a portrait of you, painted by someone who had only heard a description. The hair was right, silver-gold and falling in soft waves. The eyes were right, violet and clear. But something was missing. Some spark. Some light.

You looked tired. You looked pale. You looked like a woman who had been slowly fading for weeks and had not noticed until this moment.

Ellyn pinned your hair up in an elaborate twist, securing it with silver combs. You felt the weight of it pulling at your scalp, the familiar tension that always followed. Your mother had never made you wear your hair up. Your mother had let you wear it however you wanted—loose and wild when you were flying, braided with ribbons when you attended court, simple and unadorned when you were alone. Your mother had always said that you were beautiful because you were yourself, not because you looked like anyone else's idea of beauty.

You missed your mother. You missed her so much it felt like a physical ache, a hollow space in your chest that nothing could fill.

"There," Ellyn said, stepping back to admire her work. "Very proper, my lady."

"Thank you," you said, because that was what you were supposed to say.

They left you alone after that, retreating to their own tasks, and you sat by the window for a long time, watching the clouds move across the sky. Somewhere out there, beyond the city walls, beyond the Whispering Sound, beyond the Reach and the Kingswood and the Blackwater Bay, your mother was sitting on Dragonstone. Your brothers were running through the halls, laughing, arguing, living their lives.

And you were here. In Oldtown. Married to a man you barely recognized anymore.

The courtship had been so different. You remembered it now, sitting in the grey morning light, turning the memories over in your mind like stones. Ormund had come to King's Landing two years ago, representing his house at some council or another, and he had seen you across the throne room. You had been ten and eight then, young and shy. He had been thirty-six, a widower with four children, a lord in his own right. He had looked at you with such intensity, such focus, that you had felt like the only person in the room.

He had been charming. He had sent you gifts, books from the Citadel, rare perfumes from Lys, a necklace of sapphires that matched your eyes. He had written you letters, long and eloquent and full of praise. He had sought you out at feasts and tourneys, always finding a way to sit beside you, to speak with you, to make you laugh.

Your mother had been skeptical at first. "He is older than you," she had said, her brow furrowed. "And he is a Hightower. The Hightowers are ambitious, my love. They do not do anything without purpose."

But you had argued for him. You had told her that he was kind, that he was good, that he made you feel special. And eventually, reluctantly, she had agreed to the match. Not because she trusted him—you knew now that she never had—but because she trusted you. Because she wanted you to be happy. Because she thought that denying you this would only make you want it more.

And there was the political reality, too. You had known that, even then. The Hightowers were powerful. The Hightowers were influential. The Hightowers could tip the balance in the coming struggle for the throne. Marrying you to Ormund was a way of securing their loyalty, of ensuring that when the time came, Oldtown would stand with Rhaenyra.

You had been a gift. A guarantee. A hostage wrapped in silk and sent south with a smile.

You had told yourself it did not matter. You had told yourself that Ormund loved you, that he would be good to you, that the political reasons were secondary to the personal ones. You had believed him when he promised to cherish you, to protect you, to make you happy.

You had been so stupid.

The knock at the door startled you out of your thoughts. You turned, smoothing your features into the placid expression you had learned to wear, and called out, "Enter."

It was a servant, one of the many whose names you had not yet learned. He was young, barely more than a boy, and he bowed awkwardly when he saw you.

"My lady," he said. "A shipment has arrived for you. From Dragonstone."

Your heart stopped.

"A shipment?" You rose from your chair, and your voice came out breathless, eager, the way it used to sound before you learned to keep your feelings hidden. "Where is it?"

"In the courtyard, my lady. I can have it brought up to your chambers, if you wish."

"No." The word was too quick, too sharp. You forced yourself to slow down, to breathe. "No, thank you. I will come down myself. I would like to—" You stopped. You did not know how to explain what you wanted. You wanted to see it. You wanted to touch it. You wanted to hold something from home in your hands and remember what it felt like to be yourself.

"Of course, my lady," the servant said. He bowed again and retreated, and you were alone once more.

You did not run. Running would have been undignified. Running would have drawn attention. But you walked faster than you had walked in weeks, your heart pounding in your chest, your hands clasped tightly in front of you to hide their trembling.

The courtyard was busy when you arrived. Servants and guards and grooms going about their daily tasks, none of them paying much attention to the crate sitting near the stables. It was large, nearly as tall as you were, made of dark wood and bound with iron bands. And stamped on the side, clear and unmistakable, was the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

You stopped a few feet away, suddenly afraid to approach. It was silly, you knew. It was just a crate. Just wood and iron and the things your mother had sent. But it felt like more than that. It felt like a message. A reminder. A lifeline thrown across the distance between Dragonstone and Oldtown, telling you that you were not forgotten.

"My lady?" A servant—a different one, a woman with kind eyes and flour on her apron—approached with a slight curtsy. "Shall I have it brought to your rooms?"

"Yes," you said, and then, because you could not help yourself, "No. Wait. I want to open it here."

The woman looked surprised, but she nodded. "As you wish, my lady. Shall I fetch a crowbar?"

"Please."

You stood there, in the middle of the courtyard, while she went to find the tools. The sun was warm on your face, warmer than it had been in days, or perhaps it only felt that way because you were happy. You were actually happy. The feeling was so unfamiliar that it took you a moment to recognize it.

When the crowbar arrived the scent hit you first.

Jasmine. Your mother's perfume. The same perfume she had worn since you were a child, the same scent that had clung to her hair when she held you, to her gowns when you pressed your face into her shoulder. It was faint, barely there, but it was enough. Your eyes stung, and you had to blink rapidly to keep the tears from falling.

And then the dresses. They were packed in layers of fine paper, each one wrapped carefully to protect the delicate fabrics. You pulled them out one by one, your breath catching in your throat each time. Silk. Chiffon. Velvet so soft it felt like water running through your fingers. The colors were breathtaking, deep violet, pale blue, crimson, silver, black, gold. Lyseni cuts, every one of them. Flowing skirts and fitted bodices and sleeves that would flutter when you walked.

These were your dresses. These were the clothes you had worn before your wedding, before Oldtown, before everything. These were the clothes that made you feel like a Targaryen princess instead of a Hightower wife.

And then, at the very bottom of the crate, you found it.

The silver-grey gown.

You lifted it from the paper with hands that shook, and the sunlight caught the beadwork, and for a moment you forgot how to breathe.

It was the most beautiful dress you had ever seen. The bodice was gathered chiffon, layer upon layer of it, so fine and sheer that it looked like morning mist made solid. Tiny silver beads traced patterns across the fabric—flowers, vines, delicate spirals that caught the light and sparkled like captured stars. The neckline was a sweetheart, low and elegant, designed to frame the collarbones and accentuate the curve of the breasts without being vulgar. The sleeves were off the shoulder, sheer and flowing, held in place by jeweled straps so fine they looked like threads of starlight. The waist was fitted, structured, creating a dramatic contrast with the flowing pleated skirt below. And the skirt was layer after layer of soft, swirling fabric that would catch the air and dance with every step you took.

It was a dress for a princess. It was a dress for a dragonrider. It was a dress for you.

You held it up against your body, right there in the courtyard, and you could not stop smiling. You probably looked ridiculous—a lady of House Hightower clutching a gown to her chest like a child with a new toy—but you did not care. You did not care about anything except the feel of the fabric beneath your fingers and the sudden, overwhelming certainty that things were going to be better now.

"Would you like to wear it, my lady?"

You looked up. The servant woman was still there, watching you with an expression that was almost a smile.

"May I?" you asked, and then realized how foolish the question was. You were the lady of the house. You did not need to ask permission. But somehow, without thinking, you had.

"Of course, my lady," the woman said. "I think it would suit you beautifully."

You dressed alone. You did not want anyone else's hands on this dress. It was too precious, too personal, too much a part of you. You slipped it over your head carefully, reverently, letting the silk whisper against your skin. You adjusted the bodice, settled the sleeves on your shoulders, smoothed the skirt down over your hips. And when you looked in the mirror—

You gasped.

You were beautiful. You spun in front of the mirror, watching the skirt flare out around you, and you laughed. A real laugh, bright and surprised, the kind of laugh you had not made since your wedding night.

And then the knock came.

"My lady?" Margot's voice, muffled through the door. "The other ladies are asking if you will join them in the solar. They have heard about the dresses and are eager to see."

You took a deep breath. You smoothed your hands down the front of your gown. And then you opened the door.

Bethany gasped first. Loud and delighted, the way only a girl could gasp. "Oh, my lady! You look like a queen!"

Ellyn was more restrained, but even she could not hide her surprise. Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened slightly before she caught herself. "It is... very fine work, my lady," she said carefully. "Lyseni, I presume?"

"Yes," you said, and your voice came out stronger than it had in weeks. "My mother sent them. I used to wear this style at court."

The walk through the Hightower was different than it had ever been before. You had walked these halls dozens of times since your wedding, head down, eyes averted, trying to take up as little space as possible. But today, in your gown, you walked with your head high. You looked people in the eye. You smiled.

And people noticed.

Servants stopped to stare as you passed. Guards straightened, their gazes lingering on you longer than was proper. A young squire dropped the sword he was carrying and had to scramble to pick it up, his face bright red. You felt their eyes on you and you did not mind. You had been invisible for weeks. It was nice to be seen.

—

Ormund found you in the solar.

It was late afternoon by then, the sun beginning its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the room in shades of gold and amber. You were sitting by the window, reading your mother's letter at last—it was full of news from Dragonstone, gossip about your brothers, questions about how you were settling in—when the door opened and he walked in.

You looked up and smiled. "Husband. I did not expect you back so early."

He did not smile back. You should have noticed that. You should have seen the storm gathering behind his eyes, the tightness in his jaw, the way his hands were clenched at his sides. But you were still floating on the happiness of the morning, still wrapped in the warmth of your mother's words and you did not see.

"Where did you get that dress?"

His voice was flat. Too flat. The kind of flat that comes before a storm.

"It was in the shipment from my mother," you said, and you heard the happiness in your own voice, bright and fragile and utterly unaware. "She sent me dresses from Lys—the kind I used to wear at court. Isn't it beautiful? I have not worn anything like it since—"

"Stand up."

You blinked. "What?"

"Stand. Up."

You stood. The letter slipped from your fingers and floated to the floor. You stood, and he looked at you, and the silence stretched out between you like a wound opening.

"Ormund," you said carefully, "is something wrong?"

He crossed the room in three strides. He grabbed your arm and pulled you toward the door.

"You will come with me," he said. "Now."

"Ormund, you are hurting me—"

"Now."

He dragged you through the corridors. You stumbled after him, your beautiful skirt tangling around your legs, your jeweled straps digging into your shoulders. Servants saw you—you knew they saw you, you saw their faces turn away, their eyes drop—and shame burned hot in your cheeks. You were the lady of the house. You were a princess of the blood. And you were being pulled through your own home like a disobedient child.

He did not speak again until the door to your chambers slammed shut behind you.

Then he let go of your arm, and you stumbled backward, catching yourself on the back of a chair. Your chest was heaving. Your heart was pounding. And when you looked at his face you barely recognized him.

"What," he said, low and dangerous, "are you wearing?"

You stared at him. "It is a dress. I told you. My mother sent—"

"Your mother." He spat the words like they tasted of poison. "Your whore of a mother sent you a whore's dress, and you decided to parade yourself through my keep in it."

The word hit you like a slap. Whore. Your mother. He had never—no one had ever—

"Don't look so shocked." He stepped closer, and you stepped back, and the chair between you felt like nothing, like paper, like a wall that would crumble at a single touch. "You know what I am talking about. You know exactly what your mother is. The whole realm knows. She spreads her legs for every man who looks at her twice, and now she cannot even control her own daughter."

"That is not true." Your voice came out thin. Reedy. Nothing like the strong, confident voice you had used all day. "My mother is not—you cannot speak of her that way. She is your future queen—"

"She is a whore." He said it flatly. Calmly. Like he was remarking on the weather. "She is a whore who put bastards in the line of succession and expected the realm to bow. She has fucked her sworn shield for years—everyone knows it, even if they are too afraid to say it—and those Strong bastards she calls sons are proof. And now she has sent her daughter to me, dressed like a common bedslave, and I am supposed to be grateful?"

Your hands were shaking. You pressed them to your stomach, trying to steady yourself. "I am not dressed like a—I am not. This is just a dress. This is the kind of dress I have always worn. You saw me in them at court. You said I was beautiful. You said—"

"I lied."

The words stopped you cold.

"I lied." He stepped closer again, and this time there was nowhere to back away to. Your shoulders hit the wall. "Of course I told you that you were beautiful. That is what men do when they are courting. We flatter. We praise. We tell you what you want to hear. And you—" His eyes raked down your body, and you felt naked, exposed, like every inch of skin was on display. "You were a maiden then. Untouched. A prize to be won. I could look at you and imagine all the things I was going to do to you once you were mine."

He paused. His tongue swept across his lower lip, and the gesture made your stomach turn.

"Do you want to know what I really thought, when I saw you in your pretty little dresses? I thought about what was underneath. I thought about tearing them off you. I thought about bending you over a chair and seeing if you were as tight as you looked. I thought about how sweet it would be to be the one who finally got to touch what you were showing everyone."

"Stop—" The word came out as a choked whisper. "Please, stop—"

"But that was then." His voice hardened. "That was when you were a maiden. That was when you were untouchable. Now you are my wife. Now you wear my name and live in my house and sleep in my bed. And my wife does not dress like a whore."

"I am not a whore." Tears were burning in your eyes now, hot and stinging. You blinked rapidly, trying to hold them back. "I am a Targaryen princess. I am a dragonrider. I am your wife, and I have done nothing wrong—"

"Nothing wrong?" He laughed, and it was an ugly sound. Ugly and cruel and nothing like the warm, charming laugh you remembered from the courtship. "You paraded yourself through the entire keep in a dress that shows your tits to every man with eyes. Guards stared at you. Servants stared at you. My squire -your own uncle- dropped his sword because he was too busy looking at your body to remember what he was doing. And you think you have done nothing wrong?"

You had not known about the squire. You had not noticed. But it did not matter. It would not have mattered. He had made up his mind about what you were, and nothing you said would change it.

"It is just a dress," you whispered. "It made me feel beautiful. It made me feel like myself. I have been wearing your dresses for weeks—your grey dresses, your heavy fabrics—and I have not complained. I have not asked for anything. I just wanted one thing that was mine. One thing that felt like home."

"Home?" He sneered the word. "You mean Dragonstone? You mean your mother's castle, where she hides her bastards and her lovers and pretends she is fit to rule? That is not home. That is a den of sin and corruption, and you are lucky I took you out of it."

"Lucky?" The word escaped you before you could stop it, high and incredulous. "You think I am lucky? You think I am grateful for this? For being dragged through the corridors like a prisoner? For being called a whore in my own home? For being married to a man who—"

"Who what?" His voice dropped to a dangerous murmur. "Who what? Say it."

You opened your mouth. You closed it. The words were there, burning on your tongue, but you could not make yourself speak them. You were afraid. You were so afraid.

"Who does not love you?" He finished the sentence for you, and his smile was terrible. "Is that what you were going to say? That I do not love you? Let me tell you something, little wife. I love you more than you deserve. I love you despite your mother, despite your reputation, despite the rumors about your parentage. Everyone knows you are not Laenor's daughter—no more than the Strong bastards are. And now you come here, dressed like a whore, and expect me to be grateful?"

"My father loved me." Your voice cracked, and the tears spilled over at last. Hot and wet, tracking down your cheeks. "Laenor Velaryon raised me. He was my father. And you will not speak of him that way."

"Laenor Velaryon was a fool." Ormund's lip curled. "He raised another man's bastards because he was too weak to do anything else. Just as your mother is too weak to control her own desires. And you are just like her. Weak. Vain. Desperate for attention. You think you are special because you have a dragon? You are nothing. You are a spoiled princess who has never had to work for anything, who has never had to serve anyone, who does not know the first thing about being a wife."

"I am not—"

"You are a piece of property." He stepped forward, and his hand came up, and for one terrible moment you thought he was going to hit you. But he did not. He touched your face instead, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a gentleness that made your skin crawl. "My property. Your body belongs to me now. Your hair, your face, your tits, your cunt—all of it. You do not get to decide what you wear or what you show. You do not get to decide anything. You are mine. And I will not have my property parading around like a common whore."

"Let go of me."

You did not recognize your own voice. It was quiet and cold and utterly steady, nothing like the sobbing, broken girl you felt like inside.

He did not let go. His grip on your jaw tightened, just slightly. Just enough to remind you of his strength.

"You do not give me orders," he said softly. "You are my wife. You obey me. You do what I say, when I say it. And if you cannot do that—" His thumb pressed harder, digging into the soft flesh beneath your cheekbone. "Then I will teach you. I will teach you to be grateful for my attentions. I will teach you to be the wife I need you to be. And by the time I am finished, you will thank me for it."

"You are hurting me."

"I am trying to help you. But you are making it so difficult." He released your jaw, finally, and stepped back. His eyes dropped to the dress. To the silver beadwork. To the sweetheart neckline that he hated. "Take it off."

Your blood ran cold. "What?"

"Take. It. Off."

You did not move. You could not move. Your body was frozen, your mind screaming, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.

"Please," you whispered. "Please, Ormund, I will not wear it again. I will put it away. I will wear whatever you want. Just please—"

"Take it off, or I will take it off for you."

You raised your hands. Your fingers were shaking so badly you could barely grip the fabric, but you tried. You tried to be good. You tried to do what he wanted. The jeweled straps slipped from your shoulders, and the bodice sagged, and then—

His patience ran out.

He grabbed the neckline with both hands and pulled.

The sound the fabric made was like a scream. A high, rending shriek of tearing silk, and then the bodice was splitting, the beadwork scattering in all directions like falling stars. You cried out and tried to pull away, but he was too strong. His hands found the seams and pulled, and the dress came apart in his grip like paper. Chiffon shredded. Beads flew. The jeweled straps snapped, the tiny stones scattering across the floor and skittering into corners where you would never find them again.

"No, no, no—" You were sobbing now, your hands batting uselessly at his arms, your voice rising to something that was almost a scream. "Please stop, please, it was a gift, it was from my mother, please—"

"Your mother." He grabbed the skirt and tore it from the waist, the pleated fabric ripping with a sound like thunder. "Your mother should have taught you how to be a wife. Instead she taught you how to be a whore."

"My mother—" You could barely speak. The words were choked with tears, your throat raw from screaming. "My mother loves me. She sent me this because she loves me—"

He laughed. It was the cruelest sound you had ever heard.

"Your mother sent you here because she wanted to get rid of you. Because you were inconvenient. Because she has her bastards to think about now, her precious Strong boys, and there was no room left for you. You were a spare. A surplus. A problem to be solved. And I solved it. I took you off her hands when no one else would."

That was when you slapped him.

You did not think about it. You did not plan it. Your hand just moved, arcing through the air and catching him across the cheek with a crack that echoed through the room. You stared at him, your palm stinging, your breath coming in ragged gasps. And he stared back at you, his head turned slightly from the force of the blow, his cheek already reddening. For a long, terrible moment, neither of you spoke.

Then he turned back to you, and his eyes—

His eyes were dead. Empty. Two pits of black that looked at you without recognition, without humanity, without anything at all.

"You should not have done that," he said quietly.

And then he reached for the rest of the dress.

You did not fight him anymore. You could not. Your body had gone limp, your strength drained, your spirit crushed into something small and broken. You stood there, shaking and crying, as he tore the remaining fabric from your body. The skirt fell away in ribbons. The underskirt followed, ripped from the waistband like paper. And then you were standing in nothing but your shift, your arms wrapped around yourself, your shoulders bare and trembling.

He stepped back. His chest was heaving. His face was flushed. And in his hands, he held the ruins of your dress. He held it up. Looked at it. Then looked at you.

Then he walked to the fireplace.

"No." The word came out as a broken whisper. "No, please. Please, Ormund. Please don't."

He threw it into the flames.

You watched it burn. The silk caught immediately, curling and blackening like a living thing in its death throes. The beadwork melted, silver droplets running down the fabric like tears. The chiffon vanished in a flash of orange, there and gone, consumed by the fire that had never felt warm, not once, not since you arrived in this cold, cold city.

You sank to your knees. You could not stop crying. Your whole body was wracked with sobs, your shoulders heaving, your hands pressed to your face to muffle the sounds. You were kneeling on the cold stone floor in nothing but your shift, surrounded by scattered beads and torn silk and the ashes of the only thing that had made you feel like yourself in weeks. And you had never felt so small in your entire life. You had never felt so alone.

And then he was there.

He knelt in front of you. His hands found your face, cupping your cheeks, tilting your head up so that you had to look at him. His expression had changed completely. The fury was gone. The cruelty was gone. In their place was something that looked almost like tenderness. Almost like love.

"See?" he said softly. Gently. As if he were comforting a frightened child. "See what you made me do?"

You stared at him through blurry eyes. You could not speak. You could not think.

"I do not want to be like this." His thumbs brushed your tears away, tracing gentle paths across your cheekbones. "I want to be a good husband to you. I want to love you, and cherish you, and protect you. But I cannot do that when you dress like a whore. You make me angry. You push me to do things I do not want to do."

You shook your head. It was a tiny, weak movement, barely perceptible. But he saw it.

"Yes," he said, and his voice was so certain, so utterly convinced of its own righteousness. "It is your fault. If you had worn what I told you to wear, if you had been a good wife, if you had simply obeyed me, none of this would have happened. I would not have had to raise my voice. I would not have had to rip the dress. You made me do this."

"I did not—" Your voice was wrecked, hoarse, barely audible. "I did not make you do anything."

"You did." He stroked your hair now, smoothing it back from your tear-stained face with a gentleness that made your stomach turn. "You know you did. You knew how I felt about those dresses. You knew I did not want you wearing them. And you wore it anyway, in front of everyone, flaunting yourself like a common—" He stopped himself. Took a breath. Softened his voice even further. "You chose to disobey me. And actions have consequences. You understand that, don't you?"

You did not answer. You could not answer. You were trapped in a nightmare, and the monster was stroking your hair and telling you it was all your fault.

"But I forgive you." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, and his lips were warm and dry, and you wanted to scrub the feeling of them off your skin. "I will always forgive you. Because I love you. Do you understand that? Everything I do, I do because I love you. If I did not love you, I would not care what you wore. I would not care who looked at you. But I do love you. I love you so much it drives me mad. And that is why I get angry. That is why I cannot control myself sometimes. Because I love you, and I cannot bear to see you make yourself look like a whore."

You were shaking your head again, but you did not know what you were denying. The words coming out of his mouth? The gentleness of his touch? The horrible, impossible reality of everything that had just happened?

"Say you are sorry," he said.

"I—"

"Say it." His grip on your chin tightened, just a fraction. Just enough to remind you that he was still in control. "Say you are sorry for what you did."

You were sorry. You were so sorry. You were sorry you had worn the dress. You were sorry you had opened the crate. You were sorry you had been happy, even for a moment. You were sorry you had ever come to Oldtown, ever said yes to his courtship, ever believed him when he looked at you with hunger in his eyes and told you it was love.

"I am sorry," you whispered.

The words tasted like ash.

"Good girl." He kissed your forehead again. "Good girl. I forgive you."

He pulled you into his arms. He held you against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head, and you could feel his heartbeat. Steady. Calm. Satisfied.

"See?" he murmured into your hair. "It is over now. It is over. I love you. I love you so much."

You could smell the smoke from the fireplace. The ashes of your dress. The death of the girl you used to be.

"I will always take care of you," he said. "I will always forgive you. But you have to learn. You have to be better. You have to be the wife I need you to be. Do you understand?"

You nodded against his chest. You did not know what else to do.

"Say it."

"I understand." Your voice did not sound like your own. It was hollow. Empty. A shell of the voice that had laughed in the dragonpit this morning.

"Good girl." He stroked your hair. "Good girl. We are going to be happy together. I promise you. We are going to be so happy."

He held you there, in front of the dying fire where your dress was ash, and you cried into his chest until you had no tears left and when he finally pulled back and tilted your face up to look at him, you let him see the tears drying on your cheeks and the emptiness in your eyes, and you did not flinch when he smiled.

"There," he said. "That is better. That is my good, obedient wife."

He kissed you. Softly. Tenderly. The kiss of a lover, not a monster.

And you did not pull away.

Because you were learning. You were learning to be the wife he needed you to be. You were learning to smile when you wanted to scream, to nod when you wanted to fight, to say "I love you" when what you really meant was "I am afraid of you."