Lady Wura

So.  

You’re not pregnant. It’s totally fine. It doesn’t bother you at all. 

It doesn’t bother you so much that you ask Titus to make appointments for both of you with the best fertility doctor in the world, just to be sure there’s nothing wrong with you. 

It doesn’t bother you when that doctor makes a house-call, runs a million and one tests, and comes to the conclusion that both of you are perfectly healthy. This is just one of those things. Of course, she doesn’t know that you two performed an ancient ritual that has worked hundreds of times to create an heir for countless families, thanks to the dark magic of the literal Devil.  

It doesn’t bother you to think about how Le Bail had his hands on you, how he looked at you from the fire and...for some reason felt he shouldn’t give you an heir. 

It doesn’t bother you so much that you haven’t had sex with Titus in...well it’s been about three weeks. It feels like a year. 

At first, you retreat from him. You push yourself into your work with the Foundation, you disappear into your garden and your conservatory, you end up in bed next to him each night, smiling and talking about your days but distant the moment he puts his hands on you. 

It doesn’t really hit you how long you’ve been in this slump, until Titus is getting ready to leave on his final trip to the West Coast Lodge construction, the last one he needs to do before the site is officially ready to be opened. The one he was supposed to take with you. 

“It’s a whole week, Baby,” Titus says as you help him pack his bags, teeth gritted, hands clenched, whole body tense the way it has been since the night you realized the ritual had failed, since you’d woken up screaming from a nightmare you still haven’t told him about. “You don’t have to be there the whole time, but I want you there this weekend.” 

“Well I...” your voice fades as you feel his arms wrap around you from behind, like waking you out of a trance. He doesn’t need to vocalize the part where if you don’t go on the trip, it will push your ‘break’ from sex to a month. “I’m just not sure...that I’m ready.” 

Titus lets out a long, impatient sigh. He's been worse with his attitude lately, never directed at you of course, he turns his brattiness and petulance to anyone else he can, but you know it’s because of lack of connection to you. “Baby, you can’t keep punishing yourself like this.” 

“I’m not punishing myself, Titus.” 

“Whatever it is you’re doing in your mind that’s making you stay away from me, it feels like a punishment.” He turns you around, holding your hands in place at your side. “I want to fuck you.” 

You roll your eyes. “Fucks sake Ti—” 

But Titus cuts you off with a hand to your jaw. He makes you look at him, at how hungry he is. “Enough, Little Lamb. You’re keeping yourself from me. You’re the one making yourself unhappy. So, the ritual hasn’t worked yet—" 

“It didn’t work—" 

“It hasn’t worked yet. That doesn’t mean we did anything wrong. It doesn’t mean I don’t want you just as much as I have since the moment I first laid eyes on you. Why are you punishing yourself?” 

Your lip starts to wobble, and your eyes grow sparkling with tears, chest tightening. “I feel like a fucking failure. Why would...why do you still want me?” 

“Baby,” Titus sighs, mournful furrow in his brow. “I love you. I’m fucking obsessed with you. I don’t just want to fuck you to make a baby, I want to fuck you because every time I look at you, I see the one person in the world who’s just as much as monstrous animal on the inside, and I want to fall to my knees and worship you. Before you, sex was a hobby, just something I did for fun, to fill an urge, not something to bring me closer to another soul. I fucking miss you, you’re so far from me.” 

Your heart breaks at the cracking of his voice, the way his volume rises to almost a broken yell in his desperation. His eyes are wide, and as you look in them you can see a lifetime of loneliness, the handsome boy who everyone was too afraid of to truly get close to, unless they were trying to use his family’s power in some way. The boy who scared his own twin sister at times, now has finally found the one person who not only never fears him, but embraces and craves his terrifying nature. 

Your existence had been lonely so much before him, too. 

“I’m sorry,” you finally whisper, brushing your hands up his chest, digging your fingers in so he can really feel your presence with him. “You’re right, I was so fixated on this but...I miss you too.” 

“Then come with me like we planned, the jet will wait for you to pack your things,” Titus urges, voice sounding so youthful, hopeful. 

“Well I...” you want to throw it all to the wind and say yes, of course you’ll come with him now, but you’d thrown yourself into work during your slump, you can’t just leave Ursula hanging so last minute now. “Urse and I are planning the Foundation’s Halloween Benefit, and we just sent out RSVP’s for the Family’s Winter Solstice Banquet...I do need to work.” 

You feel his hands tighten their grip on you again, a flash of annoyance on Titus’s features, which quickly fades to acceptance. “Alright. Finish your work, I guess it will make it easier to focus on mine out there...but then Friday, come to me, Little Lamb. Let me show you what I built for you.” Then, leaning down to nip at your ear, kiss at the sensitive skin right below it, Titus whispers, “I can’t christen it all by myself.” 

You bite your lip, color comes back to your face as you feel the skip in his heartbeat right under your hands. Like waking from another horrible dream. The lingering anticipation of whatever Titus has planned for you, makes you feel like yourself again. 

+ 

“Three weeks?” Ursula yells, falling into a fit of laughter so big she almost knocks her food off her desk. 

“Hey! Not so loud!” You snap, looking over your shoulder through the glass walls of her office. 

You’re having lunch in her office between your duties for the Foundation, a habit you’ve gotten into since she moved you into the corporate offices a couple months ago. You have your own office, of course, but it’s so much more fun to eat with Ursula, she has all the gossip. 

It’s less fun when your sex life is the topic. 

“I’m sorry, ha, I'm so sorry,” Ursula waves her hand, pulling herself together from her giggles. “I mean, that explains why there’s been less servants on my side of the Estate lately. You know when you two get going they all run to the East Wing to get some peace and quiet?” 

“Oh my god,” you whine, covering your face with your hands to try to hide your embarrassment. “I really don’t want to talk about this with you.” 

“Yeah, I don’t want to hear about your weirdo sex life either, but you brought it up,” Ursula says, shaking her head and clicking her teeth. 

Actually, you tried very hard not to bring it up, but she asked why you were so down and wouldn’t stop pushing and pushing until you told her about the ritual. And how it didn’t work. 

“Okay well...sorry for that, I guess,” you roll your eyes. It’s hard to actually be sorry for having really great sex with your hot husband, not matter how disruptive it is to the household. “But I just...I don’t understand. I thought Le Bail liked me. I’ve seen him twice.” 

Technically three times but you don’t think Ursula wants to hear about Le Bail making an appearance during the sex ritual. 

“You won two of his games, of course he likes you. Probably more than he likes me and Titus,” Ursula says nonchalantly. 

“Then why...” your voice trails off sadly. 

“It’s not a guarantee that you’ll conceive a child, it’s a request,” Ursula says with a shrug. “The ritual didn’t work the first time our parents tried it as well. They waited a whole year to try it again, and that’s when Titus and I were conceived.” 

“Really?” You ask, voice laced with disbelief. 

Titus hadn’t mentioned that part. He made it seem like it was so easy, like him and Ursula were some gifts easily bestowed upon Chester and Violet Danforth being such great rulers in the High Seat. Maybe that’s why he’s not as worried about this... 

“I wish he told me that,” you mumble, taking a big bite of your sandwich.  

“Well that’s Titus for you, all action and no thought,” Ursula says, eyes flicking up and down at you. You were his biggest no thought action so far, not that Ursula is mad, she loves you very much. 

“How did you find out about you and Titus?” 

“One of our aunts told me, she was very close to Mother,” Ursula explains. “They figured Le Bail felt they weren’t ready yet, maybe that’s what’s happening to you. I mean...you guys have only been married for a few months. Mr. Le Bail probably just wants you to like, chill. Have some more fun. You’re not even out of the honeymoon phase.” 

You let out a light laugh, shaking your head. “When you put it like that...I sound a little crazy.” 

“You joined Satan’s literal organization, so you are crazy,” Ursula says with a smirk. “But you need to take it down a few notches, alright? Adapt to our way of living a little, and then you can add more little Danforth's to the mix.” 

“Right, thank you,” you say sincerely. She has no idea how much better just her words have made you feel.  

“Speaking of honeymoon phases,” Ursula starts, face dropping into an annoyed frown. “I assume you and Titus received the notification of Felicity’s wedding?” 

“Oh, yes he mentioned something about that, don’t we have to host it? As the High Seat branch of the family?” You ask. You’re pretty sure this means you’re going to get to see a Danforth Wedding duel, and you really, really hope it’s Titus’s card that’s pulled. 

“Yup,” Ursula sighs, pursing her lips. “Did he tell you about Felicity at all? And me?” 

“No,” you say, carefully studying her face. She’s looking down at her glass, jaw tight, something like an angry fire forming in her eyes. “He said I should ask you about her.” 

That makes her eyes snap up to you, with a look that almost makes you afraid to cross her. “Well, let’s just say this isn’t her first marriage.” Then in a lower mumble. “Attempt at a marriage, anyway.” 

Your brows raise with curiosity. “Urse...you can’t just leave me hanging. I told you something deeply personal.” 

“Yeah a sex thing about my twin brother.” 

“Okay, fair. How about this, when we met, you tried to kill me multiple times.” 

Her mouth drops open in a scoff. “Okay, I had to do that.” 

“Hmmm, okay that’s also a good point,” you bite down on your lip, looking at Ursula with squinted eyes. “Okay, how about this? Your power hungry, psychopathic, murder and violence loving brother loves me so much, he’s actually so busy trying to make me happy that he’s agreed to share the High Seat of ruling the entire world with you.” 

Ursula opens her mouth to retort, but can’t find a good enough argument against that. “Fuck, that’s a good point.” 

“Yes,” you exclaim in victory. “Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me—" 

“Alright!” Ursula cuts you off with a deep sigh. “Okay. Felicity is one of our cousins, obviously, just a few years younger than Titus and I. And she has terrible taste in men, slimy losers who want to marry into our family for connections and all those gifts from Le Bail. Well, her parents don’t usually approve of her marrying anyone, because they’re all awful, except for her first marriage. He was...” her face falls. “He was different.” 

There’s a moment of silence hanging in the air, as you watch the emotions play out over Ursula’s face, and you realize this is something deeper for her. “Who was he?” 

“He was my first love. My high school sweetheart.” Her voice is too calm, too controlled. She’s looking down at her food, poking at the salad with her fork, staring down at the way the prongs of the fork pokes holes in the leaves. “We...we were together for a long time, and I loved him very much, but I made it clear I did not want to be married. Ever. We could live a life together, do whatever we wanted, be successful, but I didn’t want to marry him. I didn’t want to risk him having to duel Titus, or worse at that time, my father. I told him everything about us, Mr. Le Bail, the marriage game, and I thought he understood why he could never officially be in the family. 

But then...well, during the fall after we graduated from college, he proposed to me during Thanksgiving dinner.” Ursula lets out a long breath through her nose at the memory of him standing up, in front of almost all of her family and his, and got on one knee as he pulled out this gorgeous emerald and silver rose cut ring. Everyone in that room had cheered, except for Ursula, Titus, and Chester. Titus looked like he wanted to kill the guy, which...  

“Well anyway, it was ugly. I ran out of the room and we fought, and then he finally let me know that I was being selfish trying to keep all of my family’s gifts from him. Turns out he really wanted in on all the Danforth and Le Bail deal-with-the-devil fortune after all. But I just...I knew if he had to duel then he would die and I tried to tell him that, but he wouldn’t accept it. He accused me of not thinking he was good enough. Didn’t really leave me much choice, and I was thoroughly disgusted by him, so I broke up with him.” 

“Oh Urse...I’m so sorry,” you say, reaching out your hand to hers. The frown on her face jumps into shock momentarily when you touch her, but her body quickly deflates into relaxation at your warmth. It’s a level of intimacy she’s not used to. 

“Thank you,” she replies sincerely. “I got over it, you know, but then...I found out he’d started seeing Felicity as soon as she turned eighteen. Two years after I broke up with him, we got the invitation to their wedding.” 

“Let me guess, he did the ritual and pulled Titus’s card?” 

“Oh yeah,” she says with a small laugh. “Felicity was so smug about that whole day, pretending she was so sorry and things just worked out the way they were meant to blah blah blah, she really thought Le Bail would let her have him. The duel can go all night if needed, but Titus had him hog tied and beaten to a pulp in under twenty minutes. I think it’s the record for the whole family.” 

Damn, you really want to see that. Thank god this family started recording all of these the moment video cameras were invented. 

“Felicity threw such a fucking hissy fit over it, we didn’t have to see her at family events for like a decade,” Ursula says with a smug smile. “I can only imagine what kind of dreg of society she’s convinced her parents to let her attempt to push into the family this time.” 

“She sounds like a cunt,” you say bluntly. 

Ursula nearly chokes on her drink in her fit of laughter. “Yes, oh my god she’s the worst. Listen we have like a million cousins, and half of them are annoying as fuck, but Felicity...she’s always been jealous of me. She basically wants to be me. I was so angry about it for so long, but I guess it’s a good thing she does shit like this. Makes me look even better. Got rid of a terrible man from my life for once and for all.” 

You watch as the sadness leaves her face entirely. She looks so much like Titus right now, the way she can mask any hint of pain behind a smug demeanor, behind the knowledge that she’s more powerful than pain itself. You’ve spent so much time with both of them, together and separate, and without meaning to, you’ve studied their dynamic. They annoy each other, poke at each other, she babies him, he brushes her off like a bratty child, but...there is love there. They’re twins, brought into this world together. “Titus killed him for you.” 

“Hm,” Ursula muses, clicking her tongue. “Le Bail had him killed for me, Titus made sure it hurt.” 

And the way she says it, sounds like that’s more important than the act of killing in itself.  

“So, is that why you never got married? You didn’t want to send them to die?” 

Ursula shrugs. “That’s how it was with him, I really thought I loved him. But...I already knew I was going to have to share my power with Titus one day, I’ll be damned if I have some man walk in and think he can take a piece of it too. Besides, I sort of realized I’d rather be independent. I have several lovers, and none of them expect anything more from me. The second they do, they get dropped. And if they don’t like that...well let’s just say there’s been a few of our seasonal guys that have been exes of mine that demanded just a little too much.” 

Her tone is so casual it actually almost shocks you. You’re so used to Titus being the openly cruel and violence loving one, you forgot that Ursula has been raised to be just as vicious. She’s so much better at hiding it. 

“Wish Titus would have done that with Priscilla,” you mumble. 

Ursula bursts out in laughter again, eyes flicking up and down your form with an amused smile that reminds you so much of the one you constantly get from her brother. “Unfortunately I think Titus kind of likes watching people get pathetically needy over him, and when he makes them leave he doesn’t really think twice. That man dumped Priscilla last year for the last time and wasn’t ever going to look back.” 

There’s a beat where you two share a look, both thinking about the memory of putting her in her place back at the gala. Ursula had laughed harder than you’d ever seen when you told her everything that happened that night, from Priscilla catching you and Titus in the conservatory, to you bashing her face into glass. 

“You know,” Ursula starts. “My brother stayed a bachelor all this time because he honestly never thought he’d find someone who understood him. Even Priscilla, for all her nastiness, always talked about how if they married, she expected him to settle down with the Danforth traditions. No more, hunting, and fighting, and certainly none of that gross stuff I know you two are into.” 

“Really?” You ask but a big part of you already knows she’s telling the truth. You feel it swirling inside your heart, the spirit of something that calls to the demonic force that was born in Titus Danforth. It was always going to live restlessly inside him, unsatisfied, unhappy, until you came along. 

“Oh yes, don’t let him know I said this, but I think my brother has always been a bit of a romantic. Just, his form of romance is a very specific acquired taste. He never let himself search for it until you were put in our path.” 

The sincerity in her words only highlights what she really wants you to hear. You are the key to her brother’s happiness, just like she said the night you all met. Just as he is the key to yours. 

Why are you sitting here moping with her, when you should be truly happy across the country with Titus? 

+ 

The jet got you to Washington in the middle of the day on Thursday. You didn’t tell Titus to expect you a while 24 hours earlier than originally anticipated. 

No, it is way more fun to show up, tell the workers to take you to Titus Danforth’s quarters, not say a word on threat of death (which they know is literal), and then leave a trail of your clothes for him to the bedroom. 

The text you’d sent him about how nice the room is, how soft and comfortable the bed is, while he was trying to finish a meeting had been unexpected but pleasant. He certainly was able to stay professional and continue on with finishing up his work. 

And then about an hour later you sent a picture of you laid out on the bed with your fingers teasing the entrance of your soaking pussy and he was very much forced to call it a day. 

The black panties you left on the doorknob were very quickly stuffed in his pants pocket for safe keeping. 

“So good to have you back, Baby,” Titus moans into your mouth, fingers replacing yours inside you, as he braces himself for your first pleasurably sleepless night in a month. 

+ 

Over time, you and Titus find your way back to each other, just like you had been since the start, hot and heavy and obsessed, magnets pushed together by all the world’s forces.  

The West Coast Lodge has its grand opening just in time for the Holidays, when you and the Danforth Twins host the family’s annual Winter Solstice ritual. This year, however, there was an added bonus of participating in a ceremonial hunt for the family’s sacrifice. Most of the extended branches of family were too put together in their fanciest clothes to want to partake, but a party of about twenty, including you and Titus, took to the woods around the Lodge to hunt down the victim. 

The sacrifice was some guy who tried skimming off the Danforth’s profits from their new vineyard. The one they acquired after the untimely demise of the Le Domas family. Since it is technically your vineyard, Titus took it as even more of a personal offense, to the point you were surprised the man even made it to the Solstice. 

Naturally, you and Titus caught him first, kissing over his dying body after Titus let you smash the guy’s legs to bits with his Warhammer. This is also after Titus shot him just below the spleen. You’d found it very amusing how he’d still tried to run away. 

Almost the entire family, the branches you had yet to meet, got a very clear lesson on just who you were. Many were terrified the twins managed to snatch up someone so similar to them. A few were happy Titus now has someone to focus all of his infamous psychopathic tendencies on. 

Not everyone was there, however. The most notable absence was Felicity. According to one of her sisters, a quiet, mousy girl closer to your age than Ursula’s, she was spending the holidays with her fiancé in Australia, borrowing one of the Danforth villas all for herself. Ursula had half a mind to call their property manager to have her kicked out, but you convinced her to let it go for now. 

After the family festivities, you and Titus retired to the Master Suite where you gave him a small present. He’d thought it was hilarious that you gave him a Christmas present, but was stunned when he’d opened the tiny box to reveal a gold pentagram pendant hanging from a gold chain. It’s intricately hand carved with the face of a goat in the middle, and tiny little rubies. 

He loved it so much and since he didn’t have anything for you, he returned the favor by going down on you for an hour. You came so many times you lost count and basically passed out. 

Time went on, you and Titus spent New Years in Granada at the cottage you purchased, breaking in every surface just like he’d promised, neither of you caring if it resulted in a baby or not. You were determined not to worry about that anymore, to enjoy the time and love between you and Titus just as you are.  

Between all the sex and holidays and working, Titus also gets you in with his trainers, because if Felicity’s new husband pulls whatever card gets assigned to you, he wants to make sure you can truly beat him. You argued that you won two whole hunts without any training, but he wouldn’t hear it. 

Secretly you think he just wanted an excuse to watch you shoot a gun or wield a sword and daggers, or even better, roll around and dominate an expert fighter in nothing but a sports bra and tiny shorts. 

He liked it even better when you practiced on him. 

+ 

February 14th. 

Ursula found it incredibly cheesy and lame and tacky that Felicity would choose Valentine’s Day for her wedding, and if it were anyone else you might have defended the decision.  

The West Coast Lodge, that Titus had built in your honor, designed to embody everything that reminded him of you, is dolled up in pink and white, like a cheap candy dream. You liked pink and white, Titus had bought you entire sets of knives and hand-crafted pistols in those colors, but something about seeing so much of it in ribbons and banners and gaudy flowers of all kinds leave a sick taste in your mouth. 

At the rehearsal dinner, Felicity had tried to argue with Titus about staying in the Master Suite, since it was to be her wedding night after all, but he threatened to shut the whole thing down and send them to a sleezy chapel in Vegas instead. Nobody but you and him were allowed to ever stay in that suite, not even Ursula. Granted, he made sure his sister had her own personal quarters in the Lodge as well. 

Felicity mostly ignored you, beyond an overly polite introduction, and venomous, sharp eyes directed at Ursula. She kind of looked like Ursula too, full lips, round eyes, long blonde hair, but there’s this sense of alertness in the way Felicity holds herself, like she’s trying to force her way onto a pedestal that Ursula was born into. Like she’s aware that nobody in any room that Ursula is in would look at her twice. 

Maybe that’s why she stole Ursula’s boyfriend all those years ago, or rather placed herself into Ursula’s role with him. The Danforth name is the most powerful in the world, but not being born to Chester means you are still a lesser person, especially in the eyes of Le Bail. 

You’re pretty sure you catch Felicity trying to flirt with Ursula’s date when nobody is watching. Graham, a concert pianist who has been one of Ursula’s many steady lovers over the years, made eye contact with you from across the room, rolling his to show how he could see right through her act. 

The ceremony takes place in the afternoon in a Chapel next to a mass garden that Titus had filled with your favorite breeds of flower. The Lawyer is there to officiate, with his usual too cheerful smile.  

His speech is much different to the vows you’d had to make with Titus in the Black Temple, a show for the guests attending who had no idea about Le Bail, and the fact that the Danforth’s aren’t just the richest family in the world, but in fact the ones who pull every string. 

He is happy to see you, even gives you a wink as you take your seat in the front row. 

The ceremony is quick, to the point, Felicity’s Fiancé, now Husband, Fitz Harrison, gives some overly syrupy dribble about finding the love of his life and belonging in her world, blah blah blah. Many of the guests ooooh and ahhh over it, but you see right through his words. The implication that he is meant to be part of the Danforth family’s deal with Le Bail. 

You start to see what Ursula and Titus say about her. 

The early evening reception goes by in an almost monotonous blur. Sure, plenty of guests have a good time, many are dancing and drinking, you even take to the floor to dance with Titus, but mostly you are waiting around until the guests have all gone, and the only thing left to do with the family is the duel. 

Much of the reception goes along the same lines as your time at your first Gala, with people you’ve never met and never heard of coming up to essentially pay tribute to the wife of Titus Danforth. There are significantly less openly rude people this time, the rumors of just how you’d put Priscilla in her place having spread under the breaths of almost everyone in high society. 

“I hear the wife is a total psycho.” 

“No, please, she’s nice. Nicer than Ursula, anyway.” 

“Not what I heard at all! You know at the double or nothing, she caused the entire El Caido line to be exterminated, when she could have just gotten away with killing the father and running off with Titus.” 

“She was fighting for her life, I hardly think that’s fair.” 

“I’ve seen the footage, the girl is an animal. Three high families gone completely because of her. Those poor Le Domas’s...” 

“That’s on Alex. You know, I heard he didn’t even tell her about any of the contracts. It’s not her fault she had to survive.” 

“Well she survived like an animal. No wonder Titus liked her so much, he’s just as bad. There’s something seriously wrong with that girl.” 

You overhear some of the cousins, who think they’ve found a hiding spot off in the corner, out of earshot of any other guests. They have yet to notice you standing off to the side, as you wait for a refill on your drink. Maybe you should be insulted, but their petty comments just make you smirk, quietly chuckle to yourself.  

“Didn’t you see what she did to Priscilla? Poor thing. That girl is a monster, she could snap at any one of us.” 

Okay, yeah that pisses you off. If Priscilla is telling everyone what happened between you two, it seems she left out the part where she tried to fuck another woman’s husband. 

You’re about to turn and set them straight, when Penelope appears at your side and sweeps you away, having heard their little annoying chirping as well. 

“She was invited to this, you know,” Penelope says, in her usual blatantly excited to gossip tone. “It’s probably not a surprise, but Priscilla and Felicity are actually pretty good friends.” 

You smirk at her from behind your wine glass. “Oh? Why ever would she stay home then?” 

“Several little birds have told me that Priscilla is banned from any and all Danforth owned properties, probably from risk of death.” 

You almost choke on your wine in your effort to hold in your laughter. “So where is she?” 

“My aunt said she’s somewhere in Europe recovering from reconstructive surgery, but I also heard they can’t erase the entire scar.” 

“Good, it will be a nice reminder for her not to try to fuck things that aren’t hers,” you say with a shrug. 

“Ha!” Penelope lets out a loud giggle, covering her mouth and turning away from the faces that turn to the two of you. “You guys are so fucking crazy, I love it.” 

Your giggling together dies down as you’re joined back by your husbands, Titus wrapping his arm around your waist as he flicks back the sleeve of his dress shirt, peaking at his watch. He lets out an impatient huff, jaw tight and lips pursed. You think he looks adorable. 

“Relax, dear Brother,” Ursula cautions, sauntering up next to you, small glass of whiskey in her hand, she’s gripping it so tight her knuckles have gone white. “The sun is almost down, this shit show is on its final minutes.” 

“Well it needs to hurry the fuck up, I’m ready to get this over with,” Titus snaps, hand tightening on your side. “Also, the cake was dry. Felicity and this fucking guy leech off our money and they can’t even get a decently made cake?” 

“Is that why you’re going to take pleasure in...whatever you’re going to do later?” Penelope asks, sly smile on her face. She won’t be allowed to watch, as she’s not in the family, but she’s very familiar with the Wedding Rituals of Mr. Le Bail.  

Titus snorts. “It will be one of the reasons, that’s for sure. If it’s even me, maybe this time Le Bail will let Ursula do the honors of ruining Felicity’s fun." 

“It would have been more fun if I got to do it the first time,” Ursula mumbles, before glancing at you. “Maybe Mrs. Danforth will get to do her first one.” 

You look up at Titus excitedly, as he smiles down at you sweetly. He licks his lips before giving you a small kiss on the cheek. “Now that I would enjoy very much.” 

You’re about to say something to agree, when a cheerful, sing-songy voice cuts in. “So sorry to interrupt, Ms. Danforth, Mr. Danforth,” The Lawyer says as he walks up, looking at you with a more intense smile as he finishes, “Mrs. Danforth. I will need Titus to escort me to the Black Temple, as the architect of this...opulent resort, he will need to assist me in preparing for tonight’s final event.” 

Holding in his frustrated sigh, Titus isn’t interested in being parted from you for too long tonight, as per usual, your husband reluctantly lets go of your body, gritting his teeth. “Of course, happy to show you the way.” 

“Lovely to see you again, by the way, Mrs. Danforth. You seem to be assimilating to the High Seat quite well.” Then, in a lower voice, The Lawyer leans in to tell you, “Mr. Le Bail is very pleased.” 

And even though a small, horrible voice in your head tells you not to believe him, your heart still swells with warmth, nerves racing. “Th-thank you.”  

 You give Titus a quick kiss as you let him go, and the Lawyer gives you a wink as he turns. 

“Fuck, that tiny little man is so creepy,” a grating voice with a valley girl-like accent says in a disgusted tone behind you.  

Your face falls into a frown, and you look to your side to find Ursula scowling. She sucks in a silent breath through her nose, covering her annoyance with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, and stiffly turns around. “Felicity, my goodness you really make the loveliest bride.” 

“Even better than the first time wouldn’t you say,” Felicity hums, her eyes sharp like a viper, satisfied bragging in her tone. 

You don’t miss the way Ursula tenses. “Well, hopefully tonight goes better for your new man.” 

The grin that has been sitting firmly on Felicity’s face for two days faulters for just a moment, before her eyes widen in her effort to keep control on her expression. “Fitz is much more suited to Le Bail’s lifestyle, believe me. He already runs successful businesses all around the world, multi-millionaire even without any deals.” 

“Oh,” Ursula says mockingly. “My gosh, that’s so impressive.” 

She lets the part where the Danforth’s are billionaires who could buy and dissolve any of his businesses just for shits and giggles stay unspoken. 

“Hm,” Felicity hums, choosing to ignore the obvious sarcasm in Ursula’s words. Finally, her attention turns to you. 

Her eyes rake up and down your body, studying you, calculating the perfect thing to say to someone who has been given everything she has ever wanted for her life. In her mind, you’ve had it easy. You just had to marry Titus and you were handed everything the highest seats in the family get. She doesn’t even consider the violence you had to endure in such a short time to get here. You’re a bug that belongs under her boot. 

“Lovely dress,” She says, though there’s no kindness in her voice. 

You look down at the lilac colored dress that Titus had picked out for you. It has layers of sheer fabric on the skirt, and a corseted bodice that hugs your waist and pushes your breasts up. He also picked out the white pearls that sit in three layers on your neck. You know you look beautiful, and it must kill her. 

“Thank you,” you say, glancing down at her own dress. White and basic but covered in Swarovski crystals to make it look more expensive. It’s probably a ten thousand dollar dress, but it could have been bought at Macy’s for $150. 

“So sorry I haven’t had the chance to properly welcome you into the family, I simply was too busy this year with my own engagement to attend all the Danforth events. Congratulations on winning over my cousin, Titus can be a hard man to please, and I know so many of the women who have tried.” 

She’s trying so hard to push you, but it’s not anything you haven’t already heard from the other jealous girls of High Society.  

“I’ve been welcomed plenty, trust me. Ursula is teaching me everything I need to know.”  

“Oh, I’m sure,” Felicity grins, toothy but no emotion in her eyes. “I’m surprised, though, Ursula was never one to take someone under her wing, even her own family.” 

The look she shoots at Ursula would be lethal if given to anyone else, but it’s only met by an exasperated laugh from your sister-in-law. “Oh you have got to be joking me—" 

“Urse!” Graham’s voice interrupts as he walks up from the side, holding two very full champagne flutes in his hands. The sound of his voice instantly calms the fight brewing inside Ursula. “The Governor and his wife are asking for you, they want to say goodbye for the evening.” 

“Wonderful,” Ursula grits, snatching one of the flutes and downing its contents in one gulp, before glaring back at Felicity. “I’ll see you soon.” 

Felicity just rolls her eyes as they walk away, then turns her attention back to you. “I see she hasn’t changed at all, still the snotty, self-centered brat she’s always been.” 

“Funny, she says the same things about you,” Penelope scoffs. 

“Relax, Pen, what’s a little playful insulting amongst family?” Felicity says, eyes still firmly scanning up and down you. “Speaking of which, I think I'd like to spend a little time getting to know my new cousin, if you don’t mind.” 

But she doesn’t leave much of a choice when she grabs you by the elbow and snatches you away. You turn back to Penelope with a pleading look in your eyes, but she just sighs and throws her hands up in defeat as you’re dragged across the hall. 

“You know, I’m sure those two have filled your little head with all sorts of horrible things about me,” she starts, patronizing. “And I’m not going to deny any of it, but you’re new here, so I’ll give you my own lesson in what it means to be a Danforth.” 

“I can’t imagine I have anything useful to learn from you,” You spit, shaking your arm out of her grip. You could walk away, go off to find Titus or join Ursula and Graham, maybe even run back to Penelope or Elton, any of the allies you have in the room, but something in you tells you to stay. The little monster inside is curious about just what Felicity’s game here is. 

She scoffs. “How about the perspective of someone from outside the main branch of the family? You got fucking lucky joining them, you know? I just happened to be born from the wrong Danforth brother and because of that, I’m cursed to a lifetime of second best. 

What did Ursula tell you about my first husband? Hm? That she loved him and was so disappointed when he wanted nothing more than what every single person in this room would want? A piece of the power over the whole world? Oh, how awful of him!” 

You look around as you stand in the middle of this room filled with old money blue bloods, new age elite, and various members of government, world movers. How many of them are part of Le Bail’s organization? How many of them would kill to be? It’s something so secretive that you may never know every single family that is a part of it. And...you sit at the very top of it. By complete happenstance. 

If you hadn’t pushed Alex Le Domas to marry you, this would never be your life at all. A twinge of pain begins to stab like a needle at your heart, as you realize whatever Felicity has to say about you could be right. 

“I don’t care what the twins have said to you, I loved that man, and I had to watch Titus bash his skull in on what was supposed to be the happiest day of my life.” 

You can only imagine the glee on your husband’s face as he did. “Are you really throwing a bitch fit thirty years later, because of something everyone who marries into the family is at risk of?” 

Her face contorts, jaw locking and twitchy as her emotions move from fiery anger to a calm that barely contains it. “Everyone but you, right?” 

You hold in any response you can think of. You don’t owe her an explanation, she already knows everything you had to do to join the family. Nobody who has ever married into the Danforth’s has had to kill as many people as you have. 

“I wouldn’t look so smug about your little kill record, or Titus’s, by the way,” Felicity sneers. “Fine, I want what the twins have, I want that high seat. And yes, we’re allowed to kill family members, but there’s only one time where killing that family member guarantees you the High Seat.” 

Your face hardens, cold anxiety shooting up your spine. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“You and the twins didn’t think I’d get married to someone who could be so easily defeated by one of you again, did you?” Felicity says with a patronizing laugh. “Fitz is a world class athlete. Golden gloves boxer, Olympic medalist power lifter, trained in archery, javelin, sharpshooting, you get the picture. You’ve seen him, he’s twice the size of you and Ursula, and younger than Titus, more fresh. No matter which one of you he duels, he will crush your bones into dust. And I will get that High Seat. Then whichever two of you are leftover, I’ll have fed to the dogs.” 

“You fucking cunt—" you hiss as you raise your hand, caught between wanting to deck her in the jaw or strangle her in front of all these people. 

She steps back with a wicked smile. “Ah, ah, ah, you can’t do anything to me until after the duel. Hasn’t Titus told you any of our rules?” 

You freeze, stilling the movement of your hand with every ounce of self-control that you have. Eyes from all around start to hone in on you, the small scuffle between you and Felicity bringing in attention from various guests.  

She doesn’t seem to care as she continues to taunt you. “Hm, I can see why Titus likes you so much, you’re a feisty one. And I would have thought Le Bail would like you too, but from what I hear, you might have fallen out of his favor.” 

“Wh-what the fuck does that mean?” You scowl at her.  

“Well, it’s my understanding that you and Titus tried a little ritual recently,” Felicity sneers, stepping into your space, looking down at you. “And it looks to me like it didn’t exactly work, hm?” 

You gasp, eyes widening with horror, lip shaking. You look around the room, at the eyes on you, unsure if they can hear your conversation, but a horrifying voice screaming at you that they can. They know, they all know you’re a failure. 

“H-how did you...” but you can’t force yourself to finish the question. 

“How did I find out? Ha,” she laughs, shrugging. “You need special materials for that ritual, and there’s only so many people you can get them from. Fitz and I...we want to make an heir of our own. I’m getting a little...” she purses her lips tightly, “...older, so we are going to ask Le Bail for his blessing and, well, the Dark Priest we went to mentioned he just filled a similar order for the heads of the Family. But, well, you don’t look pregnant to me.” 

You want to scream. You want to shove her on the ground and beat her to death with the closest blunt object. You want to rip her hair out and shove it down her throat. But you stay still. You let our deep breaths, doing your best to not let her see just how much she’s getting to you. But you’re failing at that too. 

“Fitz and I will be trying it on that lovely alter table in the black temple, as soon as he’s killed...well, whichever one of you who’s card he pulls but fuck,” Felicity licks her lips. “I really hope it’s yours.” 

“Felicity!” Titus’s gruff, booming voice breaks through the noise of guests, music, and her vile words. She jumps slightly, eyes snapping up over your shoulder to where your husband and the Lawyer approach. When you turn to look, you see his dark eyes narrowed, with an intense hatred you don’t think you’ve ever seen before. “When it comes to speaking about Mr. Le Bail, or my personal business, you better hold your tongue around outsiders,” he spits, putting a protective arm around your waist, “or I will let Mrs. Danforth cut it out.” 

You look up at him with a smile, eyes twinkling under the light as all cold and anger melts away from your body. “Let?” 

Titus smirks down at you, as though to silently say, let me pretend I have a say. 

Behind you both, the Lawyer looks at Felicity with a stern frown, shaking his head. “Mrs. Harrison, Mr. Le Bail is very clear about how he feels about discussions of the organization in public places. If you continue, he will be...very upset.” 

The visible gulp in her throat, a sign of genuine fear, brings a sick delight to you.  

“O-of course, sir, it won’t happen again,” she assures him through gritted teeth. 

The Lawyer keeps his frown at her for just a moment longer, before instantly changing it to a much too perky smile. “Well, I believe things are winding down here anyway, shall we prepare for the rest of tonight’s events downstairs?” 

The three of you nod, and Titus sends out a message in the family text to alert the others that it is almost time, before guiding you gently out of the ballroom. You feel Felicity’s scheming eyes on you the whole way. 

+ 

The Black Temple in this Lodge is much grander than the one at home. Twice as big, in the shape of an oval, with black marble flooring and a pentagram shaped table at the center. The stairs descend down in a spiral around the room, framed by a black metal railing that’s been intricately twisted and carved to look like thorny vines.  

On the opposite end of the bottom of the stairs is a large fireplace, jutting out from the dark grey stone of the wall, in the shape of a screaming goat, the horns twisting symmetrically in curves along the wall. The eyes are dark onyx that shines in the light of the fire.  

In front of the table sits a small circular gate in the ground, the opening to the goat pit, which currently sits empty. 

Pyres line the walls, filling what should be a cold basement room with rich warmth. There are dark wood shelves lining the walls, filled with old spell books, crystals, candles, herbs, and all sorts of other materials needed for various rituals. 

It’s beautiful, every piece of it made specifically to what Titus thought you would love.  

As you enter the room, arm in arm with Titus, you notice a set of items sitting on one of the shelves. You recognize the heart candle for the mating ritual, and your throat starts to burn with bile that you swallow back down. 

Most of the family retire to their rooms in the hotel section of the lodge, but a few of the extended branches join you in the Temple. It’s not a requirement for every single Danforth to be there, but most enjoy being witness to the duels, the ones who are almost as cruel and sick in the head as Titus. 

You are soon joined in the center of the room by Ursula, Felicity, and Fitz, who gives you a twisted smirk. He drags his eyes up and down your body, licking his lips, like a predator planning his next meal.  You cringe and look away, holding on tighter to Titus’s arm. 

The Lawyer waits for everyone to gather around, Mr. Le Bail’s book carefully laid out on the alter table, open to a blank page, as he pulls a set of golden playing cards from his pocket. 

He looks up around the room with a giddy smile. “Well, everyone all set?” The room falls silent at his question, you suck in a nervous breath. “Excellent! We gather here today to honor a possible new edition to the Danforth Family, by performing the sacred tradition, the duel.  

For those who may be unfamiliar, I will go over the rules as agreed upon by Mr. Le Bail and William Danforth the third, the original signer of this illustrious family’s contract.” He looks at you, tilting his head as his lips close in a more friendly smile just for you. “A face card from this deck,” he holds up the golden cards, showing them to the room, “is assigned to one of the heads of the household, in this case, Ursula and Titus Danforth as they are twins and sharers of the High Seat, and Mrs. Danforth, as their equal. The spouse will draw a card, and if it is one assigned to a head of the house, that family member must participate in the duel. If they draw a numbered card, the Spouse is automatically entered into the family, per Mr. Le Bail’s wishes. 

The duelers are permitted to use any weapon at their disposal, from any era. They will begin at exactly midnight, and continue until the death of one of the duelers. After which, the sacrifice will be taken back down here to the alter, their blood emptied into the goat pit, along with their body, in offering to Mr. Le Bail. 

If the spouse is the winner of the duel, their branch of the family takes over as head of the household while the former head and other branches...” he pauses, smile faltering for just a moment as he watches your eyes widen, the memory of the total annihilation of the Le Domas’s flooding back to you. “Well. I’m sure you can all guess. As is the fate of the entire Danforth line, should neither dueler be successful in killing the other by sunrise.” 

Murmuring fills the room, and again you feel everyone’s eyes fall to you. They also remember what happened the nights of your first two weddings, the complete destruction of multiple High Council families. This time, however, it’s not judgement you read from their faces, but rather fear. So much death caused by such a little, young thing, and now she stands ruling their family with Titus. 

“Because of the realignments of the head of the Danforth family because of the passing of Chester Danforth, we will begin tonight’s ceremonies with a reassignment of the cards. Then, Mr. Fitz Harrison will draw to determine his fate, if he draws one of your cards, you will have half an hour to prepare before we must meet on the dueling grounds. Understood?” 

The main group of you all nod, and you watch as The Lawyer lays out the cards on the table, face side down.  

“Step forward each of you, and select your cards. These shall be your cards for any future marriage rituals, until the day another reassignment must be made.” 

You, Titus, and Ursula step up to draw your cards, each of you placing a hand down on one at the same time. After a count from The Lawyer, the three of you pick your cards up simultaneously. 

Ursula draws the Jack of Clubs, you draw the Queen of Diamonds, and Titus draws the King of Hearts. 

He chuckles when he sees Ursula’s card. “Demoted.” 

She rolls her eyes, elbowing him in the side. “It’s not a demotion.” 

“Hail Satan!” The Lawyer interrupts, sending the twins a warning with his eyes. “As Le Bail has wished, the cards are assigned. Mr. Harrison, please step forward to learn your fate.” 

Felicity makes a show of kissing him first, pulling him in by his cheeks and moaning into it, earning an annoyed groan from each of you. Fitz turns to the Lawyer with a cocky grin, as the cards are all put back and shuffled. The lawyer spreads them out on the alter table, in a gorgeous gold circle, then steps back to allow Fitz to make his pick. 

As he steps up, looking directly at you from across the alter table, there’s a wild, hungry look in Fitz’s eyes. You wonder what kind of things Felicity has told him about you three, why would he be singling you out? Because your fights are already family legend? Or because Titus took Felicity’s first spouse...so that debt can only be paid by Fitz taking his. 

Either way, his look makes your skin crawl. It reminds you of how the High Council families looked at you when fighting for the seat, the little lamb for their slaughter, the one obstacle between what they all had truly wanted. Everyone except Titus, who had looked at you with deeply immense sadness, because what he wanted was you. 

Fitz places his hand on one of the cards, keeping that same overly delighted smirk directed at you, until he flips his chosen card over. The smile shakes, so minutely that you almost miss it, as he picks up the card. 

The King of Hearts. 

An excited hum fills the room from the other family members, as Ursula and Titus chuckle, and Felicity lets out a frustrated whine. 

“Titus Danforth, Mr. Le Bail has tasked you with the duel. You have half an hour to prepare in any way that you need,” The Lawyer says, as he writes out a small contract for the duel on the blank page of the book.  

He takes Fitz’s hand and pricks his finger, directing the man to sign his blood, and as Titus does the same, he looks at Felicity with a grin filled with fake pity. “So sorry, dear cousin, you seem to have just the worst luck.” 

“That’s what you think, Titus,” she grunts, snatching her husband away as soon as she’s able to.  

It should bring you relief to know that Titus will be the one taking the field. He’s the most experienced with duels, after all. He’s the violent twin. He’s the one just as brutal as you are.  

But. 

Somewhere in the back of your mind, the image conjured up by your dreams, your nightmares, of him laying in the grass covered in his own blood, fills your every sense.  

+ 

The Master Suite is dark, with only the light of the moon shining through the windows, and the orange glow from the fireplace. Titus sits on the edge of the bed, securing the buckles of his black hunting gloves to his wrists. You stand against the door across from him, as you have been for the last twenty minutes, silently watching him prepare. 

On the way up to the room, Titus had tried to comfort you, to joke around and point out that you wanted to see him fight, but your anxiety prevented you from finding the humor in it. When you entered your quarters, you’d given him a big kiss, held on as tight as you could to his arms, his neck, his face, memorizing every piece you could with your touch. 

Now you lean against the door, taking in the look of your husband, scanning every inch with your eyes.  

“Think I’m going to break my duel record tonight, bet I could have him finished in under ten minutes,” Titus says, voice almost too casual for your current comfortability. “Sometimes I let them go on for fun, you know? I’ll let them run away and hide to build up the suspense, make it better for me when I finally get the kill, but I don’t think Fitz deserves that.” 

You don’t respond. The silence hums between you. Barely a breath escapes your lips. You don’t think it’s all that funny. 

He took off his tuxedo jacket, laid it carefully on the back of the vanity chair off to the side, but he’s kept on his white button up shirt and black dress pants. The chain you gave him glimmers in the light from the fireplace. Your eyes follow the path of it down his neck. 

Over his shoulders sits a black leather holster that holds two giant hunting knives that sit easily accessible on either side of his waist. His war hammer is strapped to his back, and he throws a bandolier around his shoulder as well, as he sits and loads an old family hunting rifle. 

You think he looks...well he looks fucking hot. First off. The way he carefully loads the rifle, clicking it into place and checking it over, the way his silver curls still sit perfectly styled, practically shining in the moonlight, the way he bites his bottom lip as he concentrates. It’s almost upsetting how sexy he is. 

“Little Lamb,” his voice breaks through the foggy silence of the room again, as he looks up at you. “Come here.” 

You glance at him with nerves you thought you’d left behind long ago. But you do as he asks, sliding into his lap, one hand around his shoulder, as the other pushes into his soft curls. His eyes flutter shut and he leans into your touch, smiling softly. You’ve done this a thousand times by now, calmed him by petting him, showing him an affection he hasn’t had since he was just a young boy. 

“Do you think you’re ready?” you ask, voice quiet. 

His eyes flash open, and he looks at you with a frown. “Baby, this is what I do. You have nothing to worry about.” 

“I’m not I just...Felicity was saying some things...” 

Titus snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure that bitch was saying lots of things to get in your head, but you shouldn’t—” 

“She’s doing the mating ritual.” You say bluntly. “You heard what she said—" 

“She’s not doing shit because that man is not making it off the grounds alive,” Titus says sternly. He gently pushes a stray strand of your hair back behind your ear, leather-covered thumb caressing the soft skin of your cheek. “I know you like to think it’s you, but I'm the strongest in this family. I’ve been waiting for a chance to really show you what I can do.” 

And that finally earns a little smile from you. “Well...when you put it that way...” 

“Mhm,” Titus hums with an amused grin. “I know you want to see me rip that man apart. I know I’m bringing all this, but I’ll do my best to strangle the life from him with my bare hands, I know that’s what you really want to see.” 

An excited shudder races up your spine, as you let out a shaky breath, heat blooming between your thighs. “Fuck, yeah, I really, really do.” 

“Course you do,” Titus chuckles, tightening his grip on you, fingers denting into your jaw, just on the edge of pain that you love. “I’ll make sure to give the cameras a good angle when I choke him out, but I don’t know actually...I could kill him like that, but wouldn’t it be more fun if he died bloody? Leave bits and pieces of him on the green for the grounds men to clean up.” 

Your body contracts at the thought, the image of Fitz spitting up his own blood in Titus’s hands. “Kill him however you want, just make it hurt.” 

“That’s my girl,” Titus grins, pulling you in for a kiss. 

You moan into it, slipping your tongue into his mouth and tasting the alcohol and cigar smoke leftover from tonight. Your teeth latch onto his top lip and you bite and pull hard, Titus whimpers as a cut is formed, and his blood drips into your mouth. You suck it in, eyes rolling back in your head from the taste that sends electric sparks deep into your body.  

You want him to feel it when he’s out there. You want him to touch it with his tongue while he fights to win the sacrifice, a physical reminder of who his blood belongs to. 

A soft alarm interrupts your kiss, much to both your annoyance. There’s only a couple minutes of prep time left, which means he has to make his way to the dueling ground. 

You slip off his lap to stand up, but Titus pulls you to him again, kissing the swell of your breast just above the line of your dress, before resting his head against your chest. He brings a hand up to your stomach, pressing his fingers into the soft fabric. “We can try again, you know. After I win, after I kill that motherfucker for you. Felicity was so nice to gather everything we need for it.” 

You suck in a breath, fingers finding the gold chain, and you gently pull it form under his shirt, twiddling with the pentagram nervously. “I-I’m not sure...” 

“It’s okay, sweet baby, you can decide during the duel and tell me after,” he says, standing up so he can tower over you, darkness filling his features. “Because I am coming back to you. I told you I would kill a hundred people for you, well I’d destroy this whole fucking world to be in your arms again. One pathetic man will never keep me from my Little Lamb.” 

+ 

The duelers are led out to the fields on the rear side of the Lodge, surrounded by hedges and tall trees, small bushes of flowers and soft lanterns lighting the paths. The first time you’d walked it with Titus, you thought it was so romantic, but now it stands as a field of death. 

The family members who wish to observe are taken to the club room, where a wall of various tv’s shows every single inch of the fields, in full high-definition color, with working microphones. A major improvement to past Danforth Wedding Duel viewings. 

You sit in the middle of the room, not trusting your feet to hold you up enough to stand like everyone else.  

Ursula brings you a short glass filled with their finest Danforth Whiskey, neat. Something to calm your nerves. 

+ 

“Gentlemen, please take your beginning stances,” The Lawyer’s voice booms over a loud speaker across the field.  

Titus and Fitz stare at each other from about 50 yards away, Titus pulling up his rifle, and Fitz placing his hands on two handguns in his waist holster. It’s practically silent, barely a brush of wind or sound from forest animals to distract Titus from the blood pumping in his veins, rushing through and heating his body. 

“The duel will begin in 3...2...—” The sound of a grand clock striking midnight rings throughout the club room and the field, and instantly after the first bell tolls comes the sound of a gunshot. 

Titus shoots a second time, swearing to himself, as Fitz dodges by rolling to the ground. Titus gets another shot off, and then loads another as he stomps across the field, teeth gritted as he watches Fitz roll towards the tree line. 

“Fuck,” Titus hisses, shooting again as he watches Fitz duck behind a tree, missing again. He was expecting a little bitch of a challenge, was hoping for it so he could really give you a show, but he didn’t expect Fitz to be so quick. Titus catches him leaning over to try to get a look out at him, and aims quickly before shooting again, splintering the tree but missing Fitz again. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” 

+ 

“Fitz is so fast, he was on multiple Olympic track teams, you know? And All State in high school and college,” Felicity brags, earning interested hums from the other families in the room. She looks down at you with a pleased smirk, basking in positive attention for once.  

You want to scream. You want to throw the glass in your hand at her and slit her throat open with the shards. You want to get in her face and remind her that Titus is a monster. He’s killed dozens of men and women like Fitz. 

But you stay in your seat, downing the last drops of the whiskey as your eyes stay glued to the screens.  

Ursula gives a nod, and an attendant comes over to fill the glass again. 

+ 

As Titus goes to load his rifle for the third time, he hears a rustling from the trees, and looks up just in time to see Fitz raising his own guns at him. Titus drops to the ground before Fitz can get a shot off, pulling the rifle into his chest and rolling onto his front.  

He squeezes an eye closed and aims again, this time managing to hit one of Fitz’s guns out of his hand. 

“Ahh! Fuck!” Fitz shouts in pain, dropping the smashed gun to the ground. His hand burns, wrist stinging, and he quickly leans back behind the tree as he clenches that fist shut. His face breaks into an amused smile. “Good shot, old man!” 

“Not that much older...” Titus mumbles, loading another round into the rifle. He shoots towards Fitz’s tree again, more as a warning shot to keep him back than anything actually meant to maim. 

With Fitz still stunned, Titus takes the opportunity to jump up from the ground and run to the trees. He's not going to go right for the other man, he’s still got one good gun, and inside the forest it’s going to be harder to get a clear shot with his own gun, but he wants to get closer. He can do the most damage with his hands. 

He doesn’t bother to stay quiet as he moves through the trees, wants Fitz to know he’s coming, and when he circles enough to spot the man leaning up against the trunk, Titus raises his gun with a smirk. “Gotcha.” 

“Fuck,” Fitz swears, eyes wide as he ducks again, just in time for Titus’s shot to hit the spot on the tree right where his face had been a second ago. He yelps as he lands on his bruised wrist, but manages to still himself in time to get a couple shots off his other gun. 

One of which rips right past Titus’s arm, grazing the skin with a painful force that enough to knock him over. “Ahh!” Titus yells, dropping his rifle and grabbing at his arm, where a small cut bleeds through the white of his shirt. He pulls his hand back to stare at his own blood, eyes dark with anger. “Little punk.” 

There’s no time to sit a stew over it, because Fitz starts shooting again, and Titus twists his body behind another thick tree, chest heaving and jaw tight.  

The gun goes off until it’s out of bullets, and Fitz is swearing and throwing it to the side. 

+ 

“Ha! First blood spilled tonight is Titus!” Felicity giggles, the sound like nails on a chalkboard to you. “Perhaps my dear cousin has lost his touch.” 

You’re on your feet in half a second, without even thinking, eyes wild as you stare her down with barely contained rage. You want to scream that actually the first to spill Titus’s blood tonight was you. In a kiss, the only way it should be spilled, in an act of love. By the only one who deserves it. The one who owns his blood, his soul, his heart. You’re about to leap across the room to strangle her, when Ursula shoves you down by the shoulder. 

She leans down and whispers right into your ear. “You cannot touch her until the duel is over. Get it together.” 

With a deep breath, you close your eyes, and remained in your seat, fingers going white where they grip the glass. 

+ 

With no way of knowing what else Fitz has armed himself with, Titus uses the moments of near silence to take his chance, and break into a run towards the other man. He jumps over bushes and fallen branches, ignoring the leaves and little twigs that scratch at him as he runs, raising his rifle again.  

He shoots again once Fitz is in view, just barely missing the man’s shoulder, and then he’s on him. Titus grips the barrel end of his rifle, smashing it into Fitz’s cheek, a loud crack echoing from the breaking of the man’s nose. 

“FUCK!” Fitz yelps, ducking a grabbing his nose, his own blood pooling in his hand. He manages to dodge Titus’s next hit, grabbing the rifle and using all of his strength to keep Titus from hitting him with it again.  

They both groan from the exertion of fighting for control over the rifle, teeth gritted and voices rumbling. Fitz is able to win out, twisting the rifle in Titus’ hands, forcing him on his back on the ground, and Titus lets go. He quickly rolls away, as Fitz lets out a wild yell, throwing the useless rifle somewhere far off into the woods.  

“Nice try, old man—" 

Titus scoffs at the taunt again, spitting up at Fitz, the saliva staining his cheek. As he stands again, he reaches to his sides, hands gripping both of the large, serrated hunting knives.  

The light from the moon is bright as it shines through the trees, combined with the orange and yellow glow emitting from the Lodge. It’s enough for the high-tech cameras to catch all the action, but to Fitz’s human eyes, Titus’s silhouette comes through as a hulking figure, something monstrous. Something not human at all. 

Fitz blanches, eyes widening as he wipes the spit from his face and backs up. His hands shake as he reaches behind, swallowing a large lump in his throat. 

“Talk all the shit you want, one of us has won dozens of these duels, and the other is a fucking idiot who thinks a few little tricks are going to impress Le Bail.” Titus’s voice is low, gravelly, menacing. It almost sounds like two voices in one, the other growing from somewhere deep within the fires of his soul. 

+ 

You stand up, eyes wide as you walk closer to the TVs, with your free hand you press your finger on a screen with an overhead shot of your husband. Even from all the way out here, you can see his true form. The shadows make it seem like he’s walking through black smoke, the knives in his hands shine, and you wish more than anything that you could have a closer view.  

What you wouldn’t give to be standing alongside him, still allowing him to take the lead in the right, but able to see every detail of his power up close. 

Behind you, a few murmurs reach your ears, Felicity snickering and goading them on. They’re all watching you in this trance, and they’re...laughing. Taunting you like they’d done during the reception. 

Your hand clenches, and you turn back to her, straightening your spine with your jaw clenched. “Your husband looks a little scared,” and your gaze moves to the other cousins that had dared to join her side for even just one small moment, “don’t you think?” 

Several faces fall from their smiles, terror growing in their places, as the cousins all look away, nodding to agree with you instead. 

+ 

Fitz backs up with that same wide-eyed expression, injured hand held up in the air, not in surrender but rather to keep some sort of barrier between them, while the other remains behind his back. His back hits the trunk of a massive tree, thick and winding and old, and he sucks in a breath. 

“Enjoy your final moments kid, I know I will,” Titus smirks, stopping only a meter away from the man, holding one of his knives up in line with his face. 

He slashes the knife, Fitz yelps and ducks, and Titus slashes again, managing a deep cut on the man’s arm as he tries to get away. But before Titus can strike again, Fitz pulls the weapon he’d had hidden behind his back, an antique crossbow. 

“Or I’ll enjoy yours, fucking bastard!” Fitz yells, carelessly shooting his first arrow. 

It swipes past Titus’s face, sharp point just barely grazing his cheek, a line of red staining his freckled skin as he hisses. His eyes narrow as he wipes the blood with the back of his fist, keeping his knife raised as a shield against the next arrow flying towards him. 

He breaks into a run in a circle around Fitz’s body, avoiding the barrage of arrows that follow in quick succession.  

Once behind Fitz, Titus launches into him, slashing his bad arm with the knife again, cutting deep, and blood splatters onto both Titus and the ground. 

Fitz screams in pain, but he gets upright again, running in the opposite direction. Titus throws one of the knives this time, nailing Fitz right in the leg, and the cut is deep as Fitz reaches down to yank it out.  

“Get back here and fight me like a fucking man, you pathetic little child,” Titus screams as he chases after him. Fitz disappears into the dark of the trees and Titus stops short, chest heaving as his breaths come out ragged, a tiny smile on his lips. A little droplet of blood trickles down his cheek from the little cut, but he can barely feel the pain from it now. “Where the fuck are you?” 

+ 

Anger boils from somewhere deep in your belly at the sight of your husband’s blood trailing down his beautiful face. You have half a mind to turn around and take it out on Felicity, who has gone back to postering about her man. 

But everything else about Titus is so fucking erotic to you. The power he displays, the lack of fear, the hunger that had flashed in his eyes when he’d spilled Fitz’s blood. Your body heats up, eyes growing black, and you bite your lip to keep from moaning. 

+ 

Titus stays low as he moves through the trees, eyes scanning the shadows to find any sign of Fitz hiding from him. He really thought this was going to be a harder fight. 

A soft crack sounds from behind Titus, and he snaps his body around to chase it, grunting and growling, like a feral wolf zeroing in on its prey.  

Another arrow zooms by, and Titus knows he’s close by the sound of the crossbow clicking coming to his ears. He runs through a row of trees and into a clearing, where Fitz is crouched on is good knee, teeth gritted as he does his best to keep his strength up and shoot off a few more arrows. He yells a cry like a falling warrior as he presses the trigger over and over again, until finally he runs out of amo. 

Before he gets a chance to reload, Titus throws his other knife, and it lands smack into the mouth of the crossbow, rendering it useless. Fitz swears, loud and broken and desperate, as he throws the crossbow as hard as he can at Titus. 

It hits him roughly on the shoulder, a few splinters of wood cuts into his skin through the thin dress shirt, but Titus isn’t deterred.  

He has one weapon left, but he’s saving it. 

Fitz clearly came unprepared, as he scrambles to his feet and runs at Titus full force, no more weapons for him to choose from on his person. At the last second, Fitz throws a handful of rocks at Titus’s face, who squeezes his eyes shut for only a millisecond to avoid being blinded. 

But’s just enough time for Fitz, Titus grunting from the pain, and then Fitz is on him. 

+ 

You gasp as you watch Fitz tackle your husband to the ground, and their hands meet in the air, Titus pushing up and Fitz trying to break free from his grip to punch him. 

“There we go,” Felicity says delightfully, smacking her lips. “Titus really is out of practice, this is where my Fitz really shines. I’m going to enjoy this very much.” 

You rear around again, and again Ursula stops you, stepping between your body and Felicity’s. “Ignore her. This is where Titus shines too.” 

+ 

Titus is able to launch Fitz back off his body, and both men race to their feet, raising their fists. 

It’s Titus who makes the first move, swinging a hard punch to Fitz’s left, then following it with an uppercut when the first attempt is dodged, nailing him in the jaw.  

Fitz yells, then starts swinging wildly. Both men exchange blows, and punch to the cheek, to the nose, both bruising spitting out their own blood, but neither really getting the upper hand. 

Again, Fitz launches into Titus, yelling through the pain of Titus punch him over the shoulder as he uses all his strength to force the man into the closest tree. Titus’s back hits it with a heavy thud, and his head snaps back, smacking against the trunk as well, sending him reeling. 

Finally, for the first real time tonight, Fitz gets the upper hand in the fight. He knees Titus in stomach, doubling him over, and he spits blood down at the man with a triumphant grin. He grabs Titus by the hair, yanking his neck back, slamming his face into the tree, the wood cutting more little lines into his skin. 

+ 

“No,” you whisper, raising a hand to your lips. It’s not supposed to be like this. The cut you gave Titus is still the biggest bruise left there on his lip, but the sight of his blood spilled by someone else gives you flashbacks to that sleepless night. 

Behind you, Felicity giggles. “Yes.” 

+ 

Fitz tosses Titus on the ground, kicking him in the stomach as hard as he can while he’s down. “This is who I was supposed to worry about? Huh?” 

“Fuck you,” Titus coughs, choking blood up from his throat, still dizzy from the hits to his head.  

“Pathetic old man,” Fitz growls. He grabs Titus by the neck, one hand wrapped tight around it and he rears the man up, bringing them face to face again. “All this for your cunt sister? And that whore wife of yours...thinks she’s one of us? What could you possibly know what to do with a pretty young thing like that, anyway? From what we heard, you couldn’t even knock her up. Useless.” 

And that... that breaks Titus out of his daze real quick. Words against him and Ursula are an annoyance at best, but you? No sleazy piece of shit, lower than dirt human will raise their tongue against you and expect to live. Titus’s heart starts pumping double time, and he sucks in deep breaths, hands clenching into white knuckled fists at his sides. 

“Maybe before we’ve drained you, I’ll ask Le Bail if I can keep her for myself. As soon as I win, I’ll make it a command that I can have as many wives as I please,” Fitz says with a low, menacing laugh. “Already got Felicity so I can have the power, I’ll take your sister, and your little bride. Show her what it’s like to have a real man.” 

The moment of taunting laughter from Fitz is all Titus needs to make his move. He punches hard down on the knife wound on Fitz’s leg, grabbing it and squeezing, as the man’s scream rips through the night, and he lets go of Titus’s neck. 

Cracking the exhaustion out of his neck, Titus slowly stands tall, towering over Fitz’s pitiful body, and he reaches over his shoulder to pull out his final weapon.  

The Warhammer comes down hard on Fitz’s already injured leg, smashing the bone to bits and breaking it entirely. The man’s strangled cry is music to Titus’s ears, and he licks his lips.  

The hunger grows in his belly, the scent of blood and bones floods his senses. Titus’s body starts to vibrate, the sickly sweet adrenaline coursing through his veins causing a smile to break out on his face. The shadows and moonlight create an image, to both Fitz and you watching through the screen, of an angel of death. 

+ 

“Shit!” Felicity screams, throwing a glass on the ground from her own bratty frustration, the fragments shatter across the floor. “It’s not fair!” 

Her snooty, bragging smile had left the moment Fitz started talking about taking you as a wife. She knew not only did he mean it, but that saying it to Titus would mean his end.  

You had twisted with disgust in your throat, but it’s reformed into something completely different now. You watch as Titus raises his warhammer, and slams it directly into Fitz’s ribs, and the crunch of bones is so loud you can hear it through the camera’s microphone.  

Your eyes go wide in an eager smile, saliva forming under your tongue. Your thighs clench and you know you’ve soaked through your panties already. 

+ 

The sound of bones breaking echoes through the trees, as Titus jams the warhammer into Fitz’s spine, most likely snapping it in two.  

Titus lets out a thrilled laugh as he watches Fitz crumble in front of him, and he drops the weapon to the ground. There’s still a little bit of life left in the man, but Titus will snuff that out soon. 

He rips his leather gloves off with his teeth, pocketing them before wrapping both hands around Fitz’s neck. There’s no fight left in Fitz’s fading eyes, as Titus squeezes his throat, crushing the veins under his hands. He wants to feel the life fade from Fitz without a barrier. Small, choked out breathes escape the man’s lips, eyes and skin turning red from the blood vesicles popping, tongue lolling out to the side. 

“You’re a worm of a man and I am a fucking god,” Titus groans, voice deep, dark. “You’re never gonna get these hands on my wife. Or yours ever again.” Then Titus brings his lips right to Fitz’s ear, hissing as he declares, “I’ll see you in hell, when I come to rule it.” 

His hands press down on the man’s throat until he hears a distinct crunch, and all the light leaves his eyes, as a final breath is caught between the bones. 

His body falls to the ground with a heavy thud. 

+ 

Felicity lets out a roaring scream, falling to the ground in a fit of tears. 

You bring your whiskey back up to your lips with a satisfied, needy smile. 

+ 

After a few moments of staring down at Fitz’s spent body, blinking as he takes in the pathetic form of his latest victim.  

Then, without much more thought, Titus picks up his warhammer again, fingers tapping the handle before wrapping around it tight. He knows there’s a camera hidden in the tree right across from him, and somewhere in the clubroom where you’ve been forced to wait, you’d have the perfect view of him. You saw every part of it. You heard the vile things this piece of meat had to say about you. 

He raises the warhammer above his head, and lets out an animalistic yell as he brings it down on Fitz’s head, smashing his skull to bits. The blood splatters up on him, staining his white shirt with beautiful red splotches, and smattering over his face in an arching pattern. 

Titus looks right down the camera, as though piercing right through to your eyes, and he licks his lips.  

+ 

The glass presses into your bottom lip as your mouth is dropped open, eyes wide and hungry, staring at how your husband eviscerated Fitz’s skull with his warhammer. 

“You’re drooling,” Ursula slyly whispers, smirking. 

“Yup,” is all you can say, attention never leaving the screen. You want to get this part over with. You stare at the screen at Titus, covered in blood, looking like a demonic king. His muscles ripple through the lines of his shirt, and you want to get your hands on him more than anything. You want to scratch down his chest, leave red marks with your nails, spill his blood onto your hands, and then you want to clean him off with your tongue. 

Ursula giggles, “Gross.” 

She glances over at Felicity, who is sobbing hysterically, hand covering her mouth as she watches in horror, as for the second time in her life, Titus Danforth has killed her husband. “You are fucking monsters, all of you!” 

Ursula starts to take a step to her, but you beat her to it, finally dropping the glass and forcing her to move back until she hits a wall. “You’re pathetic for ever thinking you and that piece of garbage could take our place. We have the High Seat, not because Titus and Ursula were lucky to have been born to the right branch of the family, and not because I got lucky being thrown at them like a fucking sacrificial lamb. We have it because we are the strongest and the most vicious. Le Bail doesn’t settle for anything less. You are a lesser being.” 

Felicity’s mouth opens and closes a few times, but no words of response seem to come. Her hands clench at her sides, fingernails like claws that look ready to pounce. And as much as she’s allowed to do it, she knows very clearly now that it’s a fight she will lose. 

“Now, now Danforths,” The Lawyer’s chipper voice breaks through the tension. His smile reaches wide to his ears and all the way into his teeth, toothy like a cat. “We must retire to the Black Temple and complete the rituals. Mr. Le Bail does not want to be kept waiting.” 

The room begins to clear out, with Felicity running out first, wiping the tears from her eyes, sobbing and calling for her mother. The others look at you, eyes full of fear and reverence, and you just know they finally get it. Not only are you one of them, you’re the best of them. 

“If only Titus got to see that,” Ursula whispers to you with a wink. “Come on,” she says, wrapping her arm in yours, and guiding you out of the room. 

You give her a smile, but your mind is elsewhere. It races with images of the fight, memories of every night you’ve spent with Titus, the feeling of how your power has grown within your own body, thanks to yourself, yes, but through him. Your mind is made up. 

+ 

By the time you enter the Black Temple, it’s already filled with about fifty other Danforth family members, the ones who wanted to be there for the final part of the ritual.  

Titus stands in the middle of the room, Fitz’s dead body laying on the ground with a trail of dark red blood from where Titus had dragged him into the room. He hasn’t bothered to clean any of the blood off his face or arms, he knows this is how you’ll want to see him, the spoils of his fight. 

And your breath is taken away as you emerge at the top of the stairs, giddy and buzzing and relieved, and so fucking turned you feel aggressive. You want to scream at everyone to leave so you can rip Titus’s blood covered clothes from his body and take his cock in your mouth or you pussy or wherever he wants you, however he wants you. 

You run down the steps, Danforths parting left and right to stay out of your path, and you leap into his arms. Not a care is given to the blood that now stains your lilac gown, as you catch him in a deep kiss, tongue licking into his mouth, teeth biting down on the mark you’d given him, as you both whine into it.  

You give no thought to your audience, as you glide your fingers into his soft hair, sweaty and wild from his duel. He smells like the woods, the blood, his own natural musk, and you just want to get your tongue all over him. You want to kiss the cuts on his cheek and arm, the bruises on his body that someone else put on him, replace every single one with a mark of love from you.  

This is how he felt the night you got married, and had traced over every war wound you’d received.  

A cough comes from behind you, not impatient, just the Lawyer trying to move things along. Ursula appears at your sides, giving Titus a soft pat on the back. 

Titus carefully lets you down, but keeps you close in his arms as the Lawyer goes through the steps of the ritual. He leads the room in a few chants, a few Hail Satans, and he pulls out the ceremonial knife, handing it to Titus. 

With a devious smile directly to Felicity, who stands angrily staring the three of you with her jaw clenched, Titus drags what’s left of Fitz over to the open goat pit. He holds the body just over the mouth of the pit, yanking the neck back so it’s exposed, and as The Lawyer reads the last of the rites, Titus slits the skin of its neck, and fountains of blood pours into the pit. 

The room breaks into a chant of HAIL SATAN! And the fires of the wall sconces, candles, and grand fireplace grow to greater heights. 

The last drops of blood are drained from the body, and Titus kicks it into the pit, then raises his knife in a triumphant pose, as cheers break out through the room.  

Your eyes shine as you take in the scene, the entire family giving praise and thanks to a successful duel. The whole reason they’re all still standing here and not blown to bits of bloody goo, is because Titus won. That is who the three of you are to the Danforth clan. It’s more than just head of a family or a kings and queens. 

Your heart thumps deep in your chest, and you wrap a dainty hand around Titus’s hard bicep, bringing his attention back to you. And he can see it in the rise of your chest, the look of sheer hungry fire in your eyes. You need him.  

“Mr. Danforth, congratulations on another successful duel, Mr. Le Bail is very proud, you of course have his approval again,” The Lawyer says, as you both turn back to him. His eyes meet yours again. “Both of you.” 

You suck in a breath, gaze moving to the set of shelves just beyond him, to the heart candle and ritual materials that Felicity had gathered. “Titus,” you sigh, tugging on his bloody sleeve, looking up him with a pleading expression. “Titus...I can’t wait any longer.” 

A puzzled frown settles on your husband’s face for just a moment, until he realizes what you mean, and the excitement blooms as heat in his chest. “You sure, Little Lamb?” 

You nod, then look over at Felicity, who stares pitifully down into the pit. “Just one more thing, and then...” 

As though reading your mind, Titus cuts you off with a kiss, placing the family knife in your hand. 

“Everyone OUT!” Titus shouts, hand tracing up your back, thumb rubbing impatiently on your skin. 

“Not you, Felicity,” you snap, as she tries to leave through the crowds of family members. A few stray eyes remain on the group of you, but they all know better than to try to stop what will inevitably happen next. 

Ursula is the one who blocks her path, twisted smile on her face. She understand what the two of you had planned, but she’s the one who’s been waiting decades for it. “Sorry, did you think you would be walking away from this?” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Felicity spits. Mascara has run down her face, her lipstick is smudged where she’d rubbed it around while crying, and her hair sits out in wild strings.  

She’s never looked worse. Ursula is so happy. But she waits until the other witnesses from the family have left you all alone. “Those things you were saying to my dear sister-in-law today about her and Titus, and me even? In fact, the shit you’ve been saying about me for years? You’re done getting away with it. You are the weakest, most pathetic, branch of the family tree, and we are done trying to nourish you.” 

“I wanted to cut you off years ago, after your first marriage, actually,” Titus says with a shrug. “But this guy today? Wow. You really know how to pick ‘em. You weren’t even good enough for him alone, you heard what he said about taking my wife and my sister? That thing didn’t even like you that much.” 

You giggle as you watch the red hot anger seep into her expression. Titus gives you a small pat on the back, encouraging you to step forward. That feeling deep inside, that voice that goads you on, reminds you how good it feels to split someone’s skin, to take a life, it is screaming at you. It fills your veins with electric venom, and you look to The Lawyer for quick approval. 

He smirks and you and bows his head. 

“We’re allowed to kill family members.” 

The last thing you see before pure red and white fills your vision is the look of horror on Felicity’s face, the last thing you hear is her blood curdling scream echoing through the temple. You black out completely, and when you come to, Felicity’s body lays at your feet, twenty stab wounds covering her, red blood staining her wedding dress and your own, the knife clangs to the ground. 

The feeling of Titus’s hand on your back brings you back. “Wonderful, my little lamb, I’m so proud of you.” 

Ursula kicks Felicity’s body into the pit with her husband’s, and then brushes her hands clean. “Well, that was our best wedding since...well yours I guess. Mr. Lawyer, shall we? I think the happy couple needs some alone time.” 

She reaches out a hand and The Lawyer takes it, assisting her in exiting up the stairs. Ursula throws you one more wink, before shutting the grand doors behind her, leaving the two of you alone. 

There’s only one second of quiet, one humming pause in the room filled with thick tension, before Titus is on you. 

His mouth crashes into yours and his hands grab all over, digging into the fabric of your dress, mixing the blood stains from Fitz and Felicity. Titus pulls down on your dress until it pools at your feet, and you’re surprised he didn’t just rip it to shreds.  

You’re about to make a joke about it, when Titus lifts you and carries you over to the alter table, biting down on your neck. He whimpers at the taste of blood on your skin, and places you down gently. You moan at the feeling of his warm, hard body against yours. 

It’s all frantic, the way you grab at each other, the way you kiss and bite all over, the way your hands push at the leather holster on his shoulders. You shove it to the ground with a clunk, then grab at his blood-stained white shirt, the force of which pulls apart the buttons.  

With a whimper, Titus lets you rip the shirt open and scratch down his chest, as your lips move to kiss over each little cut left by the trees on his cheek.  

Mournfully, Titus pushes back, just by a foot, to get a better view of you. Both your chests are heaving, rising and falling from the rapid breaths you both release, the same rapid beating of your hearts, but he can’t take his eyes off the white lingerie set, lacy and soft, that you put on just for him. 

“You look like an angel,” he says breathlessly, eyes full of awe. 

Even if you weren’t covered in little splotches of blood, you’d still find the comparison to be hilariously ironic, in a place like this. You reach out, fingers wrapping around the pendant you gave him, and you tug him forward with the chain, pulling his warmth back into you. Your tongue licks at the cut you’d left on his lip.  

“Titus, stay with me,” your voice is low, velvety. You link your free hand with his, spread your legs just slightly, and bring the hand between them. “When I was watching you out there...fuck. It was everything I wanted, everything I thought you’d be. You’re so fucking strong, so fucking terrifying, my big powerful man.” 

“Yeah?” A wicked, toothy smile breaks on your husband’s face, eyes wild. “I look like a monster?” You’re nodding before he even finishes asking. He flattens two fingers against the thin layer of lace that covers your slit, soaked through completely. “That monster is all yours. I told you I would kill for you, my love. They could make me fight a gauntlet of a hundred fucking useless vipers like that thing, and I’d destroy them all for you.” 

“I know,” you moan. “I loved it. Everyone in that room could see it, they all knew what I wanted to do you, to thank you...to reward you.” 

“You don’t need—" 

“Shh,” you let go of his hand, press those fingers to his lips instead. A shudder runs through you when he reacts by rubbing his fingers up and down your pussy, and your hips buck into him, voice cracking when you continue. “Titus, I want to try again. It’s all I could think about watching you. I wanted you so bad, I was ready to rip my clothes off and run through those woods completely naked so you could fuck me next to his body, I didn’t care who was watching.” 

“Fuck,” Titus’s voice shakes, and his eyes roll back, body contracting even closer to yours. 

“I’m ready to try again, you were right,” you whimper, yanking harder on his chain to pull his attention back to you. “She brought everything here for us. We gave Mr. Le Bail two sacrifices, showed him why we’re the strongest, the most worthy of holding his high seat,” your face falls down into a pout, “and I want you to fuck me, like how you killed your prey, here in the temple you built for me.” 

And Titus hears it in your voice but there’s something else in it. Something rumbling and shadowy under the words, something reverberating in your voice. Something pulls him into a trance, mind zeroed in on only you. 

“Yes, Little Lamb, let’s make an heir.” 

It’s cold when Titus rips himself from your body, running quickly to the shelf to grab the materials, and you rush to grab the knife from the ground. You hear Titus mumbling out the spells as he draws a messy pentagram with chalk in the center of the table. There’s no careful placement of materials tonight, no ceremony about it, Mr. Le Bail will have to forgive you. 

Titus’s fingers shake as he lights a match to set the heart candle ablaze. When everything is set, as good as it’s going to get tonight, he pulls you into a deep kiss, ripping the bralette from your body. He just can’t stop himself from leaning down and wrapping his lips around one of your nipples, as your back arches into his touch. 

You tear the rest of his shirt off, careful not to irritate the cut on his arm from the fight. His mouth doesn’t leave, moaning and whimpering as he sucks the hardened nub into his mouth. One of your hands slides into his hair, scratching at his scalp, holding him to you for just a little longer. 

He finally lets go and snatches the knife from you, quickly pricking both of your fingers, kissing you as he draws the symbols on your bodies; a pentagram on his chest and one over your womb. 

You reach down to unbuckle his belt, and you’re about to wrestle him out of his pants, when the memory of a sick thought from earlier shows back up in your mind.  

“Titus, c-could you, um,” you bite your lip, almost too excited to even say it. 

“What, Baby? Whatever you want, you can have.” 

“Can you wear the gloves?” 

A devious smirk cracks onto Titus’s face, and he stands up straighter, looking down at you curiously. There’s no argument when he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the black leather gloves he’d dawned earlier, eyes never leaving your aroused face as he carefully slips them back on. Titus leans over you until your body hits the edge of the alter table, and your back arches on it. His hands land flat on the table on either side of you, strong, muscled arms bracketing your body, trapping you. 

“You want me to fuck you with these on? Oh, Baby,” He laughs, cruel and teasing, and so fucking turned on. “What me to bruise you with these on? Hm?” He grabs your face and you moan at the feeling of the rough leather on your jaw, eyes shutting from the pleasure. “Want me to treat you like a piece of meat? Like some thing I’m hunting in the forest? Can I spank you with these on too? Hm? Bet it’ll be so much easier to mark you up with leather rather than just my hands. That what you want?” 

“Yes,” you whine, grabbing at his forearms, not to move him, but rather because you already feel your legs going weak, and you need the anchor. “Please, Titus.” 

He does what you want, rears back his hand to give a slap on the cheek. It's lighter than what he’d normally do, but you still react beautifully to it. You let out a quick squeak, eyes going wide but dark, wanting, and your body pulses from the impact. 

“Fuck, look at you,” Titus moans, and he suddenly turns you around, pushing your front onto the table. “So needy for it,” he says, voice quiet, mostly to himself, and full of admiration. Somehow, a small part of him still can’t believe someone like you exists, just for him. He drops to his knees behind you, and tugs your panties down your legs, wrapping them around his wrist for safe keeping. “So needy for me.” 

He slaps your ass, and the leather creates such a delicious sting on your skin. You hiss and he spanks you again, then gives one of your cheeks a quick bite as he stands back up. That makes you gasp and squeak again, and you look over your shoulder at him, eyes wet and pleading.  

You don’t get a chance to beg before he’s spanking you in that same spot again, and as the skin heats, you just know a deep mark is already starting to form. You whimper as he hits you again and again, pussy leaking as you writhe into his touch. 

His hand comes down for the umpteenth time, you haven’t bothered to keep count, and then it grabs your ass, squeezing where he’s left a handprint on you.  

Then, digging his fingers in hard, Titus starts to rake his hand up to waist, and with both he leaves a deep trail on your skin with the gloves. The leather drags and leaves goosebumps as he slides up your sides, over your tummy, up to your chest to grope your breasts, and then back around to your back, up your shoulders, until they stop on the back of your neck. 

With a grunt, Titus, shoves you back down on the alter table, face pressed to the cool, onyx stone. His voice comes out low and scratchy, but with a steely resolve as he continues the ritual, “With thy assistance, may the seed grow in your wisdom and your strength.” 

Your fingers are flat on the alter table, and you feel him move quickly behind you, the sound of his buckle clinking open echoes through the room, reaching your ears like a melody. When Titus presses against you again, you shudder at the feeling of his dress pants on your thighs.  

He didn’t bother to take them off, he can’t wait any longer. He kicks your legs open more for him, and grabs you hard by the waist with one hand, while the other grips his cock. He rubs the head into your dripping entrance, biting his lip at the view of it glistening, overflowing for him. 

“With me, Baby,” Titus grunts, pushing the head of his dick inside you. 

You’re both breathless as he shoves his cock in all the way, chanting together, “Shemhamforash.” 

Titus whines at the feeling of your tight, hot pussy taking him in, practically whimpering as he follows up with, “Hail Satan.” 

He doesn’t give you a single moment to breathe before he’s pulling out and quickly driving back in, hips meeting your ass with a delicious slap. He’s spent the last ten months memorizing every little thing that drives you crazy, and he proves it every time he’s inside you.  

“Nobody could ever fill you like this,” Titus grunts, setting a brutal pace, as a hand slides up the ridges of your spine until it twists in your hair. He yanks you back hard, ripping a surprised yelp from you, then swats at your ass again. “Hmm? Who were you fucking made for?” 

“YouYouYouYouYou, Titus,” your voice breaks, cracking deliciously as you chant his name, already so taken apart by him.  

“That’s right, fucking made for me,” He shouts, voice cracking beautifully into a whimper, like he’s desperate to not only remind you, but any force or spirit that could be listening. “You’re mine, my fucking wife, and this is my soaked pussy, and I’m going to fuck you full of my fucking seed.” 

He’s fucking you hard enough to make it hurt, to make bruise, so you’ll feel it for weeks, just the way he knows you love. The way that always got you through when he had to leave you for business. The way that no other woman who’s ever taken him as been able to handle. None of them, no matter how rough he may have gotten, have ever had the true full force of Titus Danforth, but you’ve craved it since you’d met him. 

“Please, Titus, want it so fucking bad,” you mewl. “’m all yours.” 

Any other night, any other context, you’d be slapping him and shoving him back and showing him just how much he belongs to you too, but the ritual requires submission, and fuck it just feels so good to not have to think too much. 

But he already knows what you want to hear, and he’s always happy to show that he knows too. “’nd I’m yours, sweet lamb, body and soul. My sick little monster, I’ll give you everything in this world that you want.” He lets your hair go and you drop to the alter, as both his hands grip hard at your hips as he leans over your back, chain tickling your skin. “Money, homes, my cock, my love, a baby, you’ll have it all.” 

Adrenaline pumps through your veins in thunderous echoes, mouth dropped open as cries release freely. You must look like animals, like a pair of demonic mates fucking covered in blood, moaning and grunting in perfect harmony.  

Your eyes glaze over, only the feeling of his hard cock fucking hard into you, his fingers digging into your skin, his grunts like a drum beat, can break through the jolts of pleasure that ripple through you. 

Titus heaves in deep breath after breath, as his gravely, scratchy voice continues on with the latin parts of the ritual, drawing in the powers of the devil to fill you. The room grows hot as fires grown around you form every sconce and candle and the fireplaces. It’s as you remember from the first time you’d tried it, a new presence entering your space. Your cheek presses to the alter table as you look directly into the fire across from you. 

Even in your trance, your brain a fuzzy cloud consumed only by thoughts of Titus, eyes hypnotized by the flames dancing in front of them, you see something in the fireplace. 

There are eyes staring back at you. Eyes you’ve now seen a few times, and a crooked, fanged smile in the flames. This time you don’t stare in awe at him, no, your wide eyes are filled with determination. This time you beg him. 

“Please, please, please,” your voice is whiny and desperate, raw from screaming. “I want it so bad, I need it. Please,” your voice raises, both in volume and tone, and you wonder if Titus even registers your pleas are not for him. “Please, give us an heir.” 

Behind you, Titus only moans louder, hips hitting into you harder, hands gripping down on you harder, the pendant you gave him bounces against your back. He pulls you up to his chest, one hand wrapping around to hold you there by your tummy, the other glides up to grope at your breast, pinching your nipple between his middle and pointer finger. 

In front of you, Le Bail’s smile grows with the flames, as you feel the blood of your victims begin to shimmer and heat on your skin. This time, you feel a hand wrap around your throat and force you to look upwards.  

You can’t see him, there’s no face in flames looking back, but, as tears slip from the outer corners of your eyes, running in cold tracks down the side of your face, you hear a deep, velvety voice in your mind, “Ask me again.” 

“Please,” you choke out. “Give us an heir.” 

The hold releases and you feel something soft like lips kiss the center of your forehead. You hear laughter and crackling, like little sparklers going off all around you, and then the presence is gone. 

Titus is moaning in your ear, and he licks up one of your tears, lips staying at your temple. The movement of his body into yours hasn’t stopped or slowed down at all, as though he wasn’t aware anyone else was here with you. His hand takes its own place on your neck, forcing you back to look at him instead, finding your eyes distant. “You with me, Little Lamb?” 

“Yes,” you moan, touching your own hand to his, putting enough force to let him know you want him to squeeze down. 

He does so, face twitching into pure admiration, and he cuts off the supply of air and blood to you for a few seconds before releasing, taking in your heaving breaths with a kiss.  

Finally, his rhythm becomes erratic. He shoves you back onto the alter and reaches his hand between your legs. The feeling of thick leather rubbing circles onto your clit sends charges of pleasure up your spine. Your cunt flutters, legs shaking as a peak builds in your stomach, and your breath comes out high and breathy as Titus takes you closer and closer to the edge. 

“With me, baby, with me,” he whimpers, “Come with me while I fill you, sweet girl, fuck, come with me.” 

“Yes, yes, Ti, I-I,” you stutter, words trapped in your throat, and with one particularly hard slam into your cervix, you scream out your husband’s name, begging him to fill you, as your pussy clamps down tight on his cock, and you come with a loud cry. “Titus, fuck!” 

He swears, thrusting into you only a second later one last time, coming deep inside with a moan of your name, body convulsing as he fills you to the brim. “Oh, baby, my sweet lamb, shit, that’s it, took me so well, always take me like a good fucking girl.” 

The fires around you reach their great heights, and a rush of hot air bursts around you, before the lights drop back down again. 

You twitch and whine as you feel him empty in you, warmth filling you as your spent body deflates, and the two of you whisper in unison, “Hail Satan.” 

Your fingers curl up softly, tapping the table as though you’re trying to wake some life in you. Titus kisses up and down your spine, the back of your neck, your shoulders, as he removes the leather gloves and drops them to the ground. 

His bare hands soothe your arms and sides. The touch of his fingers makes you shiver, goosebumps form in their paths, and you wish you could just stay like this all night. You want to keep him inside you, warm his cock until he’s able to go again, maybe let you ride him on the table this time, not for the ritual, just because you want to. 

But you don’t have all night. Titus knows this as he pulls out, turns you so you’re facing him but leaning against the table. You start to let out a whine in protest when you feel him leak from you, a spike of anxiety over wasting it pierces your heart. He can feel that energy from you, and he shoves the come back inside with two fingers. 

The feeling is so good and so right you almost beg him to make you come again like this. 

“Hold on, baby,” his voice is soft, cutting through the needy madness in your mind. You bite your lip as you watch curiously while he unwraps your panties from his wrist with his teeth. Titus drops to his knees, looking up at you with a soft smile. “Lift your feet for me.” 

He peppers soft kisses on your knees as he slips your panties back on, lips trailing your legs, and he pulls his fingers out once they’re all the way in place. He kisses your lower stomach, right over your womb, humming his only silent plea to Mr. Le Bail, as you run your fingers through his sweaty, silver curls. 

“I know it worked this time,” he says softly. 

Just the smallest bit of fear remains in you. His lips meet the place on your tummy where, in your nightmare, Priscilla had pushed the knife in.  

But you shake that doubt out of yourself. Titus is looking up at you with that boyish wonder, that grin that makes him look so young, despite the crows feet around his sparkling eyes.  

“I think so too.” 

Your gaze trails around his body, over each of the freckles that stand out darker than others, the bruises and scratches, little leaking blood droplets from his injuries, and the blood left by his victim from the fight tonight. He must have felt some pain, right? It was a hard fight for a bit there, and Fitz got some blows in, so Titus...he must have been pushing down any pain, for you. 

Your place your hands on his cheeks and pull him until you’re the one looking up again. You kiss his jaw, trail your lips to his, and you both sigh into it.  

“Ti,” you say, rubbing circles on the little cuts on his cheek. “You always take such good care of me. Tonight, will you let me take care of you?” 

He looks unsure. “I was very rough with you—" 

“You won a duel to the death,” You interrupt, voice just as stern as the look you give him. “Now I’m not asking. You’re going to let me take care of you.” 

He purses his lips petulantly, pressing down any argument he’d very much like to make. “Fine.” 

You smile brightly, “Good. Better enjoy it while I’m feeling generous, you know. Because if it took, then for the next few months you’re going to be doing everything for me. Right, Daddy?” 

You’re pretty sure you feel his dick twitch where it’s pressing up against your thigh, and you smirk. 

“Down boy,” you whisper, pressing another kiss to his cheek. “Let’s get you cleaned up, and then we can talk about a round two in our suite. You know, just in case.” 

“Fuck, I love you,” Titus sighs, wrapping you in his strong arms and lifting you while you giggle. This is the you he was missing, sweet and playful and a little mean. And all his, most importantly. His little Lamb, his monster. 

+ 

DANFORTH COUPLE EXPECTING  

Mr. and Mrs. Danforth made an official pregnancy announcement, PEOPLE has confirmed. 

This is the first child for Titus Danforth, only son of late billionaire businessman and political lobbyist Chest Danforth, who passed a little over year ago. 

Mrs. Danforth is said to be in her first trimester, and everyone in the vast Danforth family has been extremely supportive of the couple. Ursula Danforth made a statement congratulating the couple on their “wonderful gift” on her Instagram and is said to be looking forward to transitioning to her new role of Aunt and most likely God Mother. 

The announcement comes as a light in a time of healing for the Danforth family, following the tragic death of the couple’s cousin Felicity and her new husband Fitz. The newlyweds had sadly passed the night of their wedding after crashing their vehicle off a bridge in what police suspect to be an incident of drinking and driving. Their bodies have not yet been recovered. 

“We are brought together as a family in the form of new life after a great loss.” Ursula Danforth concluded in her Instagram post. 

The couple are expecting this fall and are said to be very thrilled. 

⤷ baelor's talons are not the sharpest, but not the dullest either. as said prior, he likes knowing he has ways of besting his opponents if need be or defend himself if by any chance he gets attacked. we have to remember he is next in line to the throne, which means he needs to stay alive and well long enough to have the crown placed upon his brow. he cannot and will not take any chances of being caught defenseless. he might have the kingsguard around, but even then, the odds of being hurt are never zero. dragon hybrid!baelor sharpens his talons just enough to prick at skin if dug into with intent, but never enough to injure if he just scratches lightly at skin, which he does often when you're near. he never draws blood with you, hates to see any of his dragonic features ever being used to hurt you in any way, shape, or form. if it wasn't for you, his talons would be sharp enough to draw blood forthwith, but alas, he takes measures for that never to happen unless willed by him towards people who wish him harm.

⤷ his scales are scarlet in color. they look akin to rubies in the sun, shifting and glittering with the rays of warmth. baelor does not particularly care to show them off, but makes sure they are visible, especially in court meetings or when he is called upon in some corner of the realm on princely duties. he wants people to know he is blood of the dragon, which runs so deep in his veins that even his features took after the ancient beasts people so feared. that is what he wants, for people to make the connection between what once was and what is now, that he is the closest thing to the dangerous, ruthless beasts of time long gone and fit to rule; strong enough to do it. the scaly plates encompass the whole width of his shoulders, swirling up the length of his nape and disappearing into the fine hairs there. they dip along his spine, a cluster of them, like freshly spilled blood, ending in that sturdy, glorious tail. you love the ones along his navel that travel slowly towards the base of his cock; it always makes your pupils dilate with want just at the sight. but you're not so crass as to not appreciate the reddish scales that dust his temples and ears, even a few stray ones here and there down his chest.

⤷ dragon hybrid!baelor has horns, but not in the way you might think. they're almost entirely of solid bone, with a cluster of scales at the bottom from where they sprout on either side of his head. the horns are extremely sturdy and rather sharp at the end. in the beginning of your courtship, baelor was worried at times that he might accidentally nip or hurt you with them, but with time, he learned to maneuver around you in such a way that the threat of them towards you is very minimal. it's quite bothersome for him to wear helmets, which is why he asked for one that allows for his horns to sit comfortably inside the steel without hurting him, or simply, to have two gaps at the top for the horns to pop out outside the helmet. baelor ended up wanting both. he wears the latter at tournaments and jousts to intimidate his opponents a little. it's the one time where he can prance around and preen, not weighted down by duty and crown.

⤷ his wings are kept against his back, but not all the way. they're ruddy and wide, the membrane thick and vibrant, expanding way past his body when unfurled fully. baelor commands a room quietly, without raising his voice, without making a fuss. the dominance is in the way he holds himself: the way he walks, looks, and comports himself. he uses the wings to his advantage, letting them unfurl just enough to shroud his broad back and the width of his shoulders, but not more than that. it's calculated, and it works wonders at letting him take up space and be imposing when he walks into a room, without even needing to speak. sure, he is the heir to the iron throne, and the title demands obedience, but how long would a mere legacy hold courtiers in check if he didn't have proof that he could fill the role waiting for him? having people stepping aside to make room for him fills baelor with pride; of his house, his name, and the man-beast he is.

⤷ baelor's eyes are slitted, like any dragon's. he tries his best not to make it known when he has been slighted, especially in court, but his pupils always give him away. they thin so, so much when something gets on his nerves, even if otherwise his body gives no sign of his irritation. but, in the same measure, when he looks at something he likes, something he loves, something that pleases him, his eyes turn to almost black with the way his pupils expand and widen, overwhelmed by the warmth he feels in his chest.

⤷ dragon hybrid!baelor's tongue is slitted, but just a bit at the end. does not like to showcase such a detail, unless it's with you, and only for your viewing. but there are times when a lord or sycophant says something too daring or out of place in court, and baelor would lick at his lips, letting the tip of his split tongue slither out just a bit, enough to be seen, with the barest hiss, before addressing the offender. it works like a charm in making himself heard and obeyed.

✧ BEHAVIOUR ⤷ dragon hybrid!baelor is all about control and appearance. to the outside world, at least. he needs to appear like he is in control of himself and his dragonic side, especially when members of the court are around. proving oneself does not leave room for mistakes, and no matter how kind and benevolent he is, one slip could crumble it all away. baelor has the favor of the small folk and lordlings alike, and wants to keep it that way until he can feel the cold touch of the crown upon his brow and have the realm at his fingertips. until then, restraint and impeccable etiquette must be exercised every moment of the day in the presence of others. not that it does not come naturally to baelor, but some days are harder than others, and reigning in his more baser, primal instincts proves to be a challenge.

⤷ as the heir to the iron throne, baelor is very busy and well known to be a bit, or more of a workaholic. he dislikes it because it keeps him away from you, his mate, for too long at times. perhaps from an outside perspective, he might seem like a serious, kind husband who will tend to his wife as duty demands, but not much more. that could not be further from the truth, for he craves you even when you are right next to him. you are a balm to his senses, softening the hard edges that come with the incessant demands of duty he is subjected to every single day. there is no better cure for his self-destructive ways of working himself to the bone than a stern look from you or a plea for respite. it shatters every shackle that binds him to his solar, his desk, his stack of letters and reports, and guides him right back to you, where he belongs.

⤷ unfortunately, there are days when he cannot simply disregard duty and has to lock himself in his solar for hours on end, at times the whole day, just to be able to make a dent in all the stacks of papers he has lying around on his desk. it unnerves him, because he is aware that it makes you lonely. a wife should never go too long without the presence of her husband, and he would be remiss in letting you wallow in too much solitude. so, he comes up with a solution that will allow you to be close to him and grant him the possibility of working on his princely duties. he builds nests for you in his solar.

⤷ as a dragon, the urge to provide his mate with a nest is as old as time, and baelor knows how much you love the one he had built for you in your shared chambers, so why not... give you more? he makes sure the necessary materials are the softest gold can buy, from silks to wool to rich cotton, all just for your comfort. the way your face lights up when he offers the idea makes his chest rattle with a pleased rumble, knowing he has made his mate happy. the nests are placed in his solar a fortnight after: one close by the windowsill so you can soak up the sun while you read and knit, one in a more secluded corner, where the temperature drops just a bit, ideal for taking naps and resting, and baelor's favorite, one right under his desk, tucked beneath it, as close to him as possible.

⤷ despite what the realm might think, baelor craves you like no other; needs to be close to you as much as duty allows, and will do anything to make it happen. he loves it when you just curl up onto the nest under his desk, fingers gripping onto the hem of one pant leg or holding onto his tail. it's a heady feeling, having his mate seek him, wanting a point of contact even like this. the beast prowling in his chest almost purrs with delight when he feels you tug as much of his tail as you can towards yourself to cuddle it, cheek pressing against scales as you use it as a pillow while you slumber. baelor always takes a couple of minutes just to watch you, the tip of his tail slowly caressing your sleep-flushed cheek so, so tenderly, unable to help himself from touching, his heart skipping a beat when you unconsciously lean into the contact.

⤷ but, that is not the only way he uses his tail, especially when he has you so close to him, so sweet and warm. spending time next to him, just watching him pore over documents and work himself to the bone, bores you at times, as much as you want to wave it off and continue being a supportive wife. many a time have you enticed him to give in to less... princely endeavours, using all the weapons at your disposal to make his resolve crack bit by bit. a flutter of your lashes here, a whine there, a tug on his tail or breeches, all in favour of his attention, if even just for a few moments. and baelor, your dear dragon, your ever dutiful husband, was powerless to resist for too long, especially when you leaned back fully into the nest, parting your thighs while you slowly inched your skirts up to your waist, showing off your smallclothes, or at times, lack thereof. always wet, folds glistening with your arousal, calling to him like a siren song, he was too enamored of a man to resist.

⤷ do not think that baelor would push his chair back and crawl under his desk after you. no, not at all. work could not wait, now could it? so, he used his tail to give his pretty, needy wife what you so sought after, hands still busy writing letters and grain reports, delighting himself in the sounds of your moans and pleasured sights from under his desk. it was so easy to brush the tip of his tail upwards along the soft skin of your thigh, slow and steady, letting you feel him, building the anticipation before giving you what you wanted, swiping through sodden folds and drenching his scales in your slick. baelor always loved that sharp, breathy intake you took whenever the tip of his tail finally flicked against your clit, circling the sensitive nub in relentless motions, before tapping against it enough to make you gasp but never enough to sting, unless you asked for it nicely. it always reminded you of how your husband loved doing the same thing with the head of his cock whenever you fucked. mimicking the action with the tip of his tail always made you heady and bashful with lust.

⤷ flicking and playing with your clit, dipping his tail just a bit into your wet hole to tease, ever careful not to hurt you, swiping through your folds again and again. baelor does anything to get you to cum as much as you want, multitasking between continuing his work and drawing out the most delicious sounds from your plush lips, letting you soak his tail to your heart's delight, happy that he's able to offer you release. at times, you get so overwhelmed, fingers grasping at his tail, needing something to ground yourself to, ending up pressing the scaly muscle against your soaked cunt and grinding against it, humping it eagerly to get yourself off, whining high in your throat at the feel of the bumps and ridges against your clit. your dragon always finds it so endearing, making sure to curl his tail just right, helping you chase that delicious heat, wanting his wife to never want for nothing.

⤷ he loves to croon at you, even if he cannot see you. "feels good, my sweet?" baelor would hum as he continued writing, a small, pleased smile curling onto his lips as your moans got a little higher at the sound of that rumbled tone of his. "that's it, that's it. good girl." his praise washes over you in waves, bringing warmth to your skin and more slick between your thighs, only getting you to hump his tail faster. "you're dirtying me, my love," your dragon would continue, but not as a reprimand, the candor of his voice too gratified to sound like a reproach. "are you marking me, hm? getting that sweet honey all over my scales? is that how you scent your dragon, sweetling?"

⤷ it gives both of you a sort of thrill. you're under his desk, in a nest he crafted for you, and he cannot see you, the wood obscuring everything you are doing. but he can hear all the sounds, all the whines, everything. the wet noises your cunt makes when the tip of his tail prods at your sopping hole. the rustle of your skirts as you grind your hips. the way your feet and elbows sometimes hit against the side of the desk, making the wood rattle just a bit, his handwriting skittering against paper, making him huff. never angry, always pleased. baelor cannot see you, but he can feel you around his tail, onto it, and hear every single sound your body makes; you make. it's maddening.

⤷ and you have a perfect view of how hard his cock gets. how he spreads his thighs just a bit to relieve some of the pressure, the length tenting his breeches obscenely, making you even wetter. you try not to fall prisoner to the pull in your gut that tells you to move closer, to assist your husband the way he does you. but how could you ever, when you see his cock twitch every time your moans pitch higher because of the way the tip of his tail taps wetly against your clit? how could you not sit up and crawl between his legs, dipping your head to mouth and mewl along his clothed thigh, rubbing your cheek against the hard print of his cock insistently, offering him the friction he so craves?

⤷ he's weak for you, forgoing his papers in favour of petting at your hair, humming as he watches you paw at his crotch, mouth open, tongue licking at him through his breeches. you're so eager, and he's never felt more powerful than in that moment, with his pretty wife between his thighs, willing to offer him pleasure in return. your fingers make quick work of his breeches, whining impatiently until you can get your mouth onto his cock, lips stretched around the girth of him, muffling your noises. "good?" baelor rumbles, letting his talons scrape and pet at your hair, tender and soothing, lulling you along as you suckle and lick at his cock. the expression on your face is serene, almost peaceful, and your husband knows what you need. "rest on my thigh," he coaxes. "hm, yes, like that, my love. good, good. stay like that for me." and you do, mouthing at his cock, swirling your tongue around the length, cockwarming it while it rests inside your mouth. baelor knows this is relaxing for you, even if it takes a lot out of him not to thrust inside that perfect, wet warmth enveloping him, but he holds back, petting your hair, brushing your cheek and crooning soft praise as your eyes lower, half-lidded and drowsy, mouthing at his cock lazily, suckling occasionally. he makes sure to rub your back with his tail, wanting you as pliant and melting as possible.

⤷ of course, your mouth is not the only one being used for pleasure, for there are days when he hauls you from under the desk, placing you flush atop of hardwood, not caring about the papers and ink spilled for once, needing one thing and one thing only: to service you with his mouth. baelor is uncaring if he rips your skirts a little or not as he hikes them up your thighs, revealing your pussy to him, wasting no time in smushing his face right into the slick heat of you, inhaling the musk into his lungs and letting it fester, growling deeply into sodden folds. long tongue, the forked end of it lapping at you with fervor as he holds you against his mouth, tail wrapping around your waist to press you as close as possible, feasting to his heart's content. your juices coat his beard, nose, and chin, the pepper-salt hairs glistening with your slick in the candlelight. he preens at the way you arch off the desk, your fingers threading through his hair to press him further into you, grinding against his tongue until you cum. your husband is more than delighted to pull as many orgasms out of you as possible until you're spent and boneless.

⤷ he doesn't wash off the scent of you from his beard. baelor leaves it there until the morrow, way past when the council has finished, loving the thought of having your scent clinging to him, just as his is all over you, for he had nuzzled you incessantly before leaving your bed that morning. your husband never lets you leave his side until you reek of him, wanting every single courtier that comes into contact with you to smell him in you first, and then your sweet scent warping around his own. a dragon needs to protect his treasure, to hoard it close and deter any grubby paws from touching it. baelor always leans close and sniffs at you at the end of the day, when you both retire to your chambers, nose pressing to skin and clothes and hair, making sure there are no other scents cling to you. only his. only ever his.

⤷ scenting you so thoroughly ties into the need for him to breed you every time he fucks you. rutting into you deep and slow, too frustrated from working so late into the night, sometimes knotting the air, too eager and wound up, his body not having the patience to be all the way inside. but then again, having the pleasure to stuff you full, nudging his fat knot inside of your wet hole, groaning "shh, i know, sweet girl, i know." as the girth stretches you wide, one broad palm smoothing down your back soothingly to coax you to relax. "s' too big, hm? but you can take it, my love. just a bit more." when he's finally all the way to the hilt, your walls squeezing around his knot so deliciously, he can't help but blanket you with his body as he fills you again and again with every snap of his hips. "so good. gods, you're so warm, my heart. just right for my clutch to grow."

⤷ and a clutch will eventually grow, for baelor is sure to keep his cock inside you as deep as it'll go, his knot keeping all his seed where it needs to be: in your womb.

⤷ as much as he loves the heated moments, your dragon also wouldn't trade the tender ones for the world. the way you ask the maesters to prepare oils and creams for his scales and horns, your gentle fingers rubbing them in so carefully, making sure to get the salves in all the ridges and crevices. baelor's scales are so shiny afterwards, making him preen with delight when you fawn over them, admiring the way your dragon looks, all pampered and taken care of. you love helping him like this, making sure he looks impeccable for court, for the realm, feeling warmth in your chest when you see how regal and powerful your husband is, scales glistening in the light like rubies.

⤷ even as busy as he is, baelor would always put you first, the realm is his duty, but you are his heart. he cannot imagine not having you close as his wife, his mate. having you close is no longer a need, but a constant in his life. wrapping himself around you as you sleep, tail curled around your waist or thighs, pressing you flush to him as he scents and sniffs at your throat and hair, whispering how much he loves you, how blessed he is to have one such as you next to him. his duty to the realm is, by extension, his duty to you, as well. baelor wants to make the seven kingdoms a better place so you can live and exist in a better place, safer, happier, less concerned by misfortunes. he truly wishes no harm to befall you and will do everything in his power to make sure that one day his wife breathes with less weight on her shoulders because he willed it so.

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Beside you, your husband stirred, half-asleep. "Another one?"

You didn't answer right away. You rarely did, not until you untangled whatever message your mind brought you. As you grew older, it was easy to discern what was simply fear, or what was a dream.

This time, though, your fears became reality in your dreams.

You slid out of bed, feet pressing against the cold floor. A thick beam of moonlight came through the window, illuminating your skin as you stood before the night sky.

"My father is dead," you said finally, your voice raspy.

That got his attention. Ormund sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "You're certain?"

You nod. Your mind was racing, already three steps ahead to the conversation you had been waiting to have for years. "The raven will come by morning. Otto wastes no time."

Ormund was quiet as he climbed out of bed, coming to stand behind you. His thick arms wrapped around your waist, his face nestling into the silver strands of your hair.

"Let's go back to bed," he whispered in your ear. "Tomorrow will be a long day. I'd rather we sleep before deciding."

There was no reason to discuss what choice stood before you. The boy or the firstborn. Rhaenyra or Aegon.

"You're the Lord of the Hightower," you murmured, your voice soft. Your hands began to run over his arms, feeling the muscle beneath your palms. "This is a decision you make. Not Otto. Not anyone."

"I know what I am." His grip tightened, not unkindly, but enough to still your hands against him. "I also know my wife well enough to recognize when she's working a man rather than speaking to him."

You stilled.

"You think I don't feel it?" he continued, quieter now, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Three years, and I've learned the difference. When you touch me because you want to, and when you touch me because you want something else." Ormund turned you gently in his arms, until you had no choice but to look at him. "Which is this?"

For once, you didn't have an answer ready. It was hard to speak when his eyes pierced into you, causing your knees to buckle and heart to race. It was the reason why you had given him two children already. And one more within the year. A piece of information you'd store for later.

"Both," you admitted. It cost you something to say it plainly, though you didn't let it show. "Can it not be both?"

Something in his expression shifted. His wariness gave way to something closer to exhaustion; the particular tiredness of a man who loved a woman he could never fully untangle from the blood she carried.

"It can be," he said at last. "But not tonight."

"Ormund-"

"Tonight, you are my wife, and I am tired, and the realm can wait till sunrise to fall apart."

He drew you back towards the bed before you could argue. Despite yourself, you let him, feeling grief weigh on your skin already.

When Otto Hightower handed you to him like a piece of signed parchment, the alliance felt less like a marriage and more like a tactical capture. Your bloodline stood fiercely with Princess Rhaenyra, bound by oaths to the late King's chosen heir.

To you, Gwayne was the very body of the usurpation—the brother to the Queen who coveted the throne, the face of the creeping green shadow slowly overtaking the Red Keep. You were deeply put off by the factional taint of his name, constantly on your guard, waiting for the claws to show beneath his courtly exterior.

Yet weirdly enough, he treated you with a devastatingly polite distance, an immaculate chivalry that left you feeling like a guest in your own life.

He would offer his arm, he would hold doors, he would speak kindly. And yet your heart remained shielded deep inside your chest.

But despite the effort you had put into keeping your walls high, the change from formal to something soft and living occurred without a sudden declaration, almost escaping your notice. It was an accretion of unwritten truths.

It was discovered first in the gradual unraveling of his voice.

That clear instrument he used to command guards and placate lords slowly dropped its courtly register when the armours were cast aside. In the glow of the burning candles, away from the prying eyes, his speech became a gentler, more fragmented thing, meant for your ears alone.

He did not demand your submission, rather, he surrendered his own vigilance. You watched the rigid set of his shoulders slowly relax the moment he crossed the threshold into your chambers. The room ceased to be just a place where he slept, it became a place where he was permitted to bleed off the poison of the court.

There was a profound, unhurried tethering. He would often sit near your window while droplets of rain lashed the stone, his fingers idly tracing the embroidery of your clothes, calmed simply by the sound of your breath across from him.

One evening, he returned from an exhausting meeting with his father, his eyes dark with the weight of Otto’s demands. He sank to the floor beside your chair, burying his face in the fabric of your skirt.

“Gwayne?” you whispered, your fingers threading through his hair. “What did he say?”

“Do not ask me of the world out there,” he grunted, his voice a muffled rasp against your velvet gown. “Let me stay here for an hour. Just an hour where I do not have to be my father’s son. Tell me something ordinary. Tell me about the animals in the garden, or the book you read today. Anything.”

“I saw two lovebirds building a nest on the tree by the wall,” you murmured, your voice instantly soothing the nerves in him. “It reminded me of us.”

He leaned his head back against your knee, looking up at you with burning fondness that made everything else fade into background noise. “Mm, did it now?” he teased, reaching up to press a kiss to the center of your palm. “The gods help me, I am utterly helpless against you.” He let out a sigh.

Then lived those moonlit hours when the pressure of the world dissolved into the linen of your bed.

In the quiet aftermath of your intimacy, when the frantic heat had slowed to a languid warmth, he would hold you in the dark. His hands moved with gentleness across your bare skin, tracing the curve of your collarbone and sweep of your hip as if memorising the boundaries of a world he couldn’t bear to let slip away.

You would be flush against his chest, your head tucked beneath his jaw while his fingers idly brushed strands of your hair. His breathing would slow, heavy with the exhaustion of the days he carried, but his embrace never faltered. He would press his lips softly into the crown of your head, his chest lifting with a content sigh.

In those stolen hours, he belonged entirely to you. There was a night when the two of you refused sleep, consumed in conversation. He laid with his hand resting flat against yours, his eyes fixed on the canopy above as if tracing the map of a life he actually wanted to live.

“When the spring comes, I want to take you away from this place,” he had murmured, “perhaps to your father’s halls. I want to see the cliffs you spoke of, where ‘the wind smells of salt instead of rot,’ if I recall your words correctly?”

A breathless giggle escaped your lips, a spark of incandescent joy warming your chest. You turned in his embrace, your fingers brushing the hair from his eyes, your face alight with excitement.

“Only my father's halls?” you questioned, leaning up on one elbow to look down at him.

“Gwayne, if we manage to escape the jaws of this castle, I am not letting you slip away so easily. We must go to the cliffs, yes, but then you must take me to the Reach. You promised me once that we would walk through the bed of roses in the summer. We can pack nothing but wine and bread, and forget that the city ever existed.”

Gwayne watched you, his gaze tracking the curve of your smile, a look of helpless adoration softening every hard line of his face. A laugh rumbled in his chest as he reached up, wrapping his hand around the nape of your neck to pull you down into a sweet, lingering kiss.

“The Reach, the ruins, the edge of the world,” he whispered against your lips, his arms tightening around you as if you were going to disappear if he let go. “Wherever you wish, my love. A hundred different places, if only to keep that look in your eyes.”

You rested your cheek against his chest, listening to the reassuring thud of his heart. You fell asleep weaving those foolish, beautiful dreams into the dark, utterly convinced that the man holding you would sooner slaughter the world before he ever let a single drop of rain fall on your happiness.

Yet the air of King’s Landing grew relentlessly venomous, thickening with the acrid scent of treason.

In those breathless months following Aegon’s coronation, the peace you had inhabited with Gwayne was instantly exposed for what it was. A fragile ornament crushed beneath the heel of his father’s ambitions.

While the capital continued adjusting to the rule of the Greens, your house remained a stubborn holdout. Your father refused to acknowledge the new king, holding fast to his oaths to Rhaenyra. To Otto, your bloodline was no longer an honorable ally, but a defiance blocking the road to the iron throne that could not be suffered to endure.

Then came the ravens from east.

You learned of the coming storm not from a herald, but from the terrifying silence that occupied Gwayne when he returned to your quarters after a council meeting. He stood before the window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

“The ultimatums were returned unopened,” he said. His voice lacked its usual warmth. It was a hollow sound that seemed to sap heat from the room. “Your father remains loyal to the princess.”

The blood in your veins went solid. You knew the volatile nature of the men who sat at Aegon's right hand.

You knew that if Criston were unleashed upon your childhood home, there would be no mercy, and if Prince Aemond took to the sky, your heritage would be reduced to ash before the week's end.

“What will they do?” you whispered, crossing the room with frantic steps, your fingers catching his sleeve. “Gwayne, please. Speak to your father, or perhaps your sister. Let me send a rider– let me plead with–”

“It is past the point of letters,” Gwayne interrupted softly, finally turning his gaze to meet yours. He reached out, his palms framing your face with a tenderness that felt terribly final. “Cole demanded the vanguard. He wanted to make an example of your house...”

A muscle leaped in his jaw as he swallowed down whatever pride remained in his throat. “I kneeled before the King in front of the council. I begged for the vanguard myself. I told them a Hightower sword must lead the assault to ensure the territory is secured cleanly. I… I gave them my word.”

You stumbled backward, pulling out of his touch as horror bloomed beneath your ribs.

The man who had spent his nights finding solace in your arms had just bartered for the right to destroy your life. “You asked for the command?” you breathed. “You are marching against my blood?”

“It is better this way,” Gwayne insisted fiercely, closing the distance between you and grasping your shoulders desperately. “Do you not see? If Cole goes, he will put every soul bearing your name to the sword. If Aemond flies, your home becomes a sepulcher. But if I go, I can dictate the terms.”

A harsh, broken laugh escaped your throat, tears of raw fury finally spilling over your lashes. “And I am supposed to thank you for that? I am supposed to welcome you back into this bed with the scent of my home’s burning fields on your skin?”

“I have sacrificed my own honour for this!” his righteousness flared, his grip tightening on your shoulders. “I am doing this to shield you! I am doing this because I love you!”

“How dare you call this love?” you yelled, the words tearing from your lungs. “You do not love me, Gwayne. You loved a political knot that grew compliant in your hands. You loved having a place to crawl into when your father’s weight grew too heavy for your perfect shoulders. But the very moment the world demanded you choose between the Hand’s ambition and my survival…” you shook your head, your lower lip quivering. You couldn’t bring yourself to continue.

Gwayne’s face went pale, his hands dropping to his sides as if you had just stabbed him.

“If I do not hold the torch, the fire consumes us all!” he barked back, his voice laced with desperate pain. His eyes flashed with a devastating wildness you had never seen in him before. “Would you prefer Criston and Aemond? Tell me! Would you rather I let them lead?”

“I would rather a husband who did not look at my family’s ruin and call it an immaculate gift,” you spat, backing away from him until the wood of your vanity pressed against your spine.

You looked into his eyes, searching for your husband. Your Gwayne. But you found only a knight. One trapped in the machinery of his father’s war. He truly believed his compromise was a holy mercy. He believed that by becoming the executioner of your past, he was preserving your future.

Three days later, Gwayne rode out through the King’s Gate at the head of a thousand spears, your favour still braided into the hilt of his blade.

He left you alone with your thoughts, left only to count the heartbeats until the sky turned to smoke.

The weeks did not pass. They accumulated, settling over your shared rooms like the fine grey dust that drifted from the lower yards.

Every midnight, you would collapse onto your knees before the small carved altars in the corner of the castle’s shrine, your skin shivering against the cold stone as you pressed your palms together. But the moment you opened your mouth to plead with the heavens, your throat would lock. You discovered, with a sickening horror, that you no longer knew how to pray.

Did you beg the Smith to strengthen your father's walls, knowing it meant Gwayne would be butchered at the gates? Did you beg the Mother to shield your husband, knowing his survival required the destruction of your childhood home? Your words became choked and useless in the dark—a terrible realization that the gods could not bless one half of your heart without utterly destroying the other.

Then came the day when the bells of the sept did not toll for prayer, but clanged with the triumphant roar of victory.

The heralds in the courtyard shouted of a rebellion quelled, of a defiant house brought to its knees by the righteous hand of the King’s vanguard.

They were cheering for the execution of your blood.

When the doors to your bedchamber finally opened, it revealed a man who looked as though he had been dragged out from the deepest pit of seven hells.

Gwayne stood in the entryway. The knight of Oldtown, the man who had meticulously memorised the curves of your skin in the dark, was long gone.

The silver lines of his armour was caked with layers of soot, the plates dented and covered with dried mud. He carried the suffocating stench of charred timber, along with the sickly sweet metallic tang of blood.

His breathing was frantic, chest heaving beneath the metal as his eyes searched for you. He found you sitting by the cold hearth, a ragged sound escaping his throat. He took a reluctant step toward you, hands reaching out blindly.

“It is finished,” he choked out, “Your sisters are in custody, but they are breathing. They are alive. I secured it.”

You didn’t rise to meet him.

“And the cliffs, Gwayne?” you whispered, your voice dangerously level. A hollow timbre of a woman speaking from inside a grave. “How do they look now? Does the wind still smell of salt? or did you choke it with the debris of my father’s halls?”

Gwayne stilled, his outstretched hands hovering in the empty space between you. “Your father would not bend!” he pleaded, dropping heavily to his knees before you, the metal of his armour striking the floor with a mocking clang.

He reached out, filthy fingers desperately clutching at the fabric of your gown, mimicking the exact posture of surrender he had used weeks ago when begging to take the vanguard.

“He wouldn’t look at the terms. If I hadn't swung the blade clean myself, Cole would have left him tortured! I gave him a clean, honourable death!”

“Do not lie to yourself to make your sleep easier,” you muttered, and for the first time, your eyes shifted down to look at him, cold and unblinking. “You didn’t break your soul to save my family, Gwayne. You found it. It looks exactly like your father’s.”

An agonizing sob tore from his throat. He buried his face in your skirts, his shoulders shaking as he wept, pleading for your love, the fingers combing through his hair, the soothing voice.

But you remained frozen. You did not touch him. You could not.

As the sun set, you were not permitted time for mourning. The maids were sent, their trembling hands forcing you into a gown of emerald silk. They pinned your hair back with golden needles, and paraded you down the stone corridors like a prized trophy of war.

The hall was deafening. Lords and ladies drank from their golden chalices, their laughter bouncing off the walls, while musicians played a spirited tune to celebrate the crushing of the rebellion.

At the high table, you sat motionless. You didn’t touch your wine, didn’t look at the feast before you. You sat perfectly straight, your wide eyes staring vacant into the middle distance.

To your right sat Gwayne, washed clean of the soot and blood. His hand rested flat against the small of your back—a frantic touch that had been there for hours, silently begging for even a flinch, a glance, a single tear to prove you were still alive.

From your left, a shadow fell over your plate.

Otto Hightower stepped slowly toward you. He looked to be unbothered, his face a mask of serene statecraft. He leaned down slightly, placing a cold hand on your shoulder.

“A tragic business, my lady,” Otto murmured, his eyes scanning your blank profile with the curiosity of a master checking on a piece of chess. “Your father was a man of honour, but regretfully, honour without wisdom is a short lived thing in this world. It is a mercy that Gwayne arrived in time to spare your sisters from a traitor’s end.”

Otto’s fingers tightened slightly—a subtle warning disguised as a gesture of comfort.

“The King notices your silence.” His voice dropped into a pragmatic register. “You are a Hightower by law and by blood now. Smile for your King. Speak to your husband. Let the court see that the rebellion is truly dead.”

Otto then paused, waiting for your compliance, waiting for the polite response you had been taught since birth to give.

You gave him nothing. You remained horrifyingly still, an exquisitely dressed corpse sitting in the center of their victory.

Beside you, Gwayne let out a sharp breath, his fingers digging into your waist as he looked up at his father. He wanted Otto to stop. But he merely sighed, a flick of disappointment crossing his features before he pulled his hand away and dissolved back into the crowd of cheers.

Across the hall, a lord raised a goblet, his voice booming over the chatter as he toasted the victory of the Greens, explicitly naming your ancestral home as the nest of traitors that had finally been cleansed by the righteous steel of Ser Gwayne.

The noise that came after shook the very foundation of the castle. Gwayne closed his eyes, his forehead pressing forward as he shattered beside you.

But your eyes were no longer vacant.

Your body had not moved an inch, but your flat gaze had slowly drifted down to the linen table cloth.

Resting just inches from your motionless hand was a small, silver knife, laid out for the final course of the banquet. The torchlight caught the polished steel of the blade, reflecting a tiny glint of fire.

You didn’t care about the roar of the crowd cheering for your father’s execution. The hall faded into a distant, muffled hum as your unblinking eyes locked onto the silver with clarity.

It was a promise of an exit, a way to finally wash yourself clean of their green banners and go home to the salt-swept cliffs where your father was waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You motion your head towards the shelves across the room.

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

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

“Yes?” he presses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get in the bath,” you command.

So Ormund gets in the bath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Things are different in the south, but I told you,” Robb said, making you narrow your eyes at him. “He cannot run to you crying every single time he’s scared.”

“Because winter is coming?” You mimicked his deep voice with his northern accent. “He’s a child—”

“You’re not his mother.”

You threw your head back with an impatient—and very unladylike—groan, then glared up at him.

“I know very well I’m not his mother, Robb,” you said. “Would you like to be reminded the reason why he runs to me crying?” You pointed at the door of the solar. “Because his actual mother is by his sick brother’s bedside, waiting for him to wake up!”

“Bran will wake up,” he said. “And in the meantime, Rickon needs to understand what is expected of him as a Stark.”

“And are the Stark babes born fully in control of their emotions?” you snarked. “Is that what happens? Did you all come out holding a sword and told the midwife the north remembers?”

“Quite the criticism from the girl whose midwife had to wear silk gloves to tend to her.”

Your mouth fell open with a gasp.

“Those were my nursemaids!”

“My apologies,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Of course. Your nursemaids.”

“And we’re not talking about me right now, we’re talking about the fact that Rickon is terrified—”

“And he’s going to stay terrified if you keep coddling him.”

“No, he’s going to stay terrified if he feels like he has to deal with this alone.” You crossed your arms. “I understand that things may be different in the north, but mayhaps it’s high time you reconsidered it when it comes to Rickon—”

“I’m doing what my father would have done,” he told you, “if he were here.”

Of course.

Of course Ned Stark could do no wrong in Robb’s eyes as a father, so Robb wanted to walk the path his father carved.

…Except, it was quite obvious that he was refusing to address a very specific situation that had been taking place since Lord Stark’s departure. While ruling in his stead, Robb was making some changes, especially now that Lady Stark was confined to Bran’s chambers and was not seeing any of it.

“You do realize I was trained in politics as well?” you asked. “Do you honestly think I don’t know the reason why Jon is in the room in almost every meeting you hold with the northern lords ever since your father left? Something he didn’t do when he was indeed here?”

A blush spread over his cheeks and reached his ears as he averted his eyes from yours like he was caught doing some mischief.

“My brother being by my side is no politics,” he mumbled way too fast as if he had already practiced the answer in his mind, and you rolled your eyes.

“Robb, come on now...”

“It is not politics.”

“It is if you’re making your vassals perceive his presence,” you taunted him, moving about in the solar. “It is indeed politics if you’re legitimizing his status by your side even if it’s not in name. Which is more than alright, you do that. But don’t pretend it’s not political, when you and I both know what it signals to your vassals about the future.”

“Jon is not who we’re talking about right now,” he insisted, eager to change the subject. “Rickon is. He’s not going to learn the ways of the world if he thinks you’ll be there every—”

He was cut off when someone knocked on the door and a servant’s voice reached inside.

“M’lord, the blacksmiths from Wintertown are in the Great Hall.”

Robb ran a hand through his hair, the familiar gesture almost making you smile before you looked over your shoulder at the door, then turned to him.

“And once you’re done with your duties of the day, you must talk to your mother,” you said. “She hasn’t been out of that room for days now.”

He nodded with a sigh and stood up from his chair. It appeared that Grey Wind decided at that moment that he had been patient enough, because he padded across the room to nudge at you, pushing you back with his snout in the process. You cooed at him and scratched at his head.

“Can we—” Robb started, but this time it was Barbrey who knocked on the door.

“My lady, the carpenters are ready for you.”

“Thank you!” you called out while Robb tilted his head in confusion.

“The carpenters?”

“Oh, I…” You cleared your throat. “When we first visited Wintertown, you said more and more people would arrive there now that the maesters announced the arrival of autumn. Farmers and villagers and mountain clans.”

“Mm hm.”

“And you said they send women and children and the men stay behind, if the winter is hard,” you added. “So I thought um—I thought if children are going to be away from their fathers not even knowing they’ll see them again, even the smallest gesture of hospitality could help them and their mothers feel some comfort. And I came up with a plan.”

“Shocking,” he said, though it seemed he was battling with a smile. “What is it?”

“I— alright, so before you say no,” you said, shifting your weight. “Promise me you’ll listen first.”

A laugh climbed his throat as he rounded the table, then leaned back to it. “What did you do?”  

“Regardless of the north or south, all children like toys,” you said. “So I will ask the carpenters to make some toys for the children who will arrive here, or any of the nearby castles. And I’m actually going to hit two birds with one stone, because when I first shared it with my ladies-in-waiting, Alys said the carpenters might need some help with that, and I found a solution to that also!” You bounced on the balls of your feet, pride distracting you from your anger just now. “The carpenters here and in Wintertown will hire the orphans without jobs, so that they can get the help they need, and those poor orphans can learn the tricks of the craft and get paid. They’ll be the ones making the toys. And once all that is done, they’ll have a job that can make it possible for them to earn money not only here, but wherever they want!”

His eyes softened, a smile pulling at his lips.

“I’m told most of the toys—if they have any—pass from sibling to sibling for many smallfolk, so mayhaps having something of their own may cheer them up a little,” you said with a shrug of your shoulders. “I doubt it’ll look perfect, but it’ll be theirs.”

He took a deep breath, then reached out to grab your hand so that he could pull you closer to him, his thumb caressing the back of your hand while he wrapped an arm around your waist.

“We can argue about it,” you informed him, making him huff out a laugh. “But we’re expected, so it’ll have to—”

“I think it’s a great idea,” he told you and your eyes shot up to his.

“You do?”

“Mm hm.”

“No arguments? Because I practiced.”

“You practiced for arguments?” he asked with a confused frown, but before you could answer, Barbrey knocked on the door again.

“My lady.”

“I’m coming!” you called out and stepped out of his arms much to his displeasure, walking backwards to the door. “And I meant what I said about Rickon.”

He shot you a look. “So did I.”

“I suppose we’ll have to argue about that instead,” you pointed out and gave Grey Wind a quick peck on his head. “Lucky for me, I practiced for that too. I’ll find you later.”

 With that, you pulled open the door and walked out of the room to make your way down the hallway with Barbrey following you in a haste.

Your conversation with the carpenters took longer than you had expected. After it was done, you and your ladies-in-waiting had spent some time with Rickon playing the games he wanted until Maester Luwin came to take him away, and it was only then you realized just how tired you were. You figured you could take a short nap but visiting Lady Stark in Bran’s room before that sounded like a good idea, so you gave your ladies-in-waiting leave until dinner time while you made your way to Bran’s room, but before you could reach his door, you heard your maid Kyra’s voice.

“M’lady!” She rushed through the hallway, holding a cup. “Your tea.”

“Oh thank you Kyra, you’re the sweetest.” You took the cup from her as the door opened and another maid stepped outside, carrying an untouched plate of food that no doubt was supposed to be Lady Stark’s breakfast. The smell of eggs turned your stomach, making you grimace and you held your breath until she walked away with the plate. You lifted the cup to inhale the sweet scent of your tea before you took a sip, then smiled at Kyra.

“I’ll take a nap after this,” you whispered, approaching the door. “So you can take the time off until dinner.”

“Thank you m’lady.”

You took another sip in an attempt to settle your stomach, knocked on the door and stepped in, Kyra helpfully closing the door behind you.

“Good afternoon, Lady Stark.”

Gods, she was a mess.

And rightfully so. You couldn’t even imagine being in her place right now, with her little boy lying there asleep for weeks and her husband gone with both of her daughters, miles away from her. She was weaving a sort of a talisman, and she only raised her head from it for a second to look at you, her blue eyes red-rimmed with tears and lack of sleep.

“Good afternoon,” she rasped out and you put your tea aside, then took a step towards her after stealing a look at little Bran who laid asleep in his bed with his wolf Summer at the foot of the bed.

“Forgive me for disturbing you, I just wanted to see if you or Bran need anything?”

She shook her head, her whole attention on the talisman again. “No, thank you.”

“I’ve been told I’m quite good at crafts,” you offered. “I imagine you must be tired. I could do that for you if you would like?”

She shook her head again.

“It’s for protection of a child,” she whispered. “Only a mother can make it.”

“Oh,” you said after a beat. “I am not familiar with it, I’m afraid.”

“And I hope you won’t have to learn it,” she said. “I hope your and Robb’s children never need it.”

There wasn’t much you could say to that, so you offered her a small smile, your gaze darting around the room.

“How is he?” she asked, making your head whip up.

“Robb?” you asked back and cleared your throat. “He’s alright. He’s doing a great job ruling in Lord Stark’s stead. But he’s also worried about you and Bran, the whole castle is.”

She nodded slowly.

“Rickon is alright as well,” you added in a haste. “My ladies-in-waiting and I just played hide-and-seek with him. I’m the least familiar with the layout of the castle so I always get caught first, and it amuses him a lot.”

You decided against mentioning Rickon’s nightmares, the poor woman didn’t have to worry about that on top of everything right now.

“And I wrote to my brother,” you said. “Arys. He’s studying to be a maester at the Citadel as you know, and he’s incredibly smart. Perhaps he’ll have some ideas as to how we can help Bran.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate that.”

“Of course.”

A silence fell upon the room, and you fidgeted with your bracelet before taking a deep breath.

“Lady Stark, if you would like to rest—”

“I cannot,” she cut you off, her voice hoarse. “Bran needs me.”

“And I will send for you immediately if—when he wakes up,” you corrected yourself. “If he wakes up in your absence. But you must think of your own health as well, not just Bran’s.”

Even you could tell she was deaf to your suggestions, as you knew she would be. You looked from her to Bran and opened your mouth to insist, then changed your mind and forced yourself to smile.

“Please send for me if you change your mind,” you said. “Have a good day, Lady Stark.”

You grabbed your cup on your way out and shut the door behind you, then leaned back to it and let out a breath, closing your eyes.

Robb really needed to talk to her.

You opened your eyes again, then pushed yourself off the door, took a huge sip of your tea, and walked down the hallway to get to stairs so that you could go to your room for a much needed nap.

You were supposed to wake up before dinner.

And this nap was supposed to help you regain some energy.

Neither had happened.

When Robb’s gentle touch on your cheek and his lips on your forehead pulled you out of the depth of sleep, it took you more than just a couple of seconds to get rid of the haze. You let out a small whine that made him chuckle as he pulled back to look down at you.

“Well hello there,” he said, his thumb caressing your cheek. “Are you alright?”

You blinked groggily, now noticing how the room was completely dark.

“What…” you rasped out, kicking the fur covers off of you. “What time is it?”

“Almost midnight.”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

“I wasn’t in the hall for dinner, did you eat?”

You shook your head, hunger clawing at your stomach at the mention of dinner. He pressed his palm on your forehead.

“I can’t tell if it’s fever or it’s because the room is boiling.”

“It’s not fever,” you assured him, pulling yourself to sit up in the bed. “I’m not sick, I…Gods, I wasn’t supposed to sleep the dinner away. My apologies.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said gently. “Rickon has been keeping both of us up for three nights now, you needed it.”

You yawned, rubbing at your eyes.

“Where is he anyway?”

“Rickon?” he asked. “He’s asleep in his own room.”

You dropped your hands to shoot him a look.

“Did you tell him to?”

“No, I just asked Jon and Theon to keep him busy while you were occupied, so he’s been running around the Godswood for the last couple of hours. He should be tired enough to sleep throughout the night.”

A scoff of laughter escaped you. “Robb!”

“I had to find a solution!” he defended himself as he easily got on top of you to settle between your legs, making you giggle. “I haven’t had my wife in ages—”

“Three nights,” you corrected him with a grin and he made a noise of disagreement, cradling your cheek to steal a kiss from you.

“It’s the same thing.”

“And we must—” You swallowed thickly when his lips found your throat. “Um, we— we must fight first because I practiced for it.”

“We’ll fight all you want after this,” he muttered into your neck, his touch making your breath hitch before you grabbed his wrist.

“But I’m hungry.”

That made him pause.

“…Now?”  

You nodded your head when he pulled back to see you better.

“I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” you whined. “Surely you don’t want me to perish.”

“No!” He was quick to assure you. “Of course not, but…”

“But nothing, I’m starving!”

You would’ve been lying if you said the sight of utter torment on his face at the mention of waiting to have you didn’t make you giddy. Lady Olenna had always said being married didn’t mean you couldn’t play with your husband’s patience, and it filled you with a strange sense of pride to see that even though it had been a month after your wedding and he laid with you almost each night since then, he still craved you. You pushed him a little and he got off of you to fall back on the bed with a dramatic groan while you crossed the room to grab your dressing gown to put it on.

“Just tell one of the servants,” he said from the bed and you shook your head.

“I don’t wish to disturb them,” you said. “And I don’t even know what I want to eat yet, I’ll decide it in the kitchens—by the way, did you talk to your mother?”

His hesitation was all the answer you needed, and you spun around on your heels.

“Robb.”

“I didn’t have time.”

“You have time now,” you said. “While I go get myself something to eat. Go talk to her, I’m certain she’s awake.”

“And say what?” he asked, sulking. “She doesn’t listen.”

“I talked to her today.”

He raised his brows. “And did she listen?”

“The point is not whether she listens or not,” you told him as you made your way to him, and he reached out to wrap his arms around your waist, nuzzling to your chest. “The point is that we must talk to her until she hears it. She needs to get out of that room, it won’t...” You trailed off. “It won’t do her any good if she spends her days there.”

“It won’t do anyone any good,” he muttered into your skin and raised his head to rest his chin there. You ran your nails over the nape of his neck, and he closed his eyes for a moment, relaxing under your touch.

“She asked me about you.”

That made him open his eyes again to roll them.

“What for?” he grumbled. “She knows where I have been since my father left.”

…Oh.

Oh you were an idiot for not seeing it sooner, Lady Olenna would’ve been disappointed.

Robb was trying to step into his role as Lord Stark, and this was the first time for him to be able to prove himself as the future Warden of the North, and he was doing a great job but—

But Lady Stark hadn’t even acknowledged it with so much as a word, too worried to leave Bran’s side.

You had to be very careful, because you knew very well that the moment Robb so much as sensed that you could tell he wanted approval, he would refuse to listen and insist that he didn’t need it in the most northern manner. People in the north thought even mere children had to deal with their fears alone with no help or comfort from anyone else, you could already tell the rules were even stricter when it came to grown-ups.

Which was nonsense to you.

But from Robb’s perspective, he had to be the perfect heir and the future Lord of Winterfell, and praise, comfort and reassurance was for southerners, not for the Warden of North.

“I think she was worried,” you said, still playing with his hair. “But I told her not to. Not to sound arrogant, but I was very convincing with the way I was singing your praises.”

Confusion flashed over his handsome features. “Hm?”

“Mayhaps you don’t realize it my love, but you’re doing a wonderful job ruling in your father’s stead,” you said gently. “It’s no easy task, but I think the whole north sees that they have nothing to worry about once the title eventually falls on you for good.”

The light in his eyes softened before he lowered his head so that you wouldn’t see the fire burning his cheeks, but you could see the tips of his ears growing pink, making you bite back a proud smile.

Aw, the big bad Young Wolf Robb Stark blushed at flattery.

You were going to have fun with that information.

He cleared his throat and stood up from the bed, adapting the solemn expression of the north, a frown pinching his brows.

“Aye, it’s—” he said gruffly as if he was trying to pull himself together, though the sight of pink on his cheeks betrayed him. “It’s duty.”

“I’m aware it’s duty,” you said, your voice airy. “And I would’ve loved you if you were Benjen the servant just as I love you as the future Lord of Winterfell who’s already proving himself to the north.”

A playful grin curled his lips. “Is that right?”

“Very much so. That’s why I’m not quite certain if what I say counts here,” you stated, “but I still think it’s important for you to know that you’re doing so well. Duty or not, I’m so proud of you.”

He gawked at you and blinked a couple of times, his cheeks getting even redder.

“It’s my—I—” he stammered. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

Your expression was completely innocent.

“I have no idea what you speak of,” you said, then gave him a bright smile. “Though, you do look so sweet blushing.”

“I don’t blush!” he defended himself, coaxing a laughter out of you as he spun you around to gently shove you in the direction of the door with him following you. “Go eat and come back as fast as you can.”

“But—” you were cut off when he smacked your butt, making you gasp and turn around at the door.

“Scandalous behavior!” you accused him, pointing a finger at him but he grabbed your wrist, that mischievous light glimmering in his eyes.

“You’ll see what scandalous behavior is when you come back,” he told you. “Go.”

“Talk to Lady Stark while I’m in the kitchens!” you called out as you rushed down the hallway, aware of his glances on you until you turned the corner. A giggle escaped you as you went downstairs and made your way to the kitchens, the whole castle asleep as you guessed.

However, your guess turned out to be inaccurate.

You stopped dead in your tracks when you caught the sight of Jorelle who whirled around on her heels the moment she heard you, holding a plate with a piece of cake.

“Hello,” she said after a beat. “I uh…I couldn’t sleep, and I got hungry. What are you doing here?”

“Slept too much and got hungry,” you answered, shifting your weight. “Are those lemon cakes?”

“Oh.” You took the plate from her and went to sit on the table while she leaned back to one of the counters. “Thank you.”

She nodded and turned around to grab a piece, then put it on another plate with a fork and held it out for you.

 “Don’t mention it.” She waved her fork dismissively. “We were going to wake you up, then Lyra said maybe we shouldn’t. Do you feel alright?”

You nodded your head, pushing your fork into the cake.

“I feel groggy,” you admitted and took your fork into your mouth, closing your eyes at the tart yet sweet taste of the spongey cake for a moment. “Gods, this is the best remedy.”

Sometimes you wondered what kind of friends you and Jorelle would’ve made if you met in different circumstances. You were quite certain you would have been close with her, if it weren’t for…

Well.

Everything.

Her family pushing her, the whole north being ready to rally behind her, thinking that she would’ve been better at being the future Lady of the North.

Perhaps the worst part was that you knew very well she would’ve been great at it. She was the personification of the north with her cold and distant beauty even now in the middle of the night with no embellishments; her dark hair cascading down her back in soft waves, her gray eyes gleaming in the dimly lit kitchen.

“Are you certain you feel alright?”

You snapped out of your own thoughts and offered her a small smile.

“Of course,” you said. “How about you? Why couldn’t you sleep?”  

“Ruminating, I suppose.”

You knew you were supposed to keep distant, Margaery would have advised you to keep distant, yet you couldn’t help but ask:

“About what?”

She looked like she was battling herself not to say anything, but then she exhaled through her nose.

“Are—” She stopped herself, then gritted her teeth. “Are southern men always so…full of audacity?”

A huff of laughter you couldn’t stop escaped you, and you nodded your head in a solemn manner.

“I’m afraid so.”

“I thought they were all courteous and knightly in the south.”

You made a noise of disagreement.

“They’re supposed to be,” you admitted. “But being knighted doesn’t mean a man is in fact knightly. What’s happened?”

“Your—one of the southern guests,” she corrected herself mid-sentence, “he disrespected me.”

Your heart skipped a painful beat.

“When you say disrespect…?” you asked and she frowned, then shook her head vigorously.

“Oh no, with words,” she assured you in a haste, making you let out a relieved breath. “Nothing happened. Just a very disrespectful statement.”

“Like what?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Who?”

“I’d rather not say that also.”

You hummed while you chewed on your bite, then swallowed it.

“Well, Silas is unfortunately in Dorne,” you said. “Had you told me before, we could’ve asked him to beat up whoever it was for his disrespect.”

She raised her brows. “You would’ve done that?”

A knowing smile curled your lips and you put your plate aside with a sigh.

“I’m well aware what the north thinks of you and me,” you said. “But there’s still a line. I wouldn’t let you or any other woman be disrespected by a man, no matter how we might feel about each other.”

She stared at you in silence for a couple of seconds like she was at a loss for words, but before she could say anything, hurried footsteps approached the kitchens and Theon appeared at the door, making you frown.

“What is it?”

“There’s a fire,” he said breathlessly. “In the library tower.”

You jumped on your feet, your stomach churning in worry. “Is everyone alright?”

“Aye, but Robb asked me to take you to safety.” Theon’s eyes found Jorelle over your shoulder. “You too, my lady.”

You grabbed Jorelle’s wrist to rush out of the kitchens with her, now hearing the wolves howling outside along with people shouting. Someone started ringing the bell, the sound echoing through the yard and reaching the halls while some of the servants ran past you. You took a look outside the window, the flames shooting from the windows of the library catching your eye and making your breath hitch.

“Gods,” you murmured, “all those books…”

Jorelle tugged at your hand to get you away from the window and you all turned a corner, your head shooting up with the sudden thought hitting you out of nowhere.

“Theon wait, has anyone told Lady Stark?”

“She knows, Robb was with him just now,” he answered while you all approached Bran’s open door. “Either way, it’s—get back!”

He drew his sword and stepped in front of you at the same time Jorelle pushed you behind her with a gasp. Your hands shot up to your mouth at the sight of Lady Stark standing in the middle of the room with blood pouring from the gashes in her palms, and Bran’s wolf Summer standing over a man who laid dead in the corner of the room with his throat torn out, his knife beside him.

“Lady Stark?” Theon stepped into the room with his sword at ready, and she raised her gaze from her hands, still stunned.

“I’ll get Maester Luwin,” Jorelle said and darted, her footsteps echoing in the hallway while you rushed to Lady Stark, your heart beating in your ears.

“I’m unharmed, so is Bran,” she said and you stole a look at Bran who still laid asleep in his bed, then grabbed the handkerchief on the table beside the untouched plate of food to press it on her bleeding palms.

“I’m sorry,” you said in a haste when she hissed. “I’m sorry, we must stop the blood—what happened?”

Her eyes snapped to yours.

“Someone—” she rasped out, then took a shaky breath. “Someone tried to kill Bran.”

Author's note 2 : Thank you so much for reading my loves! This is a friendly reminder that the next chapter will include certain topics that may be triggering, so please make sure to check the warnings. Love you! 🩷