Lady Wura

Blood was drawn from the goat. Sacrifices made. And you were pushed aside in the revelry. You didn't want to enjoy any of it. Not that you could have. You were an afterthought, swept away in the crowd of cultists and freaks, standing along the fringes by yourself while they all drank and celebrated.

Titus didn't spare you a second glance when you left for your room. He had what he wanted. And you knew that your nightmare was just beginning.

You’re in your room when there’s a knock on the door. You tighten the silk robe around your waist and answer, nearly shaking too much to hold the door handle.

"Hello Mrs. Danforth," a man in a white button up nods pleasantly at you. "I have been sent to tend to you."

"Ah- what do you mean?" you ask as he makes his way into your room, opening up the bag that he carried with him. Your mind reeled with the possibilities. Tend to you? Take care of you? Is he here to kill you?

As he unpacks his tools, you realize very quickly that they’re just medical supplies. Gauze, alcohol pads, needle and thread.

The man looks at you, and gestures to the bed. "Please, relax Mrs. Danforth. This won’t take but a moment."

The name still feels foreign to your ears. Mrs. Danforth. Your new title. It’s going to take a while to be able to wear that completely, without it feeling like a mask.

They had done some basic patchwork before the wedding. Bandages and gauze. Barely holding you together at the seams. Enough to make you presentable for the ceremony, that’s it. 

But this is real medical care. You needed it. Every stitch, every swipe of a wound made you bite your tongue, holding back screams. But at least you’re being tended to, and you can only hope that you never have to endure this kind of pain again.

When he’s done, you stay laid out on the bed. He packs up his medical kit, collecting the bloodied rags and wiping away the surfaces, leaving no trace.

"Who-who sent you?" you ask.

"Mr. Danforth," he smiles at you. He said it so calmly, as if the answer was obvious.

He’s out of the room without another word. 

You’re finally alone. Tears well in the corners of your eyes. Tears that you didn’t even realize you were holding in all night. Dawn breaks through the curtains, thin streaks of light fighting their way into the room. A new day, a new beginning. The start of the rest of your life. 

You let out a shaky breath and sit up in the bed, running a hand through your hair. You extend your left hand in front of you, catching the light on your wedding ring.

You hear Ursula's voice in your ears.

I tried looking for the goodness in him. I found nothing.

We can control him, together.

Maybe she was right, there is no goodness in Titus. But maybe she was also right, that he could be- well, not controlled- but gently steered in the right direction.

Hades and Persephone. Death and his wife. Two sides of the same tarnished coin.

The door opens. No knock, of course not. He owns everything, including you, and he’s entitled to whatever he pleases. Whoever he pleases. 

You rise to your feet immediately, wincing at the sudden movement and trying to bite back the discomfort.

"I see you're looking better. All stitched up?" Titus grasps his hands in front him. He looks pleased with himself.

"Yes," you say, giving no emotion away.

He twists the rings on his hand- both the wedding band and the family heirloom- and steps closer to you.

You flinch slightly, taking a half step back. It’s more reflex than anything, conditioned by multiple nights of being chased and hunted. Those hands, one ones innocently twisting at his wedding band, were around your neck not too long ago.

Titus notices. He takes a beat and nods. "I owe you my gratitude," he says. 

There is something strange behind his eyes. The feral bloodlust from last night has faded into something almost human. "I obviously didn't know about the loophole," he continues. "Rather convenient."

"Yeah, convenient," you deadpan. "For you."

"We both win, right? You're still alive. I have what is rightfully mine." His fingers linger on the council ring. His priority.

"Are you here to consummate the marriage?" you spit, venom laced in your words.

"No," Titus shakes his head.

You allow yourself a breath of relief. A small victory in a night of horrors.

"When I have my way with you,” he mutters, voice low, “you'll be asking for it. Begging for more. And I won't touch you until then. You have my word."

The small victory was short-lived, obviously. This is a challenge. To see how long you can last. 

"Then you'll be waiting for a very, very long time," your voice is even, though you’re almost visibly trembling.

"We'll see about that," he nods. Not a threat, just a fact.

There's something in the air between you two. Heavy, and almost tempting.

Without another word, he leaves you in your room to sleep by yourself. You let out the breath you were holding, and collapse onto the bed. Every cell in your body is begging for rest.

And you have your first full night’s sleep since before your first wedding. 

When you wake, the sun is strong and high in the sky. It must be mid day by now. You have no idea how long you slept, but you feel like you’ve been hit by a train. 

There’s a knock at your door. Who knows how long they’ve been waiting for you to gain consciousness. 

"Come in," you grumble. You dig the heels of your hands into your eyes until you see white spots, trying to wake up fully.

A very perky young woman opens the door, stepping in with a stack of clothes.

“Mr. Danforth would like you to come down for a meal before you depart,” she says, her tone much too light and airy for the setting. 

“Depart?” you ask, yawning. Just the simple act causes you to wince, your body still aching and sore. “Where are we going?”

“Home,” she smiles.

It’s unsettling, how pleasant everyone here is. Don’t they know what just happened? What you’ve been through?

Titus clearly has terrible taste in clothing. You realize this when you put on the clothes he has chosen for you. Just bleak, drab, business casual. You wince a little when buttoning the pants, your stitches crying out for sympathy. 

When you go downstairs, Titus is nowhere to be seen. You’re quietly grateful for the opportunity to eat in peace. Again, your first full meal since your first wedding. You don’t realize how weak you’d become until your belly is full again and your senses are renewed. 

A dark escalade pulls up to the front, and you are ushered out the door. Titus is standing outside, talking with the driver. He spares you a sideways glance before climbing into the back seat. You sit next to him, staring out the window the entire time.

“I’ll have your belongings brought to the house,” Titus says as the car peels away, still not looking directly at you.

“I don’t have many,” you say. 

Which is true. The clothes in your dresser. Your favorite books. And the necklace that your mother left you before she died. You were cursing yourself for not bringing it with you. But then, how could you have known that a weekend wedding getaway would morph into this?

Otherwise, there wasn’t much to want. 

“Somehow, that doesn’t shock me.” Titus replies.

You glance at him sideways, and his smug attitude makes you seethe. After everything you’ve been through this week, you should feel relieved that you’re still alive. And yet, you’re chained to this man.

You won’t feel any relief until you’re free from him. 

The house in Newport is not a house. It’s a sprawling estate, of course. Inherited by Titus after his father’s death, the house’s upkeep is its own operation. There’s more people working on the property than were on staff at your last job. Every need is taken care of, so that the Danforths don’t have to lift a finger.

Titus has probably never had to work for anything in his life. And now, you’re going to make him work for your favor. 

“Someone will show you to your room,” Titus says as the front doors open for you. Again, never lifting a finger, these Danforths. 

“What am I supposed to do here all day?” you ask, looking up at the foyer with curiosity. It’s grand and heavily decorated, paintings and lavish accents touching every corner of the space.

“I don’t care,” Titus replies, voice flat, already walking down one of the hallways.

“I’m just supposed to stay locked up in here?” you call after him, tone incredulous.

Titus stops dead. He turns on his heels and stalks back to you. 

Your chest tightens, the image of Titus running after you replaying in your head. 

“Upset with the lodgings, darling?” he says, voice low. “Remember, a golden cage is far more preferable to a goat pit.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, trying to settle the emotions building in your chest. 

“Now,” Titus continues. “Anything you should desire can be taken care of. Want to try horseback riding? Go to the stables. Want to rot your fucking brain all day? The theater room is on the first floor. Go online shopping. Do whatever you want. I don’t. Fucking. Care.” The last sentence is emphasised, his eyes boring into yours. 

“Whatever I want,” you reply, eyes narrow, “except leave.”

Titus relaxes slightly, a smile forming that doesn’t reach the rest of his face. “Now you’re getting it. I knew you had some sense.”

He wraps a firm hand around the back of your neck. Your breath stills and eyes widen, just barely, worried that something in him snapped. That volatile temper of his has decided to just kill you right there.

But he brings you closer and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

Without another word, you watch him walk away. This time, keeping your mouth shut. 

It occurs to you that he could, actually, kill you at any time. Decide you’re not worth the trouble anymore. All of this would have been for nothing if you still end up dead by the end of it. And then Titus will have gotten everything he wanted, like he always has. 

It’s time to make yourself more valuable.

-

The forest on the edge of the property is secluded, just like you want it. You needed somewhere to practice without the prying eyes of the staff. You line up the shot, taking a deep breath. Almost ready, when you hear a branch snap behind you. 

Your arms fall to your sides, head turning to the sound. The tightness in your chest does not ease when you see Titus walk towards you. The only thing keeping you calm is that this time, you’re armed. Just in case.

“When they told me you were out here,” Titus stops just a few feet from you, “I thought I misheard.”

“Nope,” you say, turning your attention back to your practice.

“Of all of the hobbies you could have chosen, and I do mean all of them,” he walks closer, stepping around a fallen branch, “should I be worried that this is what you picked?”

You take a deep breath, fingers light on the blade. You bring the knife behind your head, other arm outstretched in front of you, finding your target. After steadying yourself, you launch the knife. It sinks into the tree. Not into the target, but also not on the forest floor. You take the victory. 

“I don’t know,” you turn to him, wiping your hands on your pants. “Should you be?”

“What’s the matter, nothing good on the television?” he asks.

“Don’t you have some small children to bring to tears or something?” you reply.

“Where did you even get the knives?”

You walk by Titus, jutting your chin out. “Like you said, I can get anything I want here.”

After collecting the knives from the bark, you find your starting point again, with every intention of practicing as if Titus isn’t standing there, watching you.

“You’re choking it,” Titus says. 

You glare at him. “Excuse me?”

“The blade.” Titus approaches you and takes your wrist in his hand, turning it over in his grip. You have the knife in your grasp, fingers gently wrapped around the base of the blade. He gently slides the blade down, so that your fingers are resting at the tip. 

“You have more leverage this way,” he says, voice low. 

Without explaining further, Titus moves his hands to your hips. You still, just barely, breath hitching in your throat. Based on the way his eyebrow lifts, and the corner of his mouth twitches, Titus notices.

He gently positions you, moving your hips so that you are facing him straight on, perpendicular to your target. You wait for his hands to fall away, but they linger just a little bit longer. You can feel his fingers twitch lightly against your hips.

“You will push through with this back leg,” he taps your thigh.

You watch his hands, eyes narrow.

“Now,” he murmurs. The hairs on the back of your neck stand. “Try again.”

Titus brings his hands behind his back and takes a few steps back. He nods, waiting for you to make your move.

You don’t hide the disdain in your face, but square up anyway. Blade behind your head, other hand out towards your target. One deep breath in, and out, and let the knife fly.

It lands right on the target. Not the center, but closer than you’ve been all afternoon. 

Titus flashes you a smug grin. “Good,” he nods, and you hate the way the word runs through you. “Maybe now you’ll be able to hit a sleeping elephant.”

“Fuck you,” you spit, readying your next blade. 

You throw again, remembering what Titus said, and hit closer to the center of the target. Titus’s smug grin permeates your periphery. You roll your eyes. 

“Alright, time to come inside,” Titus extends a hand. 

“I’m not a dog,” you spit. 

“No, and you’re not a child either. You’re going to come with me. Now.” His tone is flat, and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Unsettling as always. 

You collect your knives and walk by Titus, leaving his extended hand hanging in the air.

Titus directs you to your bedroom, keeping a respectable distance as you make your way through the halls. Even after moving to your permanent residence, he doesn’t have you to sleep in the same bed as him. Chivalrous, maybe. More likely, though, his clear disdain for you would ruin his sound sleep.

When you open the door, you realize why he brought you back in.

Your belongings have been delivered. Four boxes, stacked neatly on the floor, with your name printed on the front. Your entire life, reduced to this. You would be ashamed, but you worked for everything in those boxes. It’s all yours.

“Your apartment has been paid off. Furniture sold, and personal effects packed,” Titus walks in behind you. “I’m not sure how you managed to live in such a tiny hovel, though,” he adds, nearly under his breath.

You glare at him, unamused.

“Anyway,” Titus clears his throat, “Let me know if anything is missing.”

“Okay,” you approach the boxes, gently kneeling on the ground to open them.

Old concert shirts, a few pictures, and some well loved novels. You pick up your worn and very annotated copy of The Portrait of Dorian Gray, grateful that it made the trip.

You move to the second box. Then the third. And the fourth. Your movements become more haphazard with each box, hope fading fast. You check the excess packing material, thinking it must be hidden somewhere. Not missing, though. It can’t be.

“It’s not here,” you mutter. Not wanting to believe it, you rifle through the boxes again. 

“What is it?” Titus asks, stepping up behind you. 

“My necklace. The- the heart pendant. It’s not here,” your voice is rising. 

Titus looks at your possessions with near disgust. “I can buy you another necklace-”

“No,” you cut him off, tone harsh. You turn to him and try to decide how much you’re willing to share with Titus. “It was my mother’s.”

For the first time, something softens behind Titus’s eyes. You almost don’t notice it, but there is definitely something different in his expression. Something like empathy, if that’s even possible for him.

“I- I understand,” he nods, tone noticeably softer. “I’ll send someone out to see if it was missed.”

You sit on your bed, arms wrapped around your stomach. “She was a single mom, and tried to give me the world. It was the only thing of value she had to her name. When she died-” your voice catches in your throat. You look up at Titus. His hands are heavy at his sides, clearly not sure what to do at this moment. 

“When she died,” you continue, “it was the only thing I had left of her.”

There’s a heavy silence, a lengthy pause. You retreat into yourself, any bravado you had cut short. Any quips you may have for Titus die on your tongue.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Titus nods and folds his hands behind his back.

He leaves you alone in your room, your whole life reduced to four measly boxes and a broken heart.

-

Titus decides to throw a dinner party. He says it’s to honor the new marriage, and to celebrate the Danforths remaining at the high seat of the council. But this is clearly just a way for the wealthy to live in their wealth. Spending money just to spend. Luxury for luxury’s sake.

Your outfit was chosen by him, of course. You half expected it to be some tacky, gaudy display of horrendous opulence. It’s not like he has proven to have exceptional taste.

But the dress is surprisingly lovely. Lush, deep blood red fabric hugs every curve from your breasts to your hips, then drips down to the floor. Off the shoulder straps leave your collar bone exposed. With minimal beading, it’s much more subdued than you would have expected from him. Not that his wardrobe is particularly flashy, but these events have a way of bringing the tackiness out of people.

The maids finish preparing, leaving you at the vanity, staring at yourself in the mirror. You look beautiful. And you can feel your will starting to erode. You hate how much you like this gown on you. You hate how perfectly your hair is pinned. You hate how your skin is glowing, how well this life fits on you, like the ring on your finger. 

Titus enters the room without knocking. The vest he’s wearing has an ornate pattern on it, blood red, matching your gown. 

“You look beautiful,” he says. 

“Way to compliment yourself,” you roll your eyes, “since you’re the one that picked this out.”

“The dress is nice,” Titus says, standing behind you now, hands behind his back. “You look beautiful. Now, close your eyes.”

“Why,” you glare at him through the mirror.

“Just do it,” he squints at you, patience thinning.

You stare at him for a moment, but he’s unmoving. Finally, you relent.

“You aren’t particularly trusting,” Titus says, voice low. “Then again, neither am I.”

“I wonder why,” you mutter, eyes still closed.

You feel a chain drop down around your neck, and his fingers clasp it behind you. You can only imagine what kind of garish jewels Titus has picked out for you. Without waiting for him to release you, your eyes open, and your gaze falls immediately on the necklace.

Your mother’s necklace. 

A thin, gold chain and heart pendant, etched with an ornate design. Simple, but beautiful. You thought you’d never see it again.

Tears well in your eyes. You blink them away quickly, careful not to ruin your makeup, or let on how moved you are by this gesture.

“How-” you start, but you bite your tongue.

“The servant who collected your things tried to pawn it. Idiot. He has been killed for his treachery." Titus says those words so plainly, and even smiles at you. Like taking a life is as mundane as taking out the trash. 

Your painted fingers move to the pendant, touching it gently, making sure this is real. There is a pang of guilt at the thought of someone dying for this. But you think about what you would have done just to get it back, and suddenly your disdain doesn’t feel as strong.

You look at Titus through the mirror. “Thank you.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, but the rest of his face remains unchanged. Something flashes behind his eyes. Not smugness, but maybe pride. 

“Our guests will be arriving soon. Be sure you are in the foyer to receive them.”

And he leaves as quickly as he entered. 

Dinner is a chore, to say the least. These people, having no real lives or ambitions, have no personalities and no interesting things to say. They comment on the state of the world- which, seeing how far removed they are from it, leads to very shallow discussion. 

You remain silent, picking at the courses set in front of you. Any appetite you had vanished the moment you were seated and were forced into such mindless discussion.

Titus sits at the head of the table, and you at the other end. Every so often, he steals glances at you, and the necklace. But he otherwise does not acknowledge you or your presence at the table.

Somewhere near the end of the meal, you feel something nudge your leg. 

The cousin seated next to you, Jonathan or something, catches your attention. What you thought was a mistake proves to be very intentional when he drops his hand under the table, resting right on your thigh. His gaze is heavy, daring you to make a sound.

“Titus lucked out with you, didn’t he?” Jonathan’s voice is low, lost in the many conversations happening around the table. 

Your entire body goes stiff, unable to decide on what to do. Nothing in your brain materializes on your tongue, and for once, you are stunned into silence. The sheer audacity required to hit on you at a dinner party in your own house, when your psychotic husband is on the other end of the table.

“That is not a good idea.” Your words are weak, but it’s all you can think to say.

Jonathan gives your leg a rough squeeze. “Titus is all talk. We both know he’s not man enough to do what needs to be done,” his eyes drag over you, lingering over your chest and the deep breaths you’re taking. 

You look down the table at Titus, who doesn’t seem to have noticed. He’s locked in a conversation about who knows what. Oblivious to the disrespect happening right under his nose. 

Jonathan removes his hand and settles back in his chair, continuing on as though nothing happened. Your breath finally returns to you. Stupidly, you think that is the end of it. 

When the dinner party winds down, and the men gather in the drawing room for scotch and cigars, you excuse yourself. 

“I’m going to bed,” you murmur in Titus’s ear before slipping away. He gives a silent nod in understanding. 

In your room, you start by taking down your hair and removing your accessories. Your fingers once again linger on the necklace. Your heart squeezes in your chest, thinking of your mother, what she gave up for you. And how much you wish she was here to guide you. The necklace stays on.

There’s a knock on the door. Instantly, you know it’s not Titus. 

He doesn’t knock.

“Come in,” you say, thinking it’s one of the maids sent to help you undress.

The door creaks open, and Jonathan saunters in. He’s holding two glasses of wine in his hand. 

“I figure we pick up where we left off, what say you?” He sets the glasses down on a nearby table. 

“I say you should leave,” you say, backing away slowly. 

Jonathan loosens the tie around his neck. 

“You’re a woman with needs,” he says, stepping closer. It doesn’t take many strides for him to cross the room. “I’m sure you understand that a man has needs as well.”

His gaze appraises you again, dragging over your figure and practically licking his lips. 

“He will kill you,” you spit. 

“He won’t,” Jonathan shakes his head. “Because you won’t say anything, will you?”

Your back finds the wall, trapping you. Jonathan reaches out and tucks some hair behind your ear. “Pretty little wife,” he murmurs. “Pretty little trophy.”

Jonathan bends down and plants a kiss to your collar bone. Testing, to see how you’ll react. He looks up at you, searching for signs of betrayal. 

“Don’t,” you say, voice small. Your hands find his shoulders, and you start to push back. 

When you do, fury flashes in Jonathan’s eyes. This is no longer a game. At least, no longer a fun one. He captures your wrists in one hand and pins your arms above your head. 

“You’re going to take this like a good little whore,” he spits.

His other hand palms your breast roughly.

“I’ll scream,” you bite.

“I’m family,” Jonathan’s eyes are dark, “you’re just some gold-digging slut. We’ll see what happens. Who is believed.”

“Jonathan,” a voice cuts through the air. Angry, uneasy.

Never in your life have you been relieved to hear it. Until now.

Jonathan goes still. He releases you from his grip, and smooths the fabric of his shirt before turning. 

“I was wondering where you went off to. Only to find you groping my wife.” The words are venomous.

“Titus,” Jonathan nods. “Your wife has quite the insatiable appetite, doesn’t she?”

Jonathan’s voice is light, almost jovial. But there’s a tremble in it, and you can see the panic in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting to actually have to answer for this. “She asked me up here,” Jonathan continues, stepping closer to Titus.

Titus’s eyes move from Jonathan to you, looking for something, anything, to validate what Jonathan is saying. A quiet anger simmers below the surface, ready to explode with any excuse.

With everything you have gathered about the Danforths, specifically about Titus, you know what will happen if you out Jonathan and his true motives. His fate will be sealed. And right now, you couldn’t care less about him or his life. You give a near imperceptible shake of your head that Titus understands immediately. 

“Come with me,” he says to Jonathan, turning on his heels and moving quickly from your room. 

Jonathan turns to you, flashing a smile as he walks away. But the smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and you know that he can feel how the air shifted. 

The door closes. You hear hushed voices for just a moment, before the loud bang of a gunshot cuts through the air. 

A heavy thud, then nothing.

Titus enters the room again. You see Jonathan’s legs on the ground on the other side of the door, his lifeless body already worthless, dead weight. The blood splatter blends in with the color of Titus’s vest, but you still see small specs around his collar and on his neck. The gun is still firm in his grasp. 

“Blood is not easy to wash from silk,” he nods to you. “And it’s easier to clean the floors than an entire room, anyhow.” The way he says it so calmly, so rationally, shocks you more than the killing itself.

At this point, after all you’ve been through, the violence should be second nature to you. There have been many sleepless nights spent reliving the lives you’ve taken. Their faces, bloodied and screaming, calling out to you. Asking why. But it was self defence. It was all in the name of survival. That’s what you say to their decaying bodies in your nightmares, at least. 

As horrifying as it is, you hope that you never one day grow numb to these careless acts of violence. 

You haven’t moved away from the wall yet, but your pulse has noticeably steadied. Titus sets the gun down on the table next to the glasses of wine and makes his way to you. 

“You should know,” Titus says, “I will always protect what is mine.”

You take a deep, steadying breath.

“And like it your not,” his voice drops low, “you are mine.”

Titus reaches out for you. This is the first time that you don’t flinch. The first time that Titus has reached for you, and your first thought is not of the possible and very likely damage he could inflict upon you. And has. 

There is no ire in his words. You slide your hand in his. 

“Are you hurt?” he asks, pulling you to the center of the room. 

You don’t argue as Titus turns you away from him. His hands drag from your hips, to your waist, up to your shoulders. 

“No,” you say, voice thin. 

“Good,” he says. 

His fingers find the top button of your dress, undoing it quickly. Your body stills. 

One of his hands lingers on your waist, while the other drags the zipper down your back. Slow and controlled. Your breathing shallows. 

Titus leans in, pressing a kiss to the base of your neck, then your bare shoulder. He pushes the straps of your gown down, the fabric giving way easily under his touch. The satin slips down your body, pooling at your feet. 

You’re left standing in front of him in your undergarments. Compared to the fear coursing through you when Jonathan touched you, this is different. You aren’t afraid, not of Titus. Not now. This feeling is harder to name. It’s almost curiosity. Almost.

Titus’s hands grip your bare hips. The touch shoots up your spine. It’s not bruising, but firm. He’s reminding you that he can, and will, do what he pleases. His mouth moves up your neck again. You don’t realize how long it’s been since anyone has really touched you until now. Not your ex-fiance, not anyone. 

Your body leans back to him without you realizing it, your back meeting his chest. 

One of Titus’s hands moves slowly from your hip to the front of your panties. Just resting, not moving between your legs yet. Titus sets his chin on your shoulder, looking down at how your body reacts to him. Your breath catches in your throat.

“Feeling needy, are we?” Titus’s voice is low and gravelly right at the shell of your ear. 

“N-no.” You don’t even believe yourself when you whisper it.

“Don’t lie to me, darling,” his fingers toy with the lacy seam. 

As much as you can feel the heat growing between your legs, you can’t get the context of this situation out of your head. What almost happened just 10 minutes ago, the dead body outside your bedroom door. The hands on you, and what else they have done to you.

“I’m-not-” you breathe.

Suddenly, Titus pulls away. You almost fall backwards, jolting back to yourself.

You turn to him, your face burning.

He can’t meet your eye as he smooths the front of his vest. You can’t quite read his face, but he looks almost disturbed, embarrassed.

“Good night,” he gives you a curt nod.

You watch him walk out, dazed. You have no idea what just happened, and you’ve stopped breathing entirely.

As soon as the door shuts, you drop to your knees, overwhelmed with conflicting emotions. Your hand presses to your chest, heart clenching, pulse racing. Everything from this evening collides in your brain. 

Jonathan’s leering, greedy gaze. The way Titus looked at you, angry, protective. How vulnerable he looked when he left. How your body eagerly accepted his touch. It’s all too much.

There’s no sleeping soundly tonight. 

Hours spent tossing and turning, you finally give up. Anxiety fills you all over again. Every sound, every creak in this god forsaken house, sounds like someone entering your room. You sit up, sleep deprivation pulling at your sanity. There’s no way you’ll get any rest like this. Feeling alone and unsafe. 

There is one room that you know no one will enter. 

Until now, neither have you.

You pad down the dimly lit hall, a few lights guiding your way. 

A large painting of the late Chester Danforth watches you walk by. His face is somber, stoic. You pause for a moment, feeling uneasy under his gaze. Titus’s eyes have the same look when he’s focused. You shake off the eerie similarities and push on.

You hold your palms to the heavy wood of Titus’s bedroom door, pressing your ear to try to hear any movement inside. All you hear is the racing pulse in your ears. 

Trying to be as quiet as possible, you push the door open, just enough for you to slip through. 

You see Titus’s sleeping figure illuminated by the moonlight. He’s on his back, one arm resting on his chest, and one arm splayed out next to him. You approach slowly and quietly, just in case he’s a light sleeper. 

It’s almost strange, seeing him like this. Completely disarmed. There’s a softness in his features that you haven’t been able to appreciate, what with his personality ruining it. You want to lean in and memorize him like this. The sharpness of his jaw, the slight curve of his nose, his long lashes.

Titus’s chest rises and falls steadily, clearly in deep sleep. You move quietly to the other side of the bed and slip under the covers, head resting over his outstretched arm. 

For a few moments, you just watch Titus sleep. Like this, you can pretend. You can pretend that he’s not who he is, and that you married into a normal life. That Titus is a loving husband. That you are not constantly unnerved by him and confused by his motivations. 

It lulls you to sleep.

Morning light streaming through the gap in the curtains wakes you softly. It takes you a moment for you to remember yourself and your surroundings. Everything comes back to you when you see Titus’s arm wrapped around your waist, holding you flush to his chest. His face is pressed against your hair. 

Annoyingly, this was probably the best night’s sleep you’ve had these last few weeks, which pains you to admit.

One minute. You allow yourself one minute like this. To feel Titus’s arm around you and again, pretend this is normal. You want to melt into his embrace, and forget what he’s done.

But you don’t want to risk him waking up like this, with his arms wrapped around you. There’s no way you would willingly give him that satisfaction.

You hold your breath and try to slip out from his grasp without waking him, almost tripping trying to contort yourself in such a way that makes as little noise as possible. When you straighten yourself out, Titus appears to still be sleeping. Thankfully. 

You quietly sneak to his door and pull it open without another glance. 

“Sleep well?” his groggy, deep voice calls out to you. 

You press your forehead to the door and curse quietly to yourself. When you turn around, Titus has one arm tucked behind his head, eyes on you. His mouth curves into a smug grin.

“Don’t.” The word is a curt warning. 

“Come back to bed, darling,” his voice is dripping with condescension. 

You remember why all of that softness from last night was not real. The fact that you were able to pretend this was remotely normal was not real. It was all in your head. You will never have a normal life with Titus, not as long as he is who he is. 

Face hot, you leave without another word.

-

“Pernilla,” you look up from your book, “where is Titus?”

“The guest room in the west wing,” she nods. Her eyes shift back and forth, and she looks uncharacteristically nervous.

“Okay,” you say, dragging out the end of the word. “Why is he in there?”

She doesn’t answer right away.

“You know what,” you hold a hand up. “Don’t worry about it.”

It takes you a second to even figure out where the west wing is- this house is far too big for normal people- and find the guest room.

You lean your head to the door and are immediately confused. All you hear is the sounds of sex. Whines, moans, and the animalistic grunts that can only come from your dear husband. 

The door creaks when you open it, and falls heavily shut behind you. 

“Darling!” Titus smiles when he sees you. 

The girl, whoever she is, is bent over in front of him. Her hands are tied behind her back with thick satin bindings, face twisted in pain or pleasure, you're not sure. Then again, the line between them is thin, anyway. 

Titus is thrusting into her at a dizzying pace, surely chasing his own release, not worried about the girl in front of him. His bare chest is glistening with sweat, biceps pronounced as he grabs the bindings of the girl in front of him, hauling her up and pressing her back to his chest. 

“She’s pretty, isn’t she?” Titus asks, looking at you with amusement. He drags his tongue up her neck, gathering the sweat. She whimpers, leaning her head back to his shoulder.

Titus forces her face forward towards you. “Meet my wife,” he says into her ear. 

“Are you trying to make me jealous?” You ask, crossing your arms. “That would suggest I want you in the first place.”

You can’t help your gaze from falling down to the girl’s poor pussy, where Titus moves in and out. It’s the first time you’ve seen him. All of him. You swallow hard, trying to keep your face flat.

“You expect all of us to take a vow of celibacy, just because you have?” he smirks. “Sit down,” Titus nods to the chaise across the room, “if you want to watch.”

The girl in front of him starts whining again. Titus covers her mouth with a firm grip. “Shut your fucking mouth,” he growls. 

You narrow your eyes. This was a no-win scenario. Leaving would imply that he got to you somehow. He could stay in here, fucking this girl in peace. Staying and watching would mean he could put on a show, and you would be subjected to whatever happened next. Or, worse, let him think you were turned on by this display. You wish you never walked in.

Arms still crossed, you walk towards the bed. Titus’s hips stutter slightly, clearly confused by this course of action. You grab the girl’s face with one hand, bringing her gaze to you. 

“Does that feel good?” you ask. 

“Mhmm,” she whimpers. 

“Did he let you come?” you push the hair out of her face. 

“N-no,” she whines. 

Titus looks down at you, smile faltering. 

With your eyes locked on Titus, you drag two fingers into your mouth, and press them against her exposed clit. She lets out a loud yelp. 

“Wha-what are you doing?” Titus groans, feeling the effects of your actions on his cock.

“Come on, come for me, let go,” you coo at the girl, caressing her clit as Titus continues to move inside. 

His pace has slowed, too busy watching you. 

You’re not sure how long he has been using this poor girl’s cunt, but it doesn’t take long for her to reach her peak.

“I’m coming,” she whimpers. “Oh my god.”

You help her ride through it, watching Titus’s face as she squeezes him. He drops her down onto the bed face first, his face twisted. 

“What’s the matter?” you smirk. “You gonna come now, too?”

He looks at you, breathless, as it dawns on him. He can stop now, stave off the climax he’s right on the edge of, or find his release, and end this charade.

“Bitch,” he mutters, moving inside the girl again. 

“Your bitch,” you spit. 

Titus is so sensitive at this point, that it takes three more thrusts for him to finish off inside the poor girl. 

“Show’s over,” you shrug, turning to leave. “And make sure you clean her up before you send her away. Please.”

-

Two can play at this game. 

Not that you want to hire an escort to fuck. Titus would clearly enjoy that. 

In true Titus fashion, you saunter into the study, unannounced. In your clothes. Not the ones Titus bought for you. The ones he turned his nose down at when they were delivered in boxes. 

Soft, dainty panties and a flowy nightgown that is far too short to be considered PG. It was your go-to sleeping outfit when you were trying to seduce your now dead ex-husband. Worked every time.

Titus's eyes rake over you, not even trying to hide his leering.

"Comfortable?" he asks, taking a sip of his whiskey.

"Very," you smile. You lie on the couch on your stomach, your ass almost completely out, and feet waving lazily in the air. You flip open a magazine, and try to pretend like it’s the most interesting thing you’ve read in the last two months.

Titus clears his throat and moves the paperwork in front of him to the side of the desk. He leans back in his chair and just…watches you.

You continue leafing through the pages, feigning ignorance. The quiet is unsettling, though. Every so often, you steal a glance at Titus, to find that sure enough, he’s still just watching. 

Deciding to take it up a notch, you roll over onto your back. Your legs drape over the backrest of the couch, and the soft satin falls even further, exposing the entirety of your legs. Very little skin is left covered.

Titus clears his throat.

“You have something to say to me?” you ask, not looking up from the page.

“Just that you are incredibly predictable,” Titus drawls. 

One of your legs falls to the edge of the couch, completely exposing your panties. “What’s the matter, dear? Can’t stand to look at what you can’t have?”

Titus rises from his desk and moves towards you. The magazine falls from your grip. He just stares down at you at first, almost appraising you. When he reaches down, you think he may break his word, you think he may have snapped. He may take you right here on the couch.

But he grips the front of your panties, dragging the fabric firmly between the folds of your pussy, rubbing right against your clit. 

Your jaw drops in a surprised, silent moan, eyes wide.

“You think you can tempt me?” he says, his voice low and gravelly. His eyes aren’t crazed. Intense, yes, but otherwise Titus is surprisingly calm. His grip on your panties tightens, increasing the friction on your clit. 

A low whimper escapes you before you can stop it. 

“That’s not-”

“You’ll have to try harder, my dear,” he says, finally letting go. The fabric hits your skin with a sharp snap. 

You yelp. Against your better judgement, and the soul still thriving in your heart, you are ashamed to admit how wet you are. 

“Satan knows I want you,” he caresses the side of your face.

You have to will your eyelashes not to flutter, and your heart to stop beating so fast. 

“But like I said,” Titus’s gaze is heavy, eyes boring into yours, “when I have you, you’ll be begging for me.”

You swallow hard, trying to get a fucking grip. This should not be turning you on, and yet.

And yet.

-

“What the fuck is going on in here?” Titus storms into the kitchen. The arguing, he ignored. It was when he heard your voice cut through the hall that Titus knew he needed to see what the hell was the matter.

He finds you standing there, thoroughly chastised by his tone.

“They won’t let me cook,” you cross your arms. 

The cooks look at Titus, eyes wide, not knowing what to do. 

Titus takes a beat, closing his eyes for a moment, like he’s trying to calm himself.

“Leave,” his voice booms through the kitchen. 

They vacate without another word. The entire kitchen leaves, a fury of kitchen clogs scurrying out of the room.

“Of course they listen to you,” you mutter.

“They would listen to you,” Titus says, moving closer to you, “if you didn’t ask them for things that directly contradict me. Now, what is this about?” 

“I wanted to make dinner,” you shrug. “They wouldn’t let me, kept offering to do it for me.”

“Really?” Titus’s eyebrows raise. “An entire team of expertly trained chefs, and you think you can cook better than them?”

“It’s not about better,” you snap.

“Fucking ridiculous,” he scoffs. 

“Like you would even understand,” your voice rises. 

“I don’t!” his matches.

“I need some agency, Titus!” You’re yelling now. The only person (alive) to dare raise their voice at Titus Danforth. “I don’t understand how you live like this. I need to know that I can still do something for myself. That I can still take care of myself.”

“You don’t need to take care of yourself,” he hisses.

“It’s not a matter of need, darling,” you spit out the pet name. “You obviously don’t get it. I’m sure Titus Danforth can’t even make a fucking grilled cheese!”

He narrows his eyes at that. You think you may have angered him, struck a nerve, but you don’t care. At this point, more than two months in, Titus has proven that he won’t lift a finger to you with the intent of causing pain. At least, not anymore.

“Sit,” he points to the stool in the corner.

“Titus, I’m not-”

“Sit. Down.” He hisses. “I won’t say it again.”

You settle down on the stool, arms still crossed. 

Titus takes a moment to orient himself before searching around the kitchen. He opens and closes multiple cabinets, not finding what he’s looking for. 

“This is painful,” you groan. 

“Shut up.”

“You don’t even know where anything is in here,” you roll your eyes.

He finally finds a skillet, and glares at you pointedly. 

“Congrats,” you scoff. 

He sets the pan on the burner and pilfers for everything else. Butter, sliced bread, cheese. 

“Cheddar, gouda, or havarti?” he asks over his shoulder, looking at the offerings in the fridge.

“Cheddar and gouda,” you reply.

“Of course,” he mutters.

You watch as he builds the sandwich, the actions clearly foreign to him. Nearly tearing a hole in the bread as he spreads the butter, and cursing to himself when he realizes that he let the pan get too hot. You watch as the man who walks with his head high, all the confidence in the world, stumbles through the kitchen. For you.

“My mother was a lot like you,” he says without removing his attention from the skillet. “She married into the family. What she wanted was security, what she got was my father.”

He flips the sandwich, wincing slightly when he sees how dark this side is. You listen to him silently. “In the end, she wouldn’t let this life consume her. Until it ended her. And my father saw her as weak for it.”

When Titus turns the sandwich out onto a plate, the second side is much lighter than the first. He seems pleased with himself, sliding the plate down the counter to you. 

“It’s a little well done,” you grumble. 

“Satan help me,” he sighs, eyes cast towards the ceiling, flexing his hands at his sides.

You take the plate in your hands, looking down at it, and back up to Titus. “So what you’re telling me is that your humanity died with your mother? That’s it? You are the way you are because she was the light? And then your daddy put it out?”

“What I’m saying,” he grits his teeth. “Is that the world is not black and white. We are all good. We are all evil. You have to be the strongest in the room. You have know how to play the game.”

“I’m tired of your fucking games,” you take the plate and storm out of the kitchen. 

“And by the way,” you pivot back for the last word. Apparently, you can’t help yourself. You raise the plate. “This is still not what I wanted. The grilled cheese was a joke. I was going to make myself a chicken quesadilla. So. Thanks for that. You proved that you can burn bread and that you don’t listen.”

Titus just blinks at you. “Incredible.”

-

This cat and mouse is exhausting. You don’t know how much longer you can do this, how much longer you can keep being the petulant, defiant bride.

One day, Titus is surely going to snap. He seems on edge as it is. When he gave you his word, he probably didn’t think you’d last as long as you have- three months now. The teasing and taunting from both of you has gotten to be pathetic and draining. 

Some days, you can almost feel your humanity eroding. Being locked away in the gilded cage, seeing no one, caring for nothing. It has a way of steeling you to the outside world and its problems in a way you swore wouldn’t happen.

But then, you’ll catch a glimpse of a story on the news. Or Titus will take you with him to the resort for a day of meetings. Being around people again, it reinvigorates you, grounds you, reminds you that there is something outside of the Newport walls.

“We should come out here more often,” you look at him over your sunglasses. 

“Why, are you bored at the house?” he drawls. 

You just stare at him. 

“Don’t look at me like that.”

You sit out by the pool of the penthouse suite at the Danforth Casino and Resort, while Titus paces back and forth on the phone. Every so often, his voice raises at whoever is on the other line. Eventually, you try to tune him out and lean your head back on the lounge chair. 

“You have a short temper,” you say when you feel his shadow cast over you, eyes still closed. “You should consider therapy.”

“I’m in therapy. It’s called a cigar club, very effective,” he responds. “I need to take care of some business down at the casino.”

You wave him off. “Okay,” you say, uncaring. 

You expect him to stalk off, like he always does. But instead, he bends down and presses a rough kiss to your head. You wave him off.

“I’ll be back shortly.” 

You mumble a response.

As the time passes, you get bored fast. After an hour, you decide you’ve had enough. With the entirety of this resort at your fingertips, Titus thinks you’re going to stay locked up in this room? 

Laughable.

You pull a sundress over your swimsuit, slide into some sandals, and take the elevator down. 

There’s people everywhere. You wander the lobby, watching the uber wealthy fret over luggage and take pictures by the front entrance. You wonder, if they knew of the blood spilled in order to keep this thing afloat, would they still come? Still make their reservations, host their bachelorette parties? Or would they turn their heads, somber for a while, mumbling about thoughts and prayers, and still come back for more?

You move on, knowing the answer.

You see the cinnamon sugar curls of your dear husband, his back to you, talking to someone you’ve never met. They’re standing in the doorway of the casino, having a heated discussion. You try to stay on the fridges, watching without looming, but it doesn’t last long. 

The man sees you, and immediately his demeanor changes, lightening up to something worthy of a show.

“Ah, the wife,” his face lights up dramatically at the sight of you. You try not to roll your eyes at the address.

Titus’s head snaps in your direction. The heat behind his eyes fades, brows knitting together into something akin to concern. You step closer, plastering on a smile of your own.

“Mrs. Danforth, lovely to make your acquaintance.” The man bows his head and kisses the back of your hand. It’s not exactly inappropriate, but it still confuses the hell out of you. 

“Likewise,” you reply, still unsure of what to make of him.

“I’m Jones, your husband’s favorite business partner.” Jones flashes a mouth full of tacky veneers. 

“Remains up for debate,” Titus deadpans. 

“I hear you hold the humanity of our man Titus, here,” he grabs Titus by the shoulders, shaking him a little. 

Titus clearly does not like that.

“Wha- what do you mean?” you ask, your gaze flickering between them.

“Enough-” Titus starts.

“Apparently,” Jones continues, “Titus has been making all kinds of changes with his new seat. And people seem to credit all of it to his marriage to you.”

In an instant, his smile is no longer joyful. Jones drags his gaze down your body, sizing you up, deciding what to make of you. 

Titus’s jaw clenches. He opens his mouth to say something, but stops when you drape your arms over his shoulder. He brings a hand to your waist as you press your body to his side. 

“Well, if you know anything about my husband,” you say, “you know that he doesn’t do anything on anyone’s behalf. Afterall-”

You look Titus dead in the eye, your noses almost touching.

“He’s not a man that can be controlled.”

Titus’s jaw works again, eyes refusing to lift from yours. 

“Right,” Jones nods. “Of course.”

“Go away, Jones,” Titus grits, still not looking away from you.

Jones lingers for a moment longer. 

“Now,” Titus raises his eyebrows and flicks his wrist in annoyance.

As soon as Jones is gone, you remove your hands from Titus. But he keeps his grip securely around your waist. 

“I thought I told you to stay upstairs,” he mutters. 

“You didn’t, darling,” you smile. 

“It should go without saying at this point.”

A hand firmly at the small of your back, he leads you back to the elevator. You grumble under your breath the entire way.

“What was that about, anyway?” You ask as soon as the elevator doors close. 

“Don’t speak to me right now,” he says without looking at you, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

“It’s a long ride to the top,” you say, “plenty of time.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Titus snaps. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “No.”

Titus moves quickly. His hand wrapped around your jaw, not hard but forceful, pushing you against the shiny, opulent wall of the elevator. Your eyes widen.

“I have been very patient with you,” he spits. “Any other slut would have been bent over my knee a hundred times already. And still, you push me.”

“Titus,” your voice is thin. It’s the only word you can get out. 

He’s completely pressed against you, and you feel every muscle and hard outline of his body.

“You think you’re better than me, don’t you? Higher, holier, cleaner” he continues, “but I’ve seen what those pretty hands are capable of. The violence, the destruction. You were one of us before I put the ring on your finger. Before our blood mingled on the page.”

You want to argue, but Titus is right. Whether or not it was self defense, you still did those things. You still hurt people. And lived to not regret it at all.

“You want me to tell you that I want you? Huh?” Titus’s pupils are completely blown, voice harried. “You want me to tell you that when I fucked that girl, I pretended she was you? What difference would it make?”

“Titus,” you croak again. You bring your hands up around his biceps. The action is small, but it does something to him. At the very least, it snaps him out of it. He presses his lips together, and with a frustrated growl, Titus releases you from his grip. 

Your breath comes back to you all at once. 

“Do not mistake my restraint for anything other than that,” he spits. 

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to the penthouse. Titus storms out without another glance at you. 

You’ve completely lost it. There’s no other explanation for what you are feeling. This man has chased you, threatened you, and tried to kill you- multiple times. He’s made you fear for your life. 

But now, when you watch him pace the length of the patio from the other side of the sliding glass door, you twist the ring around your finger. You think about the serenity of his sleeping form. The way he protected you from his own family. The lengths he went to for the one thing in your life you held dear. Even that stupid, nearly burned grilled cheese.

Ursula was wrong when she said there was no goodness in him. She just wasn’t looking in the right places.

Titus has won. Again. It doesn't bring you any joy. But what's worse is knowing you are trapped either way. And you are so tired of fighting, of pushing, of making your life harder. Wouldn’t it just be easier to acquiesce? To give in to the part of yourself that isn’t repulsed by any of this?

And really, how bad can selling your soul really be? In the grand scheme of things?

The sun dips down below the horizon. Room service has brought up your meal, and you sit in silence with Titus. 

The sound of cutlery hitting against the plates is interrupted by Titus’s deep breath. Your attention snaps to him immediately.

“I…” he starts

You look up at him from behind your glass. The sip of wine turns into a full gulp.

“I dismantled a terrorist organization in the Middle East.”

You set your glass down, nodding, trying to absorb this information.

“That’s what Jones was referring to. He had an arms deal with them that is now…void.”

Titus does not look proud or pleased. You try to catch his gaze, but he won’t look at you directly. 

“Why are you telling me this?” you ask carefully.

“You asked,” he says.

After a beat of silence, you continue. “You don’t have to do anything on my behalf.”

“I don’t.” Titus finally looks at you, his words heavy. “It’s hard to invigorate economic growth when those people are being slaughtered, so.”

Titus shrugs. He isn’t eating anymore, silverware set down on his plate. 

“Of course,” you nod. 

You don’t know what to make of this information. Would Titus have always made that decision? Was Jones right, are you somehow swaying him? It’s something you’ll probably never know.

Titus still won’t sleep in the same room as you. Now you realize, it’s not disdain, it’s temptation. The best way for him to ensure that he keeps his hands to himself is to make sure there is a physical wall between you. 

It’s late, but you can’t stop thinking. The time you spend undressing, your thoughts are with Titus. Trying to figure out how you feel, how to move forward. What the right choice is in this impossible situation. Sleep isn’t even an option right now.

You tighten the robe around your waist, wringing the straps in your hands. Your body and mind are at war with each other, fighting over control. But really, the choice is simple. Keep fighting, keep resisting, or take your place. Accept your fate. Make this system work in your favor.

And you’ve come too far to remain a prisoner. 

Your knuckles hit the door lightly, almost sheepishly. It’s like you’re giving yourself an out if he doesn’t hear. 

“Come in,” Titus’s voice calls from the other side.

You slip in quietly, shutting the door behind you.

Titus’s hungry eyes watch as you cross the room. He’s standing by the fireplace, stance wide, top buttons of his shirt open. The dim lighting of the room and low fire highlight his features, the ones you came to appreciate in the moonlight.

You twist the tie of your robe again, trying to steady your heartbeat. 

“What is it?” TItus asks, crossing his arms. 

You don’t say anything for a moment, just looking around the room. The entire Newport house, and even the lodge, have Danforth written all over them. Old, ancient money, collections that would put a museum to shame. But this is the first time you are surrounded by Titus’s things. What he holds with value.

“I thought maybe we could sleep in the same bed tonight,” you say, meandering towards his desk. Titus’s eyes track your movements, but he doesn’t stop you.

“You thought?” Titus narrows his eyes at you. 

You gently push a stack of books aside, fanning them out to read the covers. Most of them are ancient-looking notebooks, or books on finance. But one catches your eye.

The Portrait of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. The same edition as your very well-loved copy. He’s been reading it, you can see the tabs and dog ears as evidence.

“Yes,” you whisper, gaze meeting his. 

When you finally approach Titus, he drops his arms to his sides. You reach for his shirt, carefully undoing the rest of the buttons. The fabric falls open, exposing the lightly freckled skin that you’ve only seen once before. Titus watches your face as your eyes drop to his chest. 

You raise your hands towards him.

Titus grabs your wrists. Your breath catches in surprise, but not fear.

“Don’t toy with me.” His voice is a low warning. 

“I’m not,” you reply. You are not trembling, you are not confused. There is not an ounce of mischief in your actions. Not this time.

He releases his grip, and you bring your hands to his shoulders, gently pushing his shirt down over his shoulders to the ground. You don’t hide your appraising stare. His broad chest, his strong arms. Every move is slow and deliberate. You’re taking your time, and Titus is taking you in. 

"Say it," he says, still not raising his voice.

You chew on your bottom lip. 

“I need to hear you say it,” his voice is still strong, but laced with less venom. Almost desperate. Almost.

"Titus," you look him in the eye, "I want you. Please.”

Titus’s eyes- though already dark- cloud over with something forceful. He clamps his hands around your waist, pulling you closer to him. His eyes move between yours and your lips, like he’s trying to make his mind up. Decide if you mean it, or if this is just a trick.

He takes you for your word.

His mouth presses against yours. Just like on your wedding night. Forceful, eager. Only this time, you kiss him back. Your mouth opens for him, taking his tongue against yours. This is the first time he’s kissed you since the wedding night. And that was completely one sided.

This time, you whimper into his mouth, and it spurs him forward.

It’s not sloppy. Titus is many things, but not sloppy. He’s eager, ready to take what he believes is his. 

And as of now, you are. Completely.

He grabs at the tie of your robe, undoing it and letting the soft fabric fall, leaving you in your delicate lingerie. Your exposed skin prickles in the cold air. It’s not the first time Titus has seen you like this. But it’s the first time he’s been able to drink you in, knowing that it’s all for him. 

“On your knees,” his voice is gruff, catching his breath.

The command runs through you.

You lower yourself to the floor, looking up at him through your lashes. Titus’s breath comes out heavy as he loosens the buttons at his waist. His eyes don’t leave yours as he pushes the waistbands down, discarding both his pants and underwear at the same time. 

Your eyes widen slightly at the sight of him, hard and ready. You think back to when you saw him fucking the escort. That was different. Now, you’re seeing him fully, right in front of you. Embarrassingly, your mouth waters a little. 

When you think he’s going to come closer, Titus actually steps away from you. He looks smug as he settles back into an arm chair by the fireplace. 

He watches you, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. 

“Come here,” he waves. 

Heat rises in your cheeks. You know what he wants. After a deep breath, you move to your hands and knees, and slowly crawl to him. He watches you cross the room, hungry and waiting. You push your face against his knee, resting your head on his leg. 

“Good girl,” he smiles. The praise courses through you. You should be embarrassed. This should be upsetting to you. But for some reason, your panties are completely soaked. 

Titus looks down. “You know what to do.” 

You swallow once, bracing yourself. When you reach for him, and wrap your fingers around his length, Titus’s inhale sharpens. His smile falls fast. It makes you remember that he had been waiting for this, too. Even if he wasn’t completely without sex in the meantime.

With your mouth wide, you look up at Titus and drag your tongue up his length, gathering the salty precum at the tip, watching for his reaction. 

Titus’s mouth opens slightly, feeling your tongue against him. He reaches one hand behind your head, threading his fingers through your hair, and holds you steady. 

“Come on,” he says, “take it.”

You open your mouth as wide as you can, and he pushes your head down. One of your hands rests on his thigh, and when you take him as far back as your throat will allow, you squeeze gently. It’s involuntary, like a muscle reaction.

And he stops. 

Titus’s eyes close for a moment, feeling your wet mouth tight around him. “That’s it,” he groans. 

You gag slightly, and after a moment, Titus lets you up for air. Saliva drips from your lips onto his lap. He lets you take a moment before pushing your mouth back around him. 

It’s equal parts strength and trust. Titus pushes you down further and further each time, only stopping when your fingers curl gently at his thigh. 

Eventually, Titus releases his grip, giving you autonomy. You don’t relent, bobbing your head up and down, hand stroking the length your mouth doesn’t reach. Titus’s fingers grip the arm of the chair, growing more and more restless the longer you work him.

“Enough,” he says. His voice is strong, but he’s slightly breathless. You try not to get too smug, knowing that you can elicit this reaction from him.

“Enough?” you ask, resting your cheek on his thigh again.

He motions for you to stand, and you slowly rise to your feet.

He rises along with you, capturing your mouth with his again. His hands grasp as much of you as possible. It’s a frenzied kind of contact. After months of depriving him, Titus finally has you. And he can’t stop touching you.

“You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?” he mutters into your mouth. 

You reach behind you for the clasps at your bra.

“No,” he grips your arms and pulls away, “I want to do it.” 

“Okay,” you roll your eyes, just a little, and drop your hands, letting Titus reach behind you. 

His eyes don’t move from yours until the fabric falls away, exposing more of you. He takes you in, and can’t help himself from reaching up and palming your breast, catching a hard nipple between his thumb and forefinger. 

You hiss, the sensation shooting through you.

“Sensitive?” he asks, dipping his mouth down to your chest. 

You gasp and thread your fingers in his hair, holding him close. Titus holds you, hands splayed out on your waist and ass. 

“Please,” you whimper, running your hands down his arms. 

“Please what?” he mutters, standing over you again.

“Please,” you breathe, “I need you inside me.”

Titus smiles, the tone of your voice clearly exciting him.

He kisses you, pushing you towards the bed. When the backs of your legs hit the mattress, you collapse onto your back.

“Let me see her,” he mutters, pushing your legs open. He presses his mouth to your panties, dragging his tongue over the wet spot that’s formed.

“Don’t make it weird,” you writhe under him.

“What’s the matter?” Titus looks at you from between your thighs. “Embarassed?”

“No,” bite back, but you feel heat rush your cheeks. 

Titus pulls at the straps of your underwear, tugging the fabric down your legs. 

He starts on your thighs, biting down on your skin, soothing the marks with his tongue. He pushes your legs up, knees towards your stomach to get a better angle. You are completely open and exposed to him, everything on display.

“Fuck,” he hisses, licking his lips before kissing the skin just around your cunt.

“Titus,” you whine. 

“Look at how wet you are,” he mutters against you. “Who is all this for?”

You whimper, desire clouding your thought processing power. His tongue slides quickly over your folds, just tasting you for now.

“Say it,” he grunts. 

“For you,” you gasp, back arching off the mattress. “It’s for you, Titus.”

“That’s right,” he growls. Two fingers slide over your pussy, teasing, before slipping in easily. “Mine.”

Your jaw drops at the sudden thrust. 

“Oh shit,” you hiss.

“I can’t believe this is what you’ve been hiding,” TItus says, slipping a third finger into you.

You can’t think of anything remotely intelligent to say. The combination of Titus’s mouth on your clit, drinking you in, and his fingers sliding in and out, brings you to the edge faster than you wanted. It has been months, after all.

“Titus, I’m so close,” you bring your hand down into his hair, pushing your hips closer to his mouth, chasing the release.

“No,” he pulls away. “Not yet.”

You let out a frustrated groan. “What the fuck?”

“The only way you get to come,” he stands upright, looking down at your desperate form, “is wrapped around my cock.”

You stare daggers, but open your legs for him anyway, as he slowly fists himself, moving closer. 

Titus bends over you, a glint in his eye. He presses a firm kiss to your lips again, tongue sliding against yours. He swallows your gasp when you feel his tip graze over your pussy, teasing you. 

“Titus,” you moan. 

“What, darling?” he drops his mouth to your jaw, trailing wet kisses to your neck.

You buck your hips slightly, seeking out any kind of friction you can get. 

“Words,” Titus growls, nose brushing yours. “Tell me what you want.”

You kiss him, taking his bottom lip in your teeth as you pull away. “Enough with the teasing. Fuck. Me,” your eyes narrow.

“That’s more like it,” Titus smiles. 

“I told you,” he says, lining himself up with your entrance, “when I take you, you would beg for it.”

Any smart quips die in your throat when he suddenly thrusts inside of you. You take him all the way in all at once, pushing you to your limit.

“Fuck,” Titus grunts. “Look at that. You take me so well.”

“Titus,” you breathe, voice wavering. “It’s too much. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” he says, holding your legs up over his shoulders. “You’re going to be a good girl and take it.”

He starts moving, and your vision immediately starts fading at the edges. You’re completely overwhelmed, voice already ragged. 

“You feel so good,” Titus says, pressing his face to your leg. He kisses your calf as he slowly pulls out before pushing all the way back in.

Titus watches your face, watches for the moment that your whines change from pain to pleasure. Only then does he start to pick up the pace. 

“Talk to me, darling,” he pants. “I want to hear you.”

“You’re splitting me apart,” you moan. 

“You want me to stop?” his mouth curls up into a sly grin. 

“No.” The word slips out quickly. Too quickly. 

Titus presses a smug smile to your leg. 

“Don’t,” you snap, but the word is not as threatening as you want it to be.

Titus moves his hand down between your legs, pressing gentle circles over your sensitive clit. 

Your hands find purchase on the sheets, gripping them so tightly you almost cramp. It’s impossible to keep your body still, arching and writhing under him. 

The climax you were so cruelly denied just moments ago builds back up in your belly.

“Please,” you look up at Titus. This is as close as you will let yourself get to literally begging him. 

“How could I deny that face,” Titus smiles down at you. The mischievous glint is gone, his eyes only focused on your and your breath. 

Broken, desperate sounds claw their way from your throat as you finally feel the euphoric release you were chasing. The orgasm washes over your entire body, all the way down to your toes. 

Titus feels it, too. His jaw goes slack and his hips stutter, feeling your walls squeeze around him. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he moans, fucking you through it. 

“You need- ugh- Titus please,” you press your hands on his hips, completely over-stimulated and overwhelmed. 

He pulls out of you, but not without a sly grin plastered over his face. 

“Too much for you?” Titus bends over you and kisses your neck.

“Don’t,” you groan. But your legs wrap around his hips, holding him close. 

“I think I’ll say whatever I please,” he kisses you hungrily. “After all this time, I’m going to enjoy this.”

You drag your nails down his freckled back, pulling small noises from Titus. 

“We need to set some rules,” you whisper into his ear. 

Titus pulls away, propping himself up over you. 

“Excuse me?” He raises an eyebrow.

You grip Titus’s shoulders and push him, rolling the both of you over until you’re straddling him. Based on his expression, Titus is surprised, but not upset. 

With the new position, and your senses finally coming back to you, you smile down to Titus. 

“I want to sit in on council meetings,” you say, rubbing your cunt over Titus’s dick. 

“That’s not-”

“I will.” You cut him off, leaving no room for an argument. “You don’t have to include me in every discussion, but I will be there.”

Titus rests his hands on your hips, helping you hold yourself up on shaky legs. 

With Titus’s dick in your grip, you try to sink down on him, only able to take a few inches at first. 

“That’s it,” Titus mutters, squeezing your leg reassuringly. 

Unable to control your whimpers, you lower yourself further and further. 

With one final push, you arch your back over Titus, taking him all inside of you. He brings a hand up to your breast bone, dragging all the way down your stomach before gripping your hips.

You move above him, slowly and intentionally. The fervor of moments ago has melted into something almost religious. Two bodies becoming one, meeting each other where they are. 

“I will not be your pet.”

Titus just moans, looking up at you with those pathetic eyes. For a split second, you see his bravado drop. He looks completely at your mercy as you ride him. Your hips move back and forth, grinding against him.

“I will not be your trophy. I will not be your silent arm candy. I am your wife, and you will treat me as such.” You lean forward, gripping his shoulders for stability. 

“Yes,” is all Titus manages. His voice is beginning to thin, the same pleasure in you finding its hold on him.

“And in return,” you bite your lip, letting yourself feel this without shame or embarrassment. “I will truly be your partner. Completely. Body and mind.”

Titus’s eyes flash dark, the aggression taking hold again. “Yes.”

He looks up at you, licking his lips, moving his hands to grip your ass. His hips buck upwards, picking up your slow, deliberate pace. It catches you off guard, your grip tightening on his shoulders and leaving small half moons under your nails. 

You lean forward over him even more, allowing him to control the pace. You are almost completely overwhelmed by pleasure, feeling him hit that spot deep inside you that makes you squirm. 

“Titus,” you moan right into his ear. “I’m gonna come again.”

Titus brings a heavy hand down onto your ass, pulling a yelp from you. 

“Yeah?” Titus grunts. “Greedy, greedy girl. Gonna come on my cock again?”

“Mhmm,” you nod your head, eyes closed.

“Go ahead,” Titus brings his hand down again, squeezing your ass roughly. “I’m going to fill that greedy cunt. Claim you once and for all as mine. Forever.”

When you fully collapse on top of him, face buried in the crook of his neck, Titus presses a kiss to your shoulder before sucking a bruise to your skin. The feeling of his teeth grazing you, leaving little marks, pushes you over the edge. 

You come again, hard, with his name on your lips.

The second you clench around him, crying out for him, Titus loses himself inside you. He buries himself deep, not letting up until he’s sure he’s completely spent. 

Your body is almost completely useless, just dead weight on top of Titus. He presses another kiss to your shoulder before carefully rolling you off him, pulling out of you slowly. 

You lay on your back, trying to regain control of your breath, watching Titus sit up against the headboard. You reach your hand out, gently dragging your fingertips against his leg. He takes your hand in his, interlocking your fingers and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. 

“Is this what love is supposed to feel like?” he asks.

The question catches you completely off guard. You blink, trying to understand. 

“This is the closest we are going to get,” you say, curling your body around him.

“I love you,” Titus says, pressing a kiss to your lips. 

Something foreign blooms inside of you. It can’t be love. You have felt love before. For your mother, your friends, and your ex-fiance- before he tried to kill you, obviously. 

This thing with Titus is different. Everything that has led up to this moment compiles together into something like attachment. Your souls are linked forever. When you look at him, you just feel like he’s a part of you. 

The woman you were a few months ago is no more. She’s had to adapt to her surroundings.

“I-” you start, resting your head on his shoulder. “I love you, too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was,” Gwayne nods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It feels less and less so these days.”

“They’re only frightened—”

“I’m frightened,” you remind him.

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

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

“No Hightowers?” you add.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They won’t.”

“You cannot know that.”

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

“So do most men—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ii. OATHS & ASHES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, I was going to, of course.”

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

“…Tomorrow.”

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

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

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

“The king has given orders—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hate you,” you hear yourself say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

iii. CROWNS & CAGES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I expected someone… older.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ormund blinks. “A… A quill?”

“Yes,” you say. “And parchment.”

“For… What purpose?” he laughs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It had been four days since then. 

And you haven’t eaten once in protest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eat.”

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

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

You respond with only a glare.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When?” you spit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

iv. SILK & SWORDS

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

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

Your days, however, remained painfully empty.

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

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

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

“Is that a love letter—?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please, don’t—”

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

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

His head turns slightly under the blow.

Your breath catches in surprise at yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My lady…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

v. SANCTUARY & SIN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You haven’t left his bed since.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” you sigh. “I’m drawing you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ought what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There it is…” he praises.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You aren’t far behind.

He grinds his hips lazily to ride out his high, smothering your sensitive clit as the warm, wet, sticky feeling continues to bloom inside of you. “Ormund—” you gasp, tensing beneath him.

“There it is…”the man praises as you tremble underneath him, smearing his lips against your jaw until they reach your parted mouth. “There it is— Fuck, that’s it,look at me.”

Your eyes snap open at his command, bleary and heavy-lidded. You ride out the rest of your orgasm with your gaze locked with his glassy one. 

The honeyed moment doesn’t last nearly as long as either of you would’ve liked.

“My lord?”

The two of you sober in a flash as the spell between you shatters. Ormund stills suddenly above you, as if pierced by steel. The warmth flees from his features at once, replaced by the hard composure of the commander of House Hightower. You, too, freeze where you lay beneath him — pulse thrumming hard in your throat as the muffled voice drifts once more through the pavilion.

“My lord—”

“Yes, Daeron,” Ormund spits through gritted teeth, nostrils flaring as he breathes through the rage searing in his chest. “What is it?”

The squire hesitates at his uncle’s harsh tone. “Forgive me for the intrusion, my lord…” the boy says carefully, hidden behind the covered entrance. “But a messenger arrived from the river road. He bears urgent word from Ser Criston’s camp.”

You feel your stomach sink — or, perhaps, it’s only the mixture of cum seeping out of your still fluttering confines, soaking the sheets beneath you. You feel unspeakably dirty now, and the lack of regret only deepens the feeling.

Ormund remains motionless above you for a moment before sitting back on his haunches. You shiver at the absence of his warmth, and wince slightly when his softening cock slips out of you. “A letter?” he calls to the entrance, brows lowered. “What news?”

“It is sealed, my lord,” Daeron says. “The messenger said it was to be opened by our hand alone.”

Ormund’s confusion deepens. “And who sends it?”

After another brief hesitation, the voice answers solemnly: “Ser Gwayne, my lord.”

At your young age, but years into blossoming womanhood, your parents had sent you to the Red Keep to find yourself a match and secure a noble alliance with a larger House. Your house was much smaller than the Lions, Stags, Wolves, Roses and so on. 

They had expectations that perhaps an Arryn or Fossoway would suit you nicely, a benefitted match joining your smaller House with a greater noble House. 

What they did not expect however, was to receive a raven delivered scroll from the Hand of the King just one moons turn after your departure stating that you were to now be a Princess of Westeros, future Queen and Wife to Baelor ‘Breakspear’ Targaryen himself. 

Baelor was taken aback upon noticing your presence within the Keep for the very first time. 

His daily duties had him stretched thin on top of the strain in which the Small Council befitted him. ‘An Heir and Spare’ they say. The Crown Prince already fathered two sons but he understood the importance of securing his line’s succession. The King was ill. Anything could befall his beloved sons at any moment, living in this world of violence, sickness and sorcery.

Fretting over decisions for the good of the realm and House Targaryen, he found himself seeking respite within the gardens of the Red Keep. Leaves rustled against the cooling breeze on this hot day. Birds were chirping soundly and the florals flourished after drinking in the sunlight. 

Exhaling slowly, Baelor felt relief within his solitude as he strode through the gardens until he reached the Godswood. It was quiet. Nobody else in sight.

And then he spotted you. 

Back against the hard bark of the Heart Tree, your focus was etched into the words of the small, leather-binded book between your smooth hands. Your skirts fanned around you and your skin glistened with a sheen of sweat from the heat.

Baelor’s steps fell short, eyeing you. He did not recognise you.

Lost in a daze of the story before you, your features contorted endearingly at whatever was progressing within the pages. Humming in seeming frustration you snapped the book shut, mumbling to yourself, “Why ought he do so? What a cumberworld!” 

Finding the corners of his mouth twitch up, Baelor realised he had been staring for more than a moment necessary. Walking closer, your head lifted to his direction, catching his movement. 

Embarrassment rushed through your veins as you scrambled to stand, book still in one hand and fluffing your skirts out with the other, upon noticing the zinc alloy Hand Of The King Pin secured onto the man before you. The pin twisted up in scaly plates which the sun reflected off. 

Curtseying before him, he noticed the way your plump lips quivered as you spoke. 

“Your Grace.”

Soft and subdued, your voice was calming in his ears. He hadn’t stopped smiling, he realised. The closer you drew, the closer he could see every feature of your face. Young, seemingly Valarr’s age and filled with unyielding beauty. 

Whichever Lord in the Red Keep had claimed you for his Wife was very lucky indeed, he thought. 

“My Lady,” Baelor returned, nodding his head in greeting. “I did not mean to disturb your reading.”

“Not at all, Your Grace,” you rushed out, worried. “I apologise if I have halted your intentions here.”

Baelor could not help but let his mixed gaze linger on you. His eyes were shining against the sunlight as he took you in. One iris so bright blue it reminded you of the Sapphire Isle waters and the other iris so darkly brown that you felt yourself becoming lost in it. The hairs on the back of your neck raised under his watch.

“I came to seek some respite, it has been a busy day.”

You noticed the way his brows pinched together slightly, recalling his troubles. “I will take my leave and let you seek what you need then, Your Grace.”

He wished that you had stayed, a fresh breath amongst his chaotic air. 

The second time that the Crown Prince saw you was at a feast hosted in the throne room of the Red Keep. He watched you with intrigue, a young lady trying to navigate her way around the nobles with a visible nervousness through your soft smile as you gently conversed amongst the Lords and Ladies. He thought he had never seen anybody so gorgeous and radiant before. Your features struck him to the core and he could not deny the pull towards you.

Baelor leaned further into his seat comfortably, turning slightly to reach his youngest brother’s ear. “Who is she?” He nodded towards your direction and you instantly stood out in your light pastel coloured gown amongst the dark fabrics of those surrounding. 

Maekar’s eyes drifted to where Baelor motioned and he hummed shortly.

“How the fuck would I know? There are always new, young ladies in Court ready to pass their maidenhood to whichever lord gives them attention first. You should know,” Maekar smirked slightly, a knowing glint in his eye. 

Baelor only chuckled lightly before stating, “you know none of those ladies have captured my attention, Brother.” 

He mulled over whether you were already wed. 

Many noble ladies had practically been throwing themselves at Baelor these past few moons, since it became aware amongst the people of Court that he was being made to seek a new wife. Whether it was simply because they thought him handsome, thought him strong and brave or were after the titles that came with being his wife, he did not entertain any of it. 

Always presenting themselves to him in tight, uncomfortably high pitched voices, decked out in the most outrageous jewels originating from Qarth and Myrish fabrics draped into gowns, their busts forcefully pushed too far up to reach their collarbones and waterfall of bootlicking compliments flowing towards him. 

It had been years since his Wife’s passing and yet, he had not felt a single fraction of attraction or connection with anyone else since. 

He settled back into his meal, eyes wandering over to your direction at any opportunity presented, watching you like a Dragon observing a lone sheep before making haste and devouring. 

After dinner was had, the tables and seating arrangements were pushed aside by the Red Keep’s staff to make way for social enjoyment and dancing. The Prince of the Realm did not hesitate to approach you with long strides in his poised steps, eager to greet you again. 

The group of nobles you were conversing with quickly came to a silence, much to your confusion. You followed their stares which were lingering behind you and slowly tilted your head around to see what had made your peers' words stop.

The Heir to the Iron Throne stood before you, posture straight, yet relaxed. His look was transfixing. 

“Y-Your Grace.” Head bowing and body leaning to curtsey, your pulse began to thump through your figure as you lifted your gaze back up to meet him. 

“May I have this next dance with you, my lady?” His vocals were deep, articulate and husk. He extended a hand, gracefully awaiting your response. 

The group behind you broke out into small gasps. The Heir to the Iron Throne was not known to dabble in such activities since his late wife, no matter how many ladies attempted to be in this very position, which you were blissfully unaware of - being new to Court.

“Of course, Your Grace.” You were in no position to deny the Crown Prince. Your small, smooth hand lifted to meet his extended one with a flush of heat rising to your cheeks. You had certainly not expected this.

He smiled slightly at your bashfulness, large hand taking in the warmth of your smaller one as his thumb moved over your knuckles whilst escorting you in small steps towards the centre of the throne room.

All eyes were burning into you both and you couldn’t help but shake at the unexpected attention. You were far from used to many a people watching your every move. 

Baelor felt the tremble of your hand in his and quietly rubbed his thumb gently across your knuckles in an attempt to soothe your uneasiness. Your heart felt like it was going to leap out of your chest.

“No need to fret, my lady.” He began lightly, “I simply wished for an opportunity to speak with you upon seeing your beautiful self.” 

His kind words had triggered fluttering within your belly. “T-thank you, Your Grace. How kind of you to say.” 

“May I?” He requested permission, motioning with his spare hand, to take hold of your waist. Ever the gentleman. 

You nodded lightly, shivering as his arm slithered around your middle, effectively pulling you towards him whilst he raised your already connected hands into the air. His brawny body loomed over you and your chest was near bouncing against him due to your rapid heartbeat. It took all his strength and honour not to look down. 

“Do tell me your name, my lady.” He spoke with a smooth, low voice, calming against the hustle of the throne room and others dancing around you to the flow of the music. 

Your smooth, youthful skin glowed against the candlelight and his blue and brown crinkled eyes locked with yours deeply as he began to sway with you to the instrumentals reverberating through the Crown Hall. 

Your name and House rolled off your tongue as you waited for the visible disappointment to reach his handsome, bearded face. But it never came. And you were surprised. 

His heterochromic eyes only twinkled in the flames of the candles situated above on the chandeliers whilst he gazed at you through his dark lashes and you thought him to be strikingly alluring. 

Many noble lords attempt to court you until they came to realise the lower level which your House remained at. Men were greedy, power hungry and title seeking. Pretty enough or not, if you were a lady of noble birth who sat lower than the great house of Westeros, many higher Lords would brush you off as if being a common whore.

But Baelor only smiled at you as if your lower status was of unimportance to him. 

He recalls the exchange of scrolls with your father, the request to send you here in order to secure a match in marriage. After many moons of pressure from the small council, it seems like The Seven had sent you straight to him. 

“Why?” You suddenly asked him with your tender lips pursing plumply and he so wondered what it would be like to lay his own on yours.  

Baelor’s mouth moved into a questioning line, a little perplexed. “Regarding?”

“You have many higher noble women to choose from and share a dance with, Your Grace. Many ladies who would be suited better for you.” The hesitancy in your vocals only made Baelor pull you closer and speed up his pace with the increased beat of the music. 

“My sweet lady,” he began with a light laugh. You flushed further at his words, becoming breathless amongst the ascending dance movements. “I am the Blood Of The Dragon, Hand of the King and Heir to my Father’s Throne. I have already provided future succession and hold the realm together through many allegiances. Nothing is of consequence to me at this point in my years of living. I have freedom to dance with who I please. And I wish to dance with you.”

Baelor sought you out every day within the Red Keep after that night. Your pretty face, soft voice and gentleness consumed him. He was wrapped up in your kindness, consideration, knowledge and the fanciful interests which you endeavored in. 

When he was with you, the responsibilities, pressure and stress of ruling the realm in his Father’s stead seemed to all dissolve and disappear. When he was with you, he did not feel like a Crown Prince of the realm, but simply a man. A man adoring and growing to love a woman as sweet and precious as you were. A man who felt comfort with your presence, gentle and reassuring but inquisitive words.

He knew you were far younger and much more lacking in experience than him but that only spurred on his courting you. He liked being the first man to show and teach you new things that nobody else had before. He liked expanding your perspective on Westeros. And he liked watching you lose composure every time he caressed a part of your body with tender, considerate hands.

Being around you, he felt like a young man again. Excitement running through his veins, shared stolen touches and an unyielding yearning to have you in his arms and never let go. 

Passion had sparked between you both and you couldn’t help but nervously reciprocate the Heir’s advances towards you. 

Nobody had ever cherished and nurtured you so dearly and genuinely before. When you spoke of any concerns, something you held close to your heart or even just the events of your day, he did not just hear you. He listened to you. Acknowledging every syllable and thought to leave your pretty mouth. 

He had begun to seek you out everywhere (much to the Council’s disarray who found their Hand gradually passing more of his duties onto them). From interrupting your daily tasks, library and embroidery lessons to interrupting late noon tea with the other court ladies to sweep you off to the Red Keep gardens for a walk with him. The ladies incessantly held their giggles and gossiping back until the Crown Prince whisked you away out of ear-shot. 

Then came the gifts. Treasured jewellery from Essos. Silk gowns from Lys. Ancient books from his personal library within the Keep. And a new bouquet of flowers by the bedside in your chambers every single day when you returned to meet slumber. 

After weeks of stolen touches, laughter, deep discussions, sly flirtations and a shared fondness for each other… Today, Baelor had something a little different planned for you both. 

Large hand resting on the small of your back, he guided you towards the courtyard of the Red Keep. However, the usually bustly area was completely void of anybody. No members of the Royal Court. No goldcloaks, no Kingsguard following Baelor, and no serving staff were to be seen. 

Walking through the halls, you drew closer and suspicion began to fill your senses. Not the bad type of suspicion but the type which had an excited knot forming in the pit of your stomach and made your heart flutter in anticipation.

“What have you arranged this evenfall, My Prince?” You couldn’t help but ask with a growing grin.

Seven Hells, how he loved it when you called him that. Yours. He wanted to be and terribly so. 

“Something special for us, my sweet lady.” There was a certain lilt in his voice which indicated something important forthcoming and it made the knot in your stomach tighten.

Gods, how you loved it when he called you that. His sweet lady. It affected you just the same as the very first time he uttered those words to you.

Further down the halls you noticed soft flickering lights, shadows dancing across the stone walls and pillars. 

A small gasp escaped your throat as you walked between the stone pillars of the courtyard.

Your right hand lifted to your heaving chest as emotion overwhelmed you from the sight before your eyes. Baelor quickly swerved to your left side, delicately swiping your left hand up into his right one. Your fingers intertwined and you squeezed around his large, rough palm. He squeezed back slightly harder, callouses catching on your smooth palm. A sign of nerves finally overcoming his typically well-composed self.

“This is ever so beautiful, truly.” You gaped at the sight before you and your heart was aflame. He had organised this, for you. 

Flamed torches hung against the shaped pillars with candles littering around the floor besides a vast amount of bright, sweetly scented, blooming floral arrangements which created a pathway into the centre of the courtyard where a small table with two cushioned chairs remained. 

A crystal flagon of wine sat atop the table next to two golden chalices, flower petals and a silver candle holder organised beside it with small plates of fruits, nuts, crackers and cheeses. 

The tiny flames flickered around the flowers on the tiled, flower covered floor, mimicking the shining stars above. 

“I know.” Baelor’s affectionate gaze did not leave you as you gushed over and complimented the scene. He smiled and gestured towards the centre, “please sit, my dearest.”

His dearest. Your mind was starting to whirl. You obeyed his instruction, hand never leaving his and pulling him along to follow. 

Baelor had the Kingsguard positioned further down each of the halls, under strict instruction to block entry way to the courtyard with no exceptions. He did not want any disturbances. 

After three cups of Arbour Gold, nibbling from the placed plates, various topics of conversation, flirtatious remarks and laughs, your head felt tipsy and your heart was thrumming ecstatically.

Comfortably perched on the cushioned seat, your gaze drifted towards the dark night sky, floating across the beam of the moon and the twinkle of the stars. 

“I have never felt so at ease and appreciated with you.” You admitted through hazy eyes, still admiring the night above. 

“And I, you.” He returned with a small smile, mouth opening to speak further but his words became caught in his throat. 

Hearing the hesitation, your gaze drifted back down to meet his and you smiled softly. “What else, My Prince?”

Pausing for a moment, Baelor contemplated his next words. He had spent many late nights in his chambers, preparing for this moment and all of those practiced speeches and words relented as soon as he saw the way you peered at him. So lovingly. So wholly. Like you didn’t see him for all his titles but just him, Baelor, alone.

“I never thought…” he drifted off in thought before straightening his posture to gaze into your orbs. “I never thought that I would be able to find affection with another, after Jena. But you, My sweet Lady, have brought life back into my withered heart. Since I laid my eyes on you for the very first time, I knew that I had to know you. And knowing you now, my heart has never felt so full.”

“Baelor,” his name was whispered breathlessly on your lips and it clung to him, seeping into his bloodstream. You had never used his first name before. He took it as a good sign. Titles and societal boundaries diminished in seconds. 

“My dearest, I fear that I can no longer live as I do without you by my side. Without you as my future Queen. The realm is in need of your gentleness and empathetic views. And I am in need of your love. I am pining for you and you alone. There is no one else that I wish to spend the remainder of my life with.” He confessed, bearing his heart on his sleeve. His mix coloured eyes were glistening, tears on the edge of his lash line whilst your own tears already spilled.

Hot on your cheeks and head dizzy from the golden wine, you carefully lifted your fingers to wipe away the wet saltiness. 

Before you could respond, the Crown Prince had maneuvered to the floor on his knees and reached to envelop your hands in his. As he rested on his knees before you, tenderly gripping your hands, you smiled through your overwhelming tears of love and devotion. 

Bringing your hands to meet his mouth, his smooth, warm lips pressed against each of your palms in a kiss. “Be mine,” he pleaded, looking into your crying eyes. “Be my Wife.”

“Yes.” You laughed lightly, gripping his hands tightly, “and be my Husband.” 

The realm was full of delight and celebration. 

At first, upon your betrothal announcement to the Heir to the Iron Throne, there had been some uncertainty from the Small Council. 

“She is not from a well-known noble House, Your Grace.”

“The Smallfolk here do not know of her, Your Grace.”

“She is not of a strong bloodline, Your Grace.”

“Her dowry is little, Your Grace.”

Baelor did not care. “I have sacrificed much for this realm. There is little consequence in whom I marry now. I have already provided two healthy heirs and there will be more now, as you all requested. Speak ill of my betrothed and you will find your tongues missing the next morn.” 

After that, the Small Council became ever gracious towards you. As did the Court, upon hearing that the Crown Prince would cut out the tongues of any bad word against you - not that there was many from your noble peers.

You were kind, playful and clever. The Court had taken a liking to you upon your arrival. 

And soon, the wedding ceremony followed. It was a lavish celebration. Baelor never left your side despite the hounds of nobles trying to converse with him, to which he politely dismissed them wanting all of his focus on you. His bride. 

There were performances, celebratory activities, dancing and a great feast following your martial vows in The Sept. Lords and Ladies alike travelled from all across the realm to attend the Crown Prince’s second wedding, and to see if his youthful bride was truly as beautiful and kind as claimed. 

“Time for the bedding!” A drunken, foolish lord from the Iron Islands shouted out late into the night, amongst the celebrations. The crowds roared with enthusiasm, eager to see the Crown Prince bed his new, young and beautiful Wife. The realm’s new Princess.

Your happy expression fell as the words reached your ears. Lips turning downward into a worried pout as you looked up at your new Husband. 

This was something you had not considered with much thought. Being from a small House, the bedding ceremony’s importance was not that of the greater noble Houses. And with Baelor already having been married perviously, the thought of a public bedding ceremony was resting at the very back of your mind. You suppose that was very silly of yourself now.

“Husband, I-I-” you were at a loss for words. 

Shaking his head, you had never seen such a fury rise within Baelor. “I will not let any man lay their eyes upon you in such a manner,” he reassured you, taking your hand tightly in his. The cool metal of his rings provides a grounding sensation amongst the chaos and his words calmed your rapid heartbeat.

The Grand Maester approached you both, slyly leaning over to His Grace’s ear. “Shall we prepare your chambers, Your Grace?”

“No,” Baelor gritted out in frustration. “We shall not.”

“But I do think it wise-”

“Rest assured, Grand Maester,” Baelor cut him off, “there will be proof of consummation in nine moons time.”

Swallowing at your beloved’s words, a foreign heat rushed to your core as you clutched Baelor’s strong hand.

And so, your new Husband whisked you away between the crowds of royals and nobles after ordering the Kingsguard to prevent any persons from following you both to your newly shared marital chambers. 

Being the epitome of chivalry and justice, Baelor had never once pressed his lips to yours during his time courting you. He knew that your young maidenhood was untouched, no man ever claiming you in such a way before. He hadn’t even attempted to steal a kiss from you no matter how dearly he wished to, especially when he confessed his feelings and asked for your hand. He hadn’t even enlightened you when you leaned into him like you desperately wanted it too. 

The door to Baelor’s chambers slammed shut and suddenly you were pushed against it. The hard wood met your back, a harsh gasp left your throat in surprise and all honour left your husband. Baelor was a starved man, itching to feel every inch of you. 

His large hand gripped the side of your face, resting on your jaw, fingers peaking between your styled hair at the back of your neck. The contact was so sudden, all air left your lungs as his other hand grasped at your waist, kneading through the fabric as he held you in place.

“My Prince,” you blurted in shock, gazing at his lustful expression. His scent filled your senses, fresh mint, burnt wood and something sweeter surrounded you. 

The hair of his beard tickled your face as he drew closer and finally, after weeks of wondering what it would be like, he pressed his mouth to yours. 

It was tender, delicate and warm. Your arms snaked up to reach his covered shoulders, pulling him closer whilst you were melting into him. 

His tongue dipped out slowly, wet and spongy against your untainted lips, begging for an entrance. Parting your lips under his ask, you began to move yours against his, following your natural instinct as he started to explore your mouth and move with you.

You couldn't help the gentle moan which vibrated onto him. The Dragon had set you alight with his flame and you wanted more. 

“Seven Hells,” he grunted against your lips as he reluctantly departed, catching his breath. “The Gods have known how long I have waited to do this.”

“You’re not the only one.” With fluttering eyelashes, you slowly pushed him back further into the room and his grasp on you loosened, allowing you to move him in the direction of the giant four-postered bed. 

His lips curled up at your movements and implication. Tonight you wanted him just as much as he wanted you. 

“Lay down, Husband.” 

Baelor felt like combusting at your command. Blood rushing to his cock, his breeches tightened whilst he sat on the edge of the plush bed to lay back. 

You approached him with a sultry look which he hadn’t seen on you before and you shifted your heavy skirts up, knees finding the padded mattress as you moved to straddle him. 

“Fuck.” The word left his mouth as he took in the sight of you climbing over him until your pelvis met his. He groaned at the weight of you pressed against his hardening length. 

You rested both hands beside his head whilst his large hands dipped under your skirts to caress your smooth, soft thighs. Whimpering slightly at the new feeling of his touch, you leaned down to meet his mouth with yours again.

You may have been a maiden but some of the Ladies you spent time with at Court were not shy about discussing their marital beds. And you listened, learning things which you did not think possible, with Baelor in mind. You expected that a man of his age had expectations and you wanted to impress him. To show him how much you wanted it too.

But you knew him. He was your Baelor. And you knew that he would not fret over the skills and movements you had yet to learn to please him.

His lips were hot against yours, mouth moving hungrily and eagerly tasting you. His hands slowly reaching over the warmth of your thighs to grip your hips tightly and push you onto him. 

Moaning at the hardness and sudden friction, your hips jolted at the contact, causing Baelor to grunt. He was painfully hard now, a wetness seeping into his breeches from his leaking tip. It feels like he has waited his whole life to see you like this. 

“Grind your hips onto me,” Baelor directed between kisses and you obeyed, small whines escaping you whilst you moved your clothed heat over his hardness. 

Calloused hands moving round to cup your arse, he kneaded the flesh, enticing a breathy moan from you. His touch felt passionate and needy and you wanted more, an ache growing deep within your core. 

“Just like that, My sweet Lady. My sweet Wife.”

“I-I want more,” you pleaded as he grabbed your cheeks harder, a soft smack making you gasp at the slight sting it left behind. 

Before you could process anything else from being too wrapped up in these new heightened feelings, his arms left your skirts, quickly grabbing your torso and flipping you around. 

You hit the bed with a quiet bounce, panting as you watched the Crown Prince top you before sinking lower and leaning off the edge of the bed. Your brows furrowed in confusion as he was on the floor leaning on his knees but his strong hands quickly distracted you, wrapping around your ankles, pulling you to the edge - you let out a small squeak in surprise.

“Lift your hips for me,” he ordered, reaching for the thin fabric of your smallclothes and swiftly pulling them down your legs as you complied. 

“Oh,” he muttered airless, taking in the sight of you. Heat rose to your cheeks and you bashfully tried to snap your legs shut, never having anybody see you like this before. He only gripped your thighs tightly, pulling you open again to offer your hot, weeping, slick cunt before him. “Gods be good.”

Heat rushed through your body as Baelor took in the sight of your spread legs, tongue darting out of his mouth to lick his lips. 

“Do you trust me?” He asked, gazing at you with passion and need burning in his blue and brown eyes. 

“Of course,” you spoke earnestly, awaiting his next move. 

Lifting his arm, his long, strong fingers moved towards your sopping heat. Slowly, he dragged his index from your wet hole up to your bundle of nerves and you shuddered pleasantly. 

“I have barely touched you and you’re already dripping for me, sweet girl.” The low, measured tone of his vocals nearly made you squirm in embarrassment. Was that not normal?

“I-I’m sorry, Y-your Grace.” You fumbled to apologise, not knowing any different, having not laid with a man before. 

“No, no, My Wife. And no more royal formalities. You are perfect,” he hummed, rubbing soothing circles on your inner thigh which made you keen. “Let me show you how perfect.”

Baelor had dreamt of this moment, eager to please and devour you, and he shifted your legs so that they rested over his shoulders. His breath was hot on your inner thighs whilst his wet tongue stuck out to drag along your skin, his beard scratchy, making you tingle at the contrast. 

A soft whine escaped you, not that you were complaining but you couldn’t help the curiosity that was consuming you. You instantly felt nerves rise within, he knew exactly what he was doing… and you did not. He had done this before and you were lacking. 

The ladies at Court had never mentioned their Husband’s head between their thighs.

“What are you doing, Husband?”

A smirk filled his features as his tongue licked up your thigh, leaving a wet trail before responding, “showing you how much I have desired to have you like this.”

As soon as those words left his mouth, his head was swiftly buried in your heat, hot tongue licking up your slit as he groaned, effectively tasting your juices. You expelled a guttural moan, back arching and hands finding their way to grip his short, soft hair. The heat of his tongue licking up your sweet, dripping folds was sensational.

Baelor was aching hard whilst his mouth worked on your soaked cunt, dipping his tongue into your entrance, he had you chanting his name like a sorcerer casting spells.

“Baelor, oh Gods! Mhmmm! B-Baelor, please!” The soft scratching of his beard made his tongue feel all the more euphoric and you never thought it was possible to feel such a way. You clung to his head harder. 

He lathered your sweet pussy with his spit, having drunk every drip of you and quickly pulled away, much to your dismay. After a beat, his fingers were back at your heat again and you mewled when his middle finger slowly slipped into you. 

“That’s it sweet girl,” he panted, drawling, beginning to work his finger in and out of your wet, velvety walls, “you’ll take what I give you. I need to make sure you’re able to take my cock.”

His words hit your core and you clenched around him, gasping for air. The feeling of his finger curling inside you was doubled as he added another digit and your moans filtered through the air with the squelch of your wet folds as you adjusted to the intrusion. 

Baelor continued to pleasure you with his fingers, mouth eventually coming back down to meet your mound with his tongue latching onto that sensitive bud of yours. His fingers curled up, hitting a specific spot within and you threw your head back, relishing in his touch and tongue flicking your bundle of nerves. Your eyes flutter shut, hands finding their way back to his dark, greying hair, pulling him closer to your core, wanting more. 

“I never want to taste anything else again,” he mumbled against you, lavishing in your wetness. 

Baelor let out breathy groans as you clung to him harder, the vibrations shooting straight against your throbbing heat. Ever so tenderly, he began to spread his fingers inside of you, scissoring you open. Your moans halted slightly as you tried to accommodate the foreign feeling of being stretched open.

His eyes drifted up to you in concern whilst his fingers continued to open your tightness. His length was throbbing in his breeches, begging to be buried deep within your pure pussy, but your discomfort made him pause. 

His mouth retracted from your core, gaze drifting over your breathless form. You peered down at the lack of movement, catching your breath. His mouth was covered in your slick, coating his beard and it stirred something within you. 

“Please do not stop,” you begged through heavy lids, lashes fluttering against your hot cheeks. “I need you desperately Baelor, I need you deep inside me,” you confessed, giving way to your carnal desires.

And that was all he needed to continue his actions, pumping in and out of you slowly, spreading his fingers within your wet walls as his lips connected with your clit again, sucking your bud until you saw stars. A pleasurable tightness in your lower region, building up so intensely that you thought you might faint. 

Your breathy cries of pleasure filled his ears whilst he increased the pace of his fingers, feeling you clench around him.  

“Husband,” your voice croaked through moans as you arched your back and pushed your hips up to meet his face. “I-I’m feeling so-”

And then Baelor went harder, sucking your bud whilst flicking it with his tongue, his strong fingers curling up in you so deliciously and repeatedly that you suddenly screamed out, reaching a heightened peak of consuming pleasure.

Waves of pleasure washed over you and tingles spread throughout your body, your soaked cunt throbbing as you leaked all over the Crown Prince’s face and he groaned against you in appreciation, drinking you up and slowing his movements as you came down from your high. 

“What the fuck was that?” You murmured, chest heaving in blind euphoria. 

Baelor chuckled, slightly shocked at the bad word rolling off your pretty lips, raising his arm to wipe the remnants of you from his mouth and glistening, thick beard. 

“That, was the first of many, My sweet Wife.” 

He began unbuttoning his doublet as you lay there breathless, stripping the top layers of the expensive materials cut to fit him seamlessly. Despite his older age, Baelor was extremely muscular and his skin was taught around his arms and abdomen until the slight pudge of his lower belly poked out. And it aroused you. Muscular with a soft stomach. He looked like he had been carefully curated by The Seven, themselves.

“Can you manage to stand, My Love? I wish to see all of the beauty that you bare.” 

Shifting onto your elbows you pushed yourself up gradually, body still reeling over the new sensations that you just experienced. Baelor’s hands went out to guide and support you. Your legs were shaking as you stood before him and he pressed his lips against yours hungrily. 

You could taste yourself on him and you whined when his tongue mixed with yours. His arms wrapped around you, fingers untying the laces at the back of your dress which held it together. Soon after undoing the lacing, he parted, hastily pulled your dress down, lifting you out of it to leave you in one last layer. A thin cotton underdress. 

The torch flames within Baelor’s chambers illuminated your every curve through the fabric and he groaned deeply, “I need you, sweet girl.” 

Before you knew it, you were stark naked, sprawled out onto the bed with your head beneath the plush pillows as his mouth worked on your breasts, sucking gently and kissing your hardened nipples. Massaging you with his hands, he was drunk on your satisfied moans and tender hands gripping his sturdy shoulders.

Baelor’s hot skin was pressed flush against yours and it felt incredible. 

“You were sent to me from the Gods, I have no doubt,” he confessed, worshipping your body. “The most beautiful woman to grace this Realm.”

“I love you,” the words tumbled from your lips and he abandoned your breasts to kiss you feverishly, uttering the same words back to you between kisses.

“I want your cock to fill me up, dear Husband.” 

Baelor’s self restraint exited his body at your crass words, his leaking tip aching and wishing nothing more than to dive into your soaked, warm depths. 

Immediately, he was rid of his breeches, letting his long, girthy cock spring free to hit his belly before he was back on you, hot mouth attached to your neck, sucking on the sweetest spot which made you mewl.

“I-is it supposed to be that big?” You asked nervously, through your pleasured moans.

“Not usually for other men.” He couldn’t help but grin into your neck. His sweet maiden. His sweet Wife.  

Trailing his fingertips down the valley of your breasts, across your stomach and onto your mound, you trembled. The pad of his thumb found your sensitive bud and began drawing slow circles against you. You whined at the sensation, bucking your hips back into him as he laid between your legs.

“Please let me feel you already!” You were desperate to feel his body connect with yours. 

“So needy,” he began, leaning back to take his length into his spare hand whilst his other continued to focus on your clit. “You’re going to take me so well.”

Spreading your legs wider to accommodate him with more room, your fingers fiddled with the silken bedsheets, watching his hand move along his cock before shifting closer to tap his swollen mushroom-shaped tip at your still soaking entrance. 

“It may hurt at first,” his concerned, mix-coloured gaze never leaving yours as he continued, “do tell me to stop if it becomes too much.”

Heart swelling, you nodded gratefully.

He resumed his movements with his thumb on your bud as his cock head dragged between your folds, picking up your slick. The sensation caused a needy whine to escape your throat. 

Baelor pressed forwards, his tip slipping into you and you hissed slightly at the sharp intrusion.

Slowly, he pulled back before sliding into you a bit further and you gasped, clutching the sheets tighter. He persisted slowly, rolling his hips back and forth, inch by inch, as you adjusted to his thick girth.

The circular motion of his thumb rubbing your nub provided the perfect relief of the tight stretch around his length. 

You exhaled blissfully, and Baelor could not get enough of the sight before him. Your hair was sprawled out amongst the pillows, eyelashes fluttering, breasts bouncing slightly with each slow thrust he made whilst his cock was slowly delving further into your depths. 

“Seven Hells,” he grunted at your tight, sopping maidenhood, “I am the luckiest man in Westeros.”

A smile reached your lips at his words until he was fully sheathed inside of you, the air leaving your lungs as you struggled to catch your breath at how deeply you felt him inside of you.

“S-So deep,” you babbled amongst moans as he began to roll his hips whilst setting and increasing his pace. 

“You’re taking me so well,” he let out a guttural groan between thrusts whilst you creamed around his long, thick cock, “you were made for me, sweet girl.” 

Soon enough, his cock was repeatedly bruising your womb, thrusting into you at an animalistic pace whilst your knees were hooked over his strong shoulders and your hands tightly gripped his muscular biceps at either side of you - nails digging into his flesh. 

“Fuck,” Baelor grunted, thrusting into you deeper, harder, “I want to fill you with my seed.”

You cried out into moans as he hit a particularly deep, spongy spot inside. All you could do was lay helpless as he pleasured and fucked into your throbbing, drenched core. 

Your pussy clenched tightly around him after his words and he noticed, a small smile appearing on his face as beads of sweat dripped from his forehead.

“Oh,” he chuckled lowly, voice rasping, “you like that? You want to be stuffed full with my dragon seed.”

“Y-yes!” Your mewls only increased with his pace and cock slamming into your womb. “Let me give you more heirs, My Prince.”

Baelor’s balls tightened as they slapped against your arse, his hips stuttering and he quickly disregarded one of your legs on his shoulder to strum the pad of his thumb against your clit again.

His groans of pleasure mixed with your moans and the wet slapping sounds of where you both connected filled the air shamelessly. The Court could not see your marital consummation but they would definitely hear it. 

The same pleasurable tightness from earlier was returning, building up from deep within your core and your whines became louder.

“B-Baelor,” you gasped out, feeling him so deeply, as if his cock was in your throat. “I’m g-getting that feeling again.”

“Good,” he breathed heavily, “that means my seed will take and you will be swollen with my little dragon in time.”

Breasts bouncing rapidly from his unrelenting thrusts, the tip of his cock kissed the deepest spot within you and with the speed of his thumb on your sensitive nub - your body convulsed underneath him, shaking euphorically and tingling with utter bliss. 

“That’s it, sweet girl.” He coaxed you through it. “My beautiful Wife. You’ve been so good for me.”

Screaming out his name as you reached that heightened sensation for the second time, you shook along with the waves that crashed over you whilst he continued to fuck you through it.

You moaned lightly, coming down from your heightened senses as you gazed at his agape face through heavy lashes. “Fill my cunt with your seed. Let me give you another dragon.”   

Baelor’s pace quickened at your words, hips slamming into you whilst his cock pulsed inside your soft, clenching walls. Groaning deeply, his cock was nestled at your deepest point, spurts of hot white seed shot into your womb, rope after rope whilst his hips stuttered.

The thick wetness shot into you caused you to whine softly as he slowed, filling you with his dragon seed. He dripped out of your hole as he rolled his hips to a halt, still buried within you and head tilted back back in pleasure. 

After a moment, he came to his own senses, warm hands carefully lifting your leg back down. Slowly, his thick length pulled away from your seed-filled cunt and you let out a whine at the loss, now feeling empty. 

Baelor was breathless as he collapsed beside you, hand reaching for your own as he pressed a kiss to your damp shoulder.

“Are you well, dear Wife?” His voice emphasised concern for you after the abuse he thoroughly conducted to your maidenhood. 

“Unbelievebly so,” you uttered, laughing lightly, despite the soreness around your core, chest still heaving. Your body was reeling over the pleasure you had just experienced.  

Flipping onto his side, he now faced your naked form with a smile, lifting your connected hands to tenderly press a kiss to your knuckles.

“Maybe a daughter this time,” he suddenly spoke, fondness shining through his orbs. “There are too many boys in this family. She would be a fiery version of you with the Blood of the Dragon.”

You couldn’t help but giggle into the hot air, “hopefully not too fiery.”

Pulling your Husband back closer to crash on top of you, you locked your lips with his in a heated kiss.

Yet tears were for holy men... and, folly though it sounded, Ormund Hightower was a husband before he was ever a penitent.

True or not, he still knelt at the altars of the Starry Sept whenever duty and time allowed. His prayers were measured and humble, his hands clasped just so, his voice carrying the proper weight of contrition. He lit candles to the Mother, the Maiden, and the Crone alike, made his offerings on holy days, and listened patiently whilst septons spoke of virtue, duty, and the burdens the gods laid upon noble men.

Yet for all his devotion, Ormund possessed another passion besides prayer : he had a nose for perfumes.

Not merely an appreciation, but a keen, almost indecent sense for them, the way a hound might scent blood in the dark.

He could name the oils in any lady's hair from three paces, pick apart the florals and the musks and the rare eastern extracts : the smokebark from Qohor, the jasmine of Myr, the crushed petals of the winter rose. And yours, he'd told you once on your wedding night, after he'd spent two hours just pressing his face to the hollow of your throat, breathing you in — yours was the only scent that ever made his cock ache.

In company, when you teased him for it — which part, my lord? which part of me smells sweetest? — he'd play the gallant. Your hair, he'd say, lifting a strand between his fingers, letting the candlelight catch it. Or your wrist. The ladies would coo, your sisters would blush, the old men would nod and call him a devoted husband and you a beloved wife.

But when the door closed.

When the servants had taken the wine cups and the rushes had been swept and the candles burned low in their holders, and you stood before the basin in nothing but your thin linen shift, washing the powder and the perfume of the Great Hall from your skin — then he would tell you the truth.

You asked again, and you always asked, in the intimate dark of your bedchamber when the fire had dwindled to embers and you could feel the weight of his gaze on your back like a hand. Which part, husband?

His mouth would find your neck, wet and hot, his tongue dragging salt and skin and the faint trace of rosewater you'd dabbed there.

Your cunt, he'd murmur against your pulse, teeth scraping. When I'm hungry. He'd pause, breathing you in. Your neck, when I want to leave a mark. Your tongue, when I want to taste how sinful you can be when the gods aren't watching.

He was a man obsessed with perfumes, your husband. But his favorite had always been yours, yes, that particular musk of you, the scent that lingered in the sheets when you'd risen, that clung to the pillows he'd press his face into while you were away at the sept or at market.

That night, he stood at the basin longer than usual.

He watched you through the rippled reflection in the water before he plunged his face in, scrubbing the day's dust and the Great Hall's smoke from his skin. The candlelight caught the water trickling down his bare chest, the dark hair that matted his sternum, the hard muscle of his shoulders. Your husband slept bare every night, had done since your wedding, claiming your linens were too soft for wool and that anyway, he liked the feel of your thighs against his skin.

But tonight he wasn't watching you wash. He was watching you pray.

You were on your knees at the foot of the bed, hands clasped before you, head bowed. The shift you wore was good linen, near translucent in the firelight, falling to your calves and hiding nothing. The outline of your body — the dip of your waist, the curve of your hips, the shape of your cunt pressed against your thighs — all of it visible, all of it offered.

Your lips moved in silent devotion. Seven blessings. Seven thanks. The prayer for a husband's safe return, the one for a fruitful womb, the one your mother had taught you for forgiving a man his sins.

He didn't deserve forgiveness tonight.

When you finished, you made the sign of the seven-pointed star and slipped beneath the furs, settling onto your side, back to him. You hummed — that soft, contented sound you made when the sheets were clean and the bed was warm and you could feel him climbing in behind you.

Goodnight, my lord, you murmured.

He pressed his chest to your back. Skin to linen. The heat of him, still damp from the basin, seeping through the thin fabric. His cock was already half-hard against the curve of your ass, and you didn't flinch.

Goodnight, my love.

His mouth found your neck. A kiss, soft at first, then wetter, slower, his teeth grazing the tendon that ran from your ear to your shoulder. His palm spread flat on your belly, fingers splayed, just resting.

You didn't move.

Instead you pushed back into him. A slow, deliberate arch of your spine, pushing your ass against his cock, your back bowing until your shoulders pressed his chest and your hips cradled him. Your eyes were still closed. A faint smirk touched your lips.

He groaned. The sound was rough, dragged from somewhere deep, and he bit your earlobe for it.

Minx.

His hand slipped, down from your belly, across the linen, gathering the hem of your shift and pulling it up your thighs. Slow. Deliberate. The fabric whispered against your skin, bunching around your hips, leaving you bare from the waist down.

His fingers found the thatch of dark hair between your legs. He touched it first — just touched, just felt the coarse curls against his calloused fingertips. Then he tugged. Gentle pulls, wrapping strands around his fingers, tugging just enough to make your hips shift, to make you press back against him harder.

Nothing, he breathed into your ear. No smallclothes. No shift beneath the shift. You came to bed bare for me.

You said nothing. Your hand reached back, found the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in the damp hair at his skull.

His fingers slid lower.

Through the hair, through the wet heat of you, parting the lips of your cunt with a slowness that bordered on cruel. He found your pearl — that tight, swollen nub hidden in its hood of flesh — and pinched it between his thumb and forefinger.

You gasped. A real sound, torn from you, your hips bucking into his hand.

He pressed his mouth to your ear, and he laughed — a low, dark sound that vibrated through his chest into your back.

Oh, the gods would weep to see you now, wife. So pious at the sept. So proper at the feast. And here, in the dark, you spread your legs for a finger and a whisper.

His thumb worked your pearl in slow circles, wet with your slick, while his middle finger traced the length of your slit. Up and down. Teasing the entrance, pressing just barely at the rim of you, then dragging back up to circle your pearl again.

You were soaked. Puffy and swollen and dripping for him, your slick coating his fingers, your thighs trembling where they pressed together around his hand.

He kept whispering.

You think the septon knows? When he gives you the seven blessings and you lower your eyes so demurely — you think he knows your cunt is this wet? That you knelt at the altar this morning with your thighs pressed tight to keep my seed from running down your leg?

Two fingers. He pushed them into you without warning, without prelude, just the sudden, slick slide of them burying to the knuckle in your heat.

You cried out. Not loud — bitten off, swallowed, your hand clapping over your own mouth as his fingers curled inside you.

His other hand clamped over yours, pulling it away, lacing his fingers through yours and pressing your palm flat to the mattress.

No, he said. I want to hear you.

He fucked you with his fingers. There was no other word for it — the wet, obscene squash of his hand moving between your thighs, the rhythm of it, the way he curled his fingers to find that spot inside you that made your vision white at the edges. Your hips moved with him, pushing back to meet every thrust, your mouth open against the pillow, your moans muffled into the feathers.

That's it. That's my wife. His voice was wrecked, ragged. You take my fingers so well, love. What will you take next?

The sound of it filled the quiet room. The wet slap of his hand, the rhythm of his breathing, the broken sounds you made beneath him. He fucked you with three fingers now, stretching you open, his thumb pressing hard on your pearl while his teeth found your shoulder and bit down — just enough to mark, just enough to make you gasp.

You taste like honey and sin, he murmured against the bite mark. And I am the hungriest man in the Reach.

The squash of his wet hand. The stutter of your breath. The way you whispered his name, broken and desperate, as he pushed you closer and closer to that edge.

Come for me, he said. Let the whole of the Hightower know what a sinful little wife I have.

And in the dark of your bedchamber, with the prayers still warm on your lips and his fingers buried deep inside you, you did.

He was not finished.

The thought came to you through the haze, through the aftershocks still pulsing through your thighs, through the wet sound of your own breathing as you lay there, limp and shattered, your cunt still clenching around nothing. You thought perhaps he would roll off, would press a kiss to your shoulder and settle against your back, would whisper some sweet nothing and fall asleep with his nose pressed to your hair.

But Ormund Hightower was not a man who took one meal and called himself fed.

He pulled his fingers from you slow — dragging along your inner walls, making you shudder at the loss. You heard him bring them to his mouth. Heard the wet and sinful sound of him sucking them clean, the low groan he made tasting you on his own skin.

Then he grabbed your hip and turned you.

The world spun, furs and linen and candlelight, and then you were on your back, your husband looming over you, his face dark with hunger. His dirty blonde hair hung damp across his brow, eyes black in the firelight, and mouth wet with you.

He kissed you. Oh, how he kissed you.

Not the chaste peck of a husband taking leave. Not the gentle press of a man being tender. This was a claiming — his tongue sliding into your mouth, thick and insistent, and you tasted yourself on him. Salty and musk and the copper of your own arousal. He kissed you until you couldn't breathe, until your chest heaved and your hands came up to push at his shoulders, and only then did he break it, mouths still close, breath mingling.

You taste even better on my tongue, he said. But I want your warmth.

He took off your shift, and then descended.

His mouth trailed down your chin, your throat, the hollow between your collarbones. He paused at your breasts — took a nipple between his teeth, bit just enough to make you arch, soothed it with his tongue while his hand found the other and pinched. Then lower. Over the soft swell of your belly, the jut of your hipbone, the place where your thighs began.

He settled between them.

Your hands found his hair before he'd even reached his destination — fingers tangling in the thick, dark curls, gripping hard. You bucked your hips toward his mouth, desperate, needy, the overstimulation from before still singing in your nerves.

He pinned you.

His hands clamped down on your hips, hard enough to bruise, pressing you flat into the mattress. You could not move, could not grind against his face, could not evenchase the friction you craved. You were held open, held still, held.

Patience, he murmured against your inner thigh. I'll have you when I'm ready.

His breath was hot on your cunt. You felt it — the warm exhalation against your soaked, swollen flesh — and your whole body trembled. You were raw from his fingers, sensitive to the point of pain, every nerve ending standing at attention and begging.

He licked you.

A single, long stroke, from the base of your slit to the tip of your pearl, his tongue flat and broad and wet. You cried out. Your hips strained against his grip, but he held you fast, and he did it again. And again. Each stroke slower than the last, savoring, tasting, groaning against your flesh until you felt the vibration through your whole body.

Gods, he breathed into you. I could die here. I would die happy, with your cunt on my tongue.

He ate you like a starving man.

His mouth devoured you — lips sucking your pearl, tongue fucking into your hole, his nose pressing against your clit with every movement. He groaned against you, the sound muffled by your flesh, and the vibration sent sparks up your spine. He pulled you impossibly closer, his hands gripping your hips and dragging you harder against his face, and you let him. You gave him everything. Your hands fisted in his hair, holding him there, and you rode his mouth with what little freedom he allowed you.

Ormund — His name came out broken, keening.

He answered by pressing his thumb to your pearl — hard, rubbing tight circles while his tongue speared into you, fucking you open, drinking everything you gave him.

You were close again too soon. Too fast. The pleasure was almost pain, the overstimulation building like a fever, and you tried to push his head away. You couldn't. Your hands pulled at his curls but he didn't stop, didn't slow, his thumb pressing harder, his tongue deeper.

Please — please, husband, I cannot —

He did not stop.

Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, like a wall falling, like the whole of the Hightower crumbling to dust. You screamed. You saw white — a blinding, total whiteness that blotted out the room, the candles, the man between your thighs. Your cunt clenched and spasmed, flooding his mouth, and he groaned against you and kept licking, kept sucking, drawing it out until you were sobbing, until you were pushing at his shoulders with what little strength you had left.

Only then did he lift his head.

His face was slick with you. His chin gleamed in the candlelight, his lips wet, his eyes dark and satisfied. He did not wipe his mouth. He simply looked at you broken and panting beneath him, your thighs trembling, your cunt still fluttering) and he smiled.

But he was not finished.

Ormund reached to the bedside table. His hand moved with practiced ease, finding a small vial of cut crystal, the kind that usually held perfumes and rare oils. He uncorked it with his teeth.

And while your cunt still wept with your peak, he gathered it.

His fingers slid into you again — gentle this time, coaxing, milking your orgasm as it ebbed. You watched through half-lidded eyes as he held the vial beneath you, watched as your own wetness trickled down his fingers and into the crystal. Drop by drop. The vial filled with your slick, pale and thick in the candlelight, and he watched it with the same reverence he gave the seven-pointed star.

When the vial was full, he corked it. Set it back on the bedside table. Returned his gaze to you.

You opened your mouth — to tease him, perhaps. To ask if he meant to wear your scent to court tomorrow, or if he planned to anoint himself before the septon. You were used to his strange ways with perfume, his collections of oils and essences, his obsession with the way things smelled.

But before the words could form, he took you.

His breeches disappeared, and with a single, swift motion — his hand on your hip, the blunt head of his cock pressing at your entrance, and then he was inside you. All of him. In one stroke, burying to the hilt, filling you completely.

Your breath left you in a rush. Your back arched off the bed. His name was a prayer, a curse, a sob.

He began to move.

No more talking, he growled, his forehead pressed to yours, his hips driving into you with desperate, hungry strokes. No more games. I want to feel you come on my cock. I want to feel you milk me dry.

So he fucked you.

Crude as it sound, there was no other word. He fucked you with the same hunger he'd eaten you with, with the same devotion he prayed with, with the same obsession he collected his perfumes. His hips slammed into yours, the wet sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, and you wrapped your legs around his waist and held on.

Come for me, he demanded. Again. Now.

And you did. Because you could not help it. Because he owned every part of you, because your body answered his before your mind could catch up, because the sight of him above you (sweating, desperate, beautiful) undid something deep in your chest.

You shattered around him.

He followed a heartbeat later, his groan low and guttural, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself into you. Hot and thick, filling you, marking you from the inside.

He collapsed on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress, his face buried in your neck. He breathed you in, a long, shuddering inhale, and you felt his lips press a kiss to your pulse.

You smell like sin, he murmured against your skin. Like heaven and sin and everything I should not want.

His hand found the vial on the bedside table. He held it up to the candlelight, watching your slick catch the glow.

And I want to keep every drop.

He settled behind you like a man coming home.

The shift of the furs, the creak of the bedframe, the warmth of his chest pressing against your back. His arm slid beneath your head, making a pillow of his bicep, and he pulled the covers up over both of you — silk and the heavy quilt your mother had stitched for your wedding. He tucked it beneath your chin with a tenderness that seemed impossible from the man who'd just fucked you into the mattress.

His mouth found your neck. Small kisses, pecks really, soft as moth wings, trailing from your ear down to your shoulder. You felt him smile against your skin.

You were still catching your breath. Still floating in that warm, liquid haze that followed his claiming, your limbs heavy, your cunt sore and satisfied, the ghost of his cock and fingers still stretching you. You felt his softening length pressed against the curve of your ass, wet and spent, and you pushed back into him instinctively.

His hand found your breast. It always did. Every night, without fail, whether he'd taken you or not, his palm would cup your flesh, his thumb would find your nipple, and he would hold you like that until sleep took him. You'd come to expect it, to need it, the weight of his hand a comfort you couldn't name.

But his other hand did not go to your waist.

It slipped lower. Over the curve of your hip, across the soft skin of your belly, down through the coarse hair between your thighs. You were too tired to open your eyes, too spent to question, but you felt his fingers find your entrance — slick and swollen and still leaking his seed.

He pushed inside you.

Two fingers. Slow and gentle, a soft intrusion that made you sigh rather than gasp. He buried them to the knuckle, and then he stilled.

To keep your scent on me by morning, he murmured against your hair. So I can take you with me when I rise.

You hummed. A sound of agreement, or surrender, or simple exhaustion. Your hand found his where it cupped your breast, and you held him there, your fingers intertwined with his.

You were already gone. Already drifting into that deep, dreamless sleep that only a well-fucked wife could find. Your breathing evened, your body relaxed fully against his, your cunt clenching occasionally around his fingers in reflexive, dreaming pulses.

The Maiden herself might blush to hear such thoughts, and even the Stranger would raise an eyebrow, if the tales were true. Yet what were gods and their judgments beside the comfort and joy your husband brought you? Let the septons mutter of sin. Let them wag their fingers and speak of virtue. The Seven might forgive you...