Lady Wura

Every charming smile he threw your way was met with an arched, unimpressed brow. Every poetic compliment he rehearsed tasted like ash and shattered against your coldness. You didn’t swoon like the ladies at the tourney grounds, nor did you soften at his obvious attempts to woo you.

Instead, you looked at him as if you could see right through the nervous man underneath.

Your assessing gaze was currently fixed on him from the shade of the courtyard gallery. Down in the dirt, Gwayne was sweating through his padded doublet, trying his absolute best to look formidable as his sword clashed against his squire’s shield—because he knew you were watching.

He has to look good. Your wedding was in three weeks, so he was fighting to impress—determined to give you a show of how your betrothed was as dashing as the realm claimed him to be.

With theatrical flair, he executed an aggressive sequence before driving his squire back with a heavy strike, deftly sweeping the poor lad’s legs out from under him, and sending him sprawling into the dirt with a breathless thud.

Breathing heavily, Gwayne smoothly rested the point of his sword near the fallen boy’s chest in a classic pose of victory.

“You are just dead,” he declared with his signature grin, before turning to where you were.

You leaned against the stone balustrade, looking down at him with an expression of mild, patronizing amusement. He flashed you a hopeful, boyish grin that begged for even a shred of your approval.

And as if deciding to grace him with your presence, you descended down the stone stairs. Gwayne’s smile widened, and he met you halfway as you reached the bottom.

Ignoring the staring stableboys, he dipped his head and took your hand, placing a kiss on it.

“Princess,” he greeted, his dark blue eyes meeting yours with an excited crinkle.

“An impressive display, Ser Gwayne,” you replied, smoothly pulling your hand back from his grasp. He was giddy, about to thank you for the compliment, when—

“I must commend your passion. It takes a truly remarkable knight to exert such effort against a boy half his size who is actively paid to lose to him.”

Gwayne winced slightly, but the grin quickly returned to his face, refusing to let your sharp tongue deter him.

“A knight, no matter the age, must practice for all manner of foes. It shall be a good lesson for my squire to learn,” he countered softly. He had always been a naturally courteous man, but he had been practicing an extra measure of gentleness ever since the betrothal was announced, even when you remained frosty.

He hoped that you would recognize it—that you would see he was willing to bend his pride just for you.

However, you merely lifted your chin higher, your eyes flashing with a challenge.

“Is that so? My, what a chivalrous soul you are. I suppose I shall sleep soundly knowing you are defending the realm with your immense prowess and formidable army of squires.”

One thing he could never truly understand, though... he hadn’t asked for this match any more than you had, yet why did you look at him as you would a liar?

And it hurts because... he remembers how the more innocent, younger you, who had wiped blood from his face, hadn’t looked at him as you do now.

“We are to be married in no less than a moon,” he reminded you, still with a smile. “Tell me, Princess... what must a man do to earn a genuine compliment from his bride?”

You held his gaze for a beat, letting the silence stretch just long enough to watch the slight twitch in his jaw. Then, a devastatingly sweet smile graced your lips as you tilted your head.

“Compliments are but wind, my good ser. If we are to marry soon anyways, what use would flattering you with empty words do?”

Gwayne let out a defeated chuckle. “I shall just continue striving to become a man worthy of your hand, then.”

You had just insulted him and mocked his swordsmanship in the same breath, and yet, somehow, he still found himself tethered to you still.

What a fool he was.

He didn’t give up just like that, of course. Gifts was also Gwayne’s language of affection.

He had commissioned a seven-pointed star necklace for you in Oldtown, crafted from the finest silver and diamond. He had watched his late mother and sister find such profound comfort in it, and so he had believed it would make a fine gift for you.

Yet, now that he presented the gleaming jewelry to you, you were rendered silent.

“You do not like it,” he realized, a note of disappointment building through his usual confidence.

“It is exquisite. Truly,” you started, your voice gentle but lacking the reverence he had anticipated. “But... you must not expect me to wear it often.”

“Is it the design? If it offends your sensibilities, I can have it redone, or—”

“I assure you, I know your intentions are kind,” you looked at him, a certain sternness in your eyes. “It is just a matter of preference, is all. I treasure this necklace from my mother rather greatly, and wearing it is how I keep her close to me.”

The tragic death of Queen Aemma was not so easily forgotten, least of all when you resembled her so much. Gwayne’s smile faltered, the enthusiasm in his eyes dimming when his gaze found the sapphire necklace of Arryn falcon on your neck, a heirloom passed down.

He looked down at the silver star resting in the wooden box, suddenly finding it so plain, before forcing himself to meet your gaze again.

“I just want you to know that... you are in my thoughts, constantly,” he murmured, his gaze rising to meet yours again. “Whenever I see something I consider beautiful, I think of you. I want you to have it. You should know I have no underlying intentions other than that.”

You gave him an appreciative nod, pursing your lips together. “Your kind thoughts are much appreciated.”

So he had failed, again. Sigh.

What better way to impress your betrothed and prove to the entire realm that you were worthy of her hand than by claiming victory at the King’s nameday tourney?

Even you would at least bestow a real smile upon him. That was what Gwayne was after.

Or at least, it was until his gaze drifted to the edge of the battlement grounds where the knights were assembling. There, he saw you.

With Criston Cole.

The sight struck him. You, who usually looked at him with indifference, were attentive, your eyes bright in a way Gwayne had never managed to make them. Cole, in turn, had a reserved smile, his attention entirely locked onto you.

It could have been anyone but Criston—the Dornishman!—Cole. Why him?!

A sharp spike of resentment flared in his chest. He decided right then and there that this cannot stand, and marched towards you both.

“Good day, Ser Criston,” Gwayne greeted with a forced smile, his voice dripping with a courtly cheer that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Cole returned his greeting, and he turned to you then. “My betrothed, fancy to have found you here. You shouldn’t have to sully yourself with the dirt.”

“I was merely wishing Ser Criston luck in the lists.” As always, the corners of your lips curled into that faux smile whenever facing him. “The competition looks fierce today.”

What about him? You hadn’t thought of wishing him, your own groom, luck?

“Fierce for some, mayhaps,” Gwayne nodded, his smile sharpening as he took another step forward, deliberately cutting off Criston Cole’s line of sight to you. He reached out, his gauntleted hand gently but firmly taking yours.

“But I sure do not fear a crowd of knights of modest beginnings and second sons. And I have hoped that I might find you in the stands later, and you would bestow upon me your favor to assure me of my victory.”

He looked down at you, the forced arrogance in his eyes momentarily cracked. He wanted you to look at him the way you had just looked at Cole, really.

But cruel, relentless you never granted it so easily.

“Your romantic sensibilities are commendable, ser.” You let out a soft sigh, as if lamenting, “but victory is still guaranteed by skill and the favor of the Seven, and not merely from a scrap of silk.”

The rejection was subtle, but in the presence of Criston Cole, it felt like a public execution.

“It is said even a scrap of favor from one’s bride can turn the tide of many battles,” Gwayne replied, his voice dropping an octave as the last traces of courtly cheer evaporated. “Unless, of course, your favor has already been promised to someone else?”

His eyes flicked towards Cole, searching for a reason to draw steel before the tourney even began. And that Dornish wretch had the gall to look at him in the eyes and retorted:

“May the best knight win, ser.”

Your betrothed had become terribly displeased and you knew it. Your hollow smile deepened, you stepped forward and smoothly slid your hand into the crook of his arm.

“No, no. You are free to ask me for it later, of course, my dear.”

Gwayne knew better that the honeyed words held no real affection. Yet, like a moth drawn to a flame, he couldn’t help but fall for it each and every time.

You held his leash, and you knew exactly how far you could play with and stretch it. But as he looked at you, a quiet ache settled in his soul.

Is it truly so wrong of him to seek your heart? How much longer would he have to endure this torment, giving everything while his affections remained completely unreturned?

“From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.”

That was the first thing he told you when the betrothal was announced. In a den of vipers, Gwayne Hightower was entirely his own man.

He didn’t possess the calculating ambition of his father, who viewed every living soul as a piece in his game of thrones. Nor was he prudent like his sister, Queen Alicent, whose motto in life was duty and sacrifice.

You know that. You really knew that your chosen betrothed was everything but unkind. He was everything the songs promised a knight should be— genuine, posh, with a touch of arrogance that made him charming. He held you in high regard, and his attempts to make an impression on you were sweet.

Despite how you behaved around him, the truth was... it took everything in you not to fall for Ser Gwayne Hightower.

But he is still Otto’s son. You hated the Lord Hand with every fiber of your being—the man’s thirst for power had already forced your childhood companion Alicent into your father’s bed, turned your sister Rhaenyra into a scheming cynic, and your own betrothal to Gwayne was just another piece of his grand design.

However, watching the tourney unfold from the royal box, your thoughts swirled with guilt and anxiety. In the end, he hadn’t asked for your favor at all. Ironically, his sudden silence unsettled you far more than his persistence ever had.

Looking back on your interactions, the weight of your biting marks pressed heavily against your chest. You had rejected him so many times, using your faux smiles and sharp wit as shields. Every time you remembered the look of hurt that crossed his face before he masked it with a patient smile, a fresh wave of guilt washed over you.

Did he deserve to be punished just for pursuing you? Was it fair to make him pay for his father’s sins?

Down in the dirt, Gwayne rode beautifully, unseating two seasoned knights from the Reach and splitting lances with a Lannister to thunderous applause from the crowd. For a moment, watching his silver and green armor gleam in the sunlight, a spark of pride flared in your chest.

Then, Ser Criston Cole rode onto the field.

The tension between the two men was palpable even from the high stands. They charged— one lance shattered, then a second. By the third pass, it was clear it was a matter of pride.

And on the fourth pass, the collision was catastrophic.

With a terrifying crack that echoed across the grounds, Cole’s lance struck dead center. Gwayne was violently unseated, flung from his saddle to hit the earth with a sickening crash.

A collective gasp sucked the air from the stands. Through the rising dust, you saw your betrothed lying completely still. Cole’s lance hadn’t just broken— it had compromised his armor. His steel breastplate was shattered to pieces, the shards visibly lodged into his chest, dark blood already pooling through the fractures.

Your breath hitched, your hand flying to your mouth in horror.

Six years ago, a similar scene had paralyzed your heart the very same way. Blind to the rules of propriety, you bolted from the royal box. Pushing past lords and ladies, you sprinted down into the arena—desperate to reach him.

The maesters and several squires had already swarmed him, unbuckling the undamaged pieces of his armor with hurried hands. Gwayne was propped up against a wooden barrier, half-conscious, his head lolling to the side as his eyes struggled to hold focus.

“Will he be alright?” your voice cracked, almost shrill, the composed facade of a princess shattered as you hovered over the maesters working on him. “Tell me he will be alright.”

“The steel hasn’t pierced the heart, Princess, but we must move him to immediately to extract the shards,” one of them mumbled, wrapping a temporary cloth around the wound to stem the bleeding.

Gwayne let out a low, guttural groan at the pressure, his eyelids fluttering. Through the haze of pain, he recognized your voice. He knew you were there.

Driven by a sudden, overwhelming surge to comfort him, you dropped to your knees beside him. Your hands were trembling as you reached out, using the hem of your sleeve to wipe away the grime and blood that smeared his pale cheek.

But before your fingers could trace his jawline, Gwayne’s gauntleted hand came up. With a sudden burst of remaining strength, he swatted your hand away—

“Do not touch me,” he rasped.

The words were raw and bitter, dripping with an icy venom you had never heard from him before.

. . .

Gwayne refused to meet your gaze. He pressed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone practically strained against his skin.

It wasn’t just the physical agony tearing him apart. It was the suffocating, absolute humiliation.

He had lost. He had been unseated and laid low in the dirt in front of the entire realm—and worse, in front of Criston Cole. He couldn’t bear to see the pity in your eyes. He couldn’t bear to look at the woman he loved and see confirmation that he was exactly what you always thought of him: unworthy.

“I’m— fine,” he choked out then. “So... go back to the Keep.”

It was funny how this was the same thing that had happened to him six years ago, during the Heir’s Tourney. He had been brutally unseated by Daemon Targaryen then, and just like now, you had come running to him, wiping the blood from his broken nose with your kerchief.

He fell in love with you then... and he has been in love with you ever since.

The girl holding his heart was a princess, and he had never dared to hope for more, never dreaming his conniving father would actually arrange your hand for him. He had thought it a blessing.

But his pursuit of you the past three moons had yielded nothing but a bitter truth— you despised him.

So he preferred to choke on the blinding pain, to let it consume him entirely, rather than suffer the indignity of your comfort.

You are in love with him.

You had spent weeks trying to resent the circumstances that led to your marriage with Otto Hightower’s son, reminding yourself over and over that he had fractured your family, sowing seeds of rebellion that would break once Alicent’s son came to age, and it would spell disaster upon you all—

But the wounded knight with broken nose six years ago had long since owned a part of your heart, and one week without Gwayne Hightower persistent on your heel, you had found yourself... sad.

“Mrawgh...”

“I’m not lonely,” you mumbled petulantly, brushing a hand against Grey Ghost’s silver scales as the dragon curled up, blinking his golden eyes shut to rest.

To occupy yourself, you spent the days with your dragon in the Dragonpit. Tending to Grey Ghost made the long hours pass faster— he was a recluse and not keen on flying often, but his quiet presence matched your somber mood.

Leaving him to his slumber, you walked away lost in your thoughts, entirely failing to notice how slippery the stone ledge had become.

Your foot caught on a heavy iron ring embedded in the floor. The world tilted as you stumbled backwards, losing your footing entirely. You braced for a painful impact against the stone floor, but a pair of strong arms wrapped securely around your waist, arresting your descent.

A sharp, ragged gasp left your savior’s lips. As you stabilized, you realized your hands had instinctively braced against his chest—pressing right over the bandages of the fresh wound.

“Steady there,” the redhead managed, a strained smile tight on his lips as he gently set you back on your feet. His green tunic made you realize who he was—

“Gwayne!” you breathed. Your hands hovered over him, trembling, almost terrified to touch him again. “Why are you—your wound! I didn’t mean to—”

“I am fine, truly,” he assured you, his voice softening as he offered a warm, comforting smile. “It is but a scratch, Princess. It takes more than a clumsy tumble from you to injure me.”

Just like a hundred times before, Gwayne Hightower sought you out. You could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead and how he looked pale still—

From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.

“You are supposed to be resting!” Your voice rose despite yourself. “Why are you here?!”

This wasn’t what you wanted to tell him. You wanted to tell him a lot of other things! Like he was a fool, and that you would forbid him to enter the lists once you two were wed, that you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him—

His blue eyes crinkled with that familiar kindness as he reached out, softly tucking a stray strand of your loose hair behind your ear.

“If I wasn’t here, then you would take a fall.” His voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. “I can’t very well let my betrothed hurt herself before our big day, can I?”

This was the first time since King Viserys announced your betrothal three moons ago that you looked genuinely worried for him. It made something inside him burst with joy, even if it was tinged with a bitter aftertaste.

Gwayne’s thumb gently brushed across the back of your hand that was still pressed against his chest.

“Tell me... Is this the only way I could truly have your attention? Must I be grievously injured, a step away from Death’s door, for you to look at me like this?”

Your eyes widened by a fraction. Precious, precious girl. He chuckled softly, a teasing glint brightened his eyes.

Just this once, could he be allowed to be just a little bit cruel?

“Even if you keep looking at me with those beautiful eyes...” he whispered, his smile turning a little wistful, “...my heart might just run out, one of these days.”

He gave you one last, kind smile—a look of affection that no longer held expectations, or reeked of the politics that bound your families. Then, he gently gripped your hand, pulling it away from him before turning on his heel to leave you to your own devices.

When your fingers fell limp into the cold air, a stinging realization pierced through you like a dagger:

Is this how he feels? Is this what he endures every time I evade him? How has he survived it over and over?

As his warmth retreated into the shadows of the Dragonpit, something sharp tore deep inside your chest.

You didn’t want him to go. The walls you had spent weeks building to protect your heart against the Hightower name crumbled into dust. Your eyes burned with tears that blurred his retreating figure.

He was nearly out of the pit when you gathered your skirts, abandoning your pride, and ran after him.

“Ser Gwayne!”

Before he could turn back, you lunged, throwing your pride and your fears to the wind. You crashed into his back, your arms wrapping tightly around his waist, burying your face against his spine. He stiffened, almost flinching—

But then he heard you sob.

“Princess...?” he asked softly. His tone shifted, turning from startled confusion to a protective concern as he carefully turned around within your embrace. He reached up, gently tilting your chin up, only to find your cheeks flushed and wet with tears.

Realizing you were truly, genuinely weeping, Gwayne’s breath hitched in his throat.

He didn’t think. He didn’t let past rejections dictate him. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his uninjured side.

“Shh, please do not weep,” he said in your ear, his own voice suddenly thick with emotion as he rocked you slightly. “Darling... please.”

Darling. Why did the word sound so devastatingly sweet in your ears? As you clung to him, you realized with absolute certainty that you wanted him to call you that for the rest of your days.

As he held you, feeling the warmth of your hands anchoring yourself to him, the pieces finally fell into place:

Has she... returned my feelings?

When your sobs finally quieted and your breathing turned calmer, you gently pulled back just enough to look up at him. Your eyes met his, and an ache settled in your chest.

He was such a beautiful man. Red hair, blue eyes, with ghost of dimples— still the very same wounded knight you had secretly harbored affections for with all those years ago.

Driven by a clear wave of clarity, you didn’t wait for him to speak. Reaching up, you stood on your toes and pulled him down by his collar—

—and pressed your lips to his.

Gwayne went rigid at your sudden boldness. But as your fingers tangled into his soft hair, any lingering shock vanished. With a low groan, he leaned into you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that felt like the bursting of a dam.

He drank in your sighs, his lips moving against yours with a desperate longing, as if he were trying to memorize the taste of you. He pulled you closer, his hands tilting your head back, anchoring you to him.

“You really are—” he growled against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged, “my utter undoing, Princess.”

Before the words could even fully register, you gasped as he gathered you up and hoisted you backwards, setting you down onto the broad stone railing.

Gwayne stepped between your thighs, pinning you to the ledge as his mouth descended on yours once more, even more ravenous than before. The kiss became a blur of lips, tongues, and breathless gasps—

His hands left your face to map the lines of your body, his palm sliding down the column of your throat to the curve of your shoulders. In his mind’s eye, he was already stripping away the heavy, suffocating layers of your gown, picturing the soft, aching swell of your breasts and the intoxicating dip of your waist.

In less than a week... as soon as you swear your oaths before the Seven, he would be graced by that sight.

Gwayne dragged his lips down from your mouth, leaving a trail of scorching kisses along your jawline before burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Ser Gwayne—” your voice came hitched, and that what brought him back to reality.

He bit softly at the sensitive skin there, swallowing the fire that was about to consume him. When he finally pulled away to breathe, his lips lingered against yours.

“Well, you did kiss me first, Princess,” Gwayne murmured, his eyes twinkling, voice delightfully raspy as his arms settled loosely around your waist. “If I had known a broken rib would finally get you to kiss me, I would have marched up to Grey Ghost and asked him to toss me by the tail weeks ago.”

“Please don’t,” you giggled, circling your arms around his neck.

“Ah, but think of the romance— a dashing knight, battered and bruised, crawling back from the Dragonpit just to collapse into his bride’s arms.”

A breathless laugh escaped your lips, giving way to a very sweet, genuine smile. To Gwayne Hightower, this was the prettiest you had ever been, and his heart throbbed.

Oh, so she does, he realized, a quiet reverence settling into his soul. She does return my affections.

Gwayne leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, finally certain that his heart was safe in your hands.

“You might not know it,” he whispered, “but I have been in love with you for a very long time.”

You looked up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears, and he met your gaze with a look of such devotion it stole the breath from your lungs.

“So let me say this once again. From before, now and until the day we breathe our last, all that I am... is yours.”

In that moment, you couldn’t have known that the realm would soon be plunged into a senseless civil war, pitting your sister against his in a dance of dragons and blood. You couldn’t have foreseen the ashes, the betrayals, or the heavy price the Hightower green and the Targaryen black would have to pay.

But the moment the heavy oak doors clicked shut behind you, the atmosphere shifted from courtly elegance to raw, possessive hunger.

Ormund didn't say a word at first, he didn't need to. He gripped your arm with a firmness that bordered on bruising, spinning you around and shoving you back against the cold stone wall.

His eyes, usually so composed, were dark with a jealous fire. He had seen the way Aemond looked at you; he had heard the Prince's admiration, and it had ignited a need in him to reclaim what was his.

“The Prince finds you sharp, does he?” Ormund hissed, his voice a low growl against your ear. He pressed his body flush against yours, his hardness straining against his trousers, pinning you firmly. “He admires your mind. But he forgets that every inch of you, your thoughts, your breath, your fucking body, belongs to me.”

He didn't give you time to answer. His hand dove downward, ripping your skirts upward and shoving your undergarments aside with a rough, impatient tug. He forced your legs apart, hoisting one of your thighs up over his hip to expose you completely to the dim light of the room.

Ormund dropped to his knees with a suddenness that made you gasp, he didn't tease, he dove straight in. His tongue lashed out, hitting your clit with a forceful, wet stroke that made your back arch off the wall. You let out a sharp cry, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he began to eat you out with a feral intensity.

He sucked your clit deep into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive nub while his fingers shoved themselves inside you, stretching your walls.

He was eating you like a starving man, his face smeared with your juices, making loud, wet slurping sounds that filled the silence of the chamber.

He wanted you to feel the desperation of his claim, to know that while Aemond might admire your mind, Ormund owned the heat between your legs.

You were shaking, your breath coming in ragged sobs as he drove you toward the edge and just as you felt the first wave of orgasm crashing over you, Ormund pulled away, leaving you dripping and desperate.

“Look at me,” he commanded, standing up and quickly shedding his breeches.

His cock was thick and pulsing, fully erect and leaking pre-cum. He didn't use any lubricant other than the mess he had just made of you. He grabbed your hips, lifting you slightly and driving his cock deep into your pussy in one singular, violent thrust.

You screamed into the quiet of the room, the sudden fullness stretching you to my limit. He didn't slow down. He began to fuck you with a rhythmic, punishing force, his hips slamming against yours with a wet, slapping sound. Each thrust was a statement of ownership, driving deep enough to hit your cervix, claiming every hidden part of you.

“Who do you belong to?” he groaned, his voice strained as he hammered into you.

“You... Ormund!” You gasped, your head tossing back against the wall.

“Say it again!” He gripped your throat lightly, not enough to choke, but enough to make you feel his dominance. He accelerated his pace, his cock sliding in and out of your soaking wet pussy with friction that set you on fire.

“I am yours! I belong to you!” The admission seemed to break the last of his restraint. Ormund let out a guttural roar, his movements becoming frantic and wild. He buried himself deep inside you one last time, his body shuddering violently as he pumped load after load of hot cum deep into your womb.

He stayed there for a long moment, panting heavily, his forehead pressed against yours, ensuring you felt every drop of his seed filling you up, marking you from the inside out. The Prince's compliments were forgotten; there was only the scent of sex and the crushing weight of Ormund's possession.

“Fucking righteous cunt thought he could compliment my wife,” he murmured against your throat, jaw clenching, “I will make this entire fucking keep learn just who the fuck you belong to,” Ormund's teeth sank into your shoulder with a sharp, possessive bite, his growl vibrating against your skin as he then hauled you against his chest, pushing you towards the bed, “Prince or fucking not, I'll have him eat is fucking words, rider of the largest fucking dragon or not, his fire will not touch you.”

Ormund pushed you unto the bed, flipping you onto your stomach and he yanked your hips up, forcing your ass high while your face pressed into the sheets. His cock, still slick from the load he'd just pumped into you, slammed back inside your pussy in one brutal thrust.

“Let them hear you, let him hear how I am the one making you come undone,” he gripped your waist hard enough to bruise, pounding into you from behind with savage force, each slam drove his length to the hilt, his balls slapping against your clit as he used your body like it was made for nothing else.

Hot cum from his first release leaked out around his shaft with every thrust, coating your thighs in thick, sticky trails.

“Mine,” he snarled against your ear, his hips snapping forward without mercy. “Say it again. Tell me who this cunt belongs to.” His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back as he fucked you deeper, harder, claiming every inch of your soaked hole.

“I am yours, Ormund, fuck,” your fingers fisted into the sheets as your mouth parted, breathless and heart pounding with each insistent thrust that made the bed shake, “it was only a compliment, nothing more.”

He shook his head, hammering into you as his free hand reached under you to pinch and twist your nipple, rolling the stiff peak between his fingers while he drove you toward another shattering peak, “You are so oblivious, so fucking blind to the way men stare at you. I should not have let you come with me,” he murmured, hands now gripping unto your hips as he continued to unravel you.

“You commanded me to come,” you muffled the scream that tumbled from your mouth, head tilting to the side as you now watched your husband pound into you over your shoulder, “you commanded that I come with you, husband.”

“Then I'll spend every godsdamned moment between your legs, if only so to remind those that I am not a man who shares what is his in any manner.”

The wet sounds of his cock stretching you filled the room, mixed with the slap of skin on skin and his ragged breathing. He didn't slow down, didn't ease up, he kept railing you from behind, determined to flood you again before the night was over.

His hair, now damp and clinging against his forehead, made your cunt clench tighter around his cock and a smug smirk fluttered across your face, “Green is a colour that suits you most sinfully, Ormund.”

Ormund’s smirk vanished, replaced by a flash of raw, possessive hunger. The mention of the color; the color of the Hightowers, the color of the ambition that fueled the court, seemed to snap something inside him. He didn't just thrust, he snapped his hips forward with a brutal, jarring force, his cock slamming deep into your cervix with a wet, heavy thud.

“You think this is a game?” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble against your ear. He gripped your hips so hard his fingers left bruises, anchoring you in place as he began to rail you with a savage intensity. Each strike was a claim, a violent assertion of ownership that left you breathless and shaking.

The fury in him was palpable, a storm brewed from the lingering image of Prince Aemond’s lingering glances and the way the Prince had looked at you as if you were a prize to be stolen.

Ormund had always been a man of controlled passion, but the threat of competition had awakened a primal, territorial beast he had long since buried. He didn't want to just satisfy you; he wanted to mark you, to fill you so completely that there was no room left for any other man's thoughts or desires.

With a sudden, powerful movement, he yanked you backward, pulling your spine flush against his chest. He didn't stop the friction, keeping his cock buried deep while he twisted his body to capture your lips.

His mouth crashed against yours, his tongue invading your mouth in a mirroring of the assault below, aggressive, demanding, and absolute. He tasted of salt and desperation, his breath hitching as he felt your cunt pulsing and clamping tight around him. “Mine,” he groaned into the kiss, the word vibrating through your entire frame. “Every inch of you... fucking mine.”

He gave one final, devastatingly deep thrust, his entire body locking up as he hit his limit. A guttural shout tore from his throat as he came, a hot, thick torrent of cum flooding your womb, filling you to the brim. He shuddered violently, his heart hammering against your back, his cock pulsing inside you as he emptied himself completely, claiming you with every drop of his seed.

But as the peak of the orgasm subsided, the brutality evaporated, replaced by a sudden, aching tenderness. Ormund didn't pull away. Instead, he shifted his weight, his movements becoming agonizingly slow. He began to grind his hips into you with a rhythmic, devoted slowness, his cock sliding through the slurry of his own cum and your juices.

He began to kiss the nape of your neck, his lips soft and lingering, his breath warm against your skin. The contrast was dizzying, the man who had just been railing you like an animal was now cradling you as if you were the most precious thing in the Seven Kingdoms.

He whispered fragmented vows of devotion, his voice thick with emotion, grinding into you with a steady, loving pressure that targeted every sensitive nerve.

The slow, deliberate friction began to build a different kind of heat, a swirling vortex of pleasure that felt deeper and more intimate than the violence of before. Your walls clamped around him in rhythmic waves, and as he continued to grind into you with that unwavering devotion, you felt yourself shatter. You came undone, your body arching and sobbing as a powerful orgasm ripped through you, leaving you limp and trembling in his possessive, loving embrace.

Ormund's lips brushed yours again, softer this time, the kiss lingering with a quiet apology woven into every press. His breath came warm against your mouth as he murmured, “Forgive me. I was too rough with you.”

His hands eased their grip on your hips, fingers stroking the marks he'd left behind in soothing circles. He stayed buried inside you, his cock still half-hard and slick with the mess he'd pumped deep, but his thrusts had slowed to nothing. Instead he held you close, chest pressed to your back, and began to rock his hips in the gentlest of motions, just enough to keep you connected while the tenderness took over.

“I saw the way he looked at you,” he whispered against your ear, voice low and rough with leftover heat. “Aemond's eye on you... it woke something I thought I'd buried. But I shouldn't have taken it out on you like that.”

Another slow kiss landed at the corner of your jaw, then lower, along the curve of your neck. His tongue traced the skin he had earlier bitten, now soothing it with careful laps.

He pulled back just enough to turn your face toward him, claiming your mouth once more in a deep, unhurried kiss that tasted of salt and regret. His tongue moved slower now, exploring rather than invading, while below he ground his hips forward in tiny, devoted circles that dragged his cock against your swollen walls. The wet sounds of his cum shifting inside you filled the quiet between kisses.

“You're mine,” he breathed into the kiss, the words gentler than before, “but I never want to hurt what belongs to me.” His hand slid down to cup your breast, thumb brushing your nipple with feather-light strokes as he continued the slow grind, letting you feel every inch of him without the earlier brutality.

The tenderness built its own heat, each careful movement drawing soft gasps from you as he kissed away the sting of his earlier roughness.

“Forgive me, my love.” He murmured into your ear, “I forget myself sometimes when it comes to you.”

You huffed a breathless laugh, “You need not apologise, husband. I quite enjoyed it.”

He placed a tender, fierce kiss against your forehead and smiled, “I feared you might say that.” and with a quiet chuckle, Ormund gathered you against his broad chest, his arms wrapping securely around you as though the whole world could wait.

He rested his cheek atop your head, content simply to hold you there, listening to your steady heartbeat until the silence between you became as warm and cherished as any whispered vow.

While your new husband was kind-hearted, you had heard the future Lord of Oldtown was a Hightower of a different stripe—a true son of his father.

Then, Ormund turned his gaze to you, his lips curling into a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And to you as well, Princess...”

His dark gaze wandered, raking down your face to your bust, before returning to meet your eyes unabashedly.

“The songs do you a disservice, Your Grace. You are a far lovelier sight than what they claim.”

There was something in the way he appraised you that made you uncomfortable. It was your first encounter with the infamous son of the Lord of Hightower, and yet you knew instantly what sort of viper he was.

Gwayne’s arm, still resting over your waist, tightened subtly—a silent warning for him, also a reassurance to you.

“She has my heart, Ormund, and my sword,” Gwayne replied smoothly, his eyes flashing with a protective warmth as he looked down at you. “The realm has never seen a more beautiful bride, and I am the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Why, of course. You have done our house a great service today, Gwayne, and I’m certain you’ll make a fine husband,” he said with a careless shrug, his crooked smile not wavering. He raised his goblet in a mock toast. “May the Light of the Seven bless your union.”

With a final, lingering look at you, Ormund turned on his heel and melted back into the sea of lords and ladies.

“Don’t mind him,” Gwayne hissed under his breath.

The moment his cousin was out of sight, you leaned closer to your groom, noting the sharp clench of his jaw. Sensing your concern, however, he immediately masked his irritation and turned to you with a reassuring smile as he drew you securely against his side.

Yet, as the music surged back to life around you, you couldn’t deny the chill that still prickled your skin. Ormund Hightower would remain at court for the rest of your wedding festivities—

And you had a foreboding feeling you would soon see him again.

The first day of your wedding celebration finally drew to a close. With the feast over, the princess and her new husband were left in the confines of their marital chambers, and—

The time has come for this marriage to be consummated.

A nervous flutter stirred in your chest. Gwayne had given explicit instructions for your handmaidens to leave after removing your headpiece, saying he would take care of the rest.

And try you might to look away as a proper lady should, your eyes kept drifting towards him as he began to undress— all the while bracing yourself, expecting the shift from chivalrous knight to demanding husband.

“If you’re stealing glances at me like an innocent maiden does her first love,” he suddenly remarked with an amused grin, “you’re truly going to make me blush.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you averted your gaze, suddenly finding everything more appealing than him.

Left in just his loose linen shirt, Gwayne had a meaningful smile on his face as he stepped behind you, his fingers reaching out to you to unlace the stiff bodice of your gown.

Oh, this is really happening, is it not?

“We...” You suddenly found it hard to breathe as the heavy layers of your dress came loose. “Are we—”

“Yes, darling?” he chuckled softly, his dimples deepening in the firelight. He clearly found satisfaction in how flustered you had become all of a sudden.

You merely looked down, biting your lip to keep yourself from stammering. Your face felt hot too as his large palm traced the contours of your body— from the line of your ribs to the curve of your waist, and the dip of your hips.

After all, you were inexperienced. You had heard stories of how hurt the first night could be— how rough the men liked it, and how comfort was the last thing a woman should expect.

As his arms circled your waist from behind, pinning you gently against him, you choked out:

“Could you be gentle... at least?”

“Hm?” he hummed, smiling against your skin, his breath warm as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

Who could have known that the stern princess could be so shy? Gwayne indulged himself, trailing a path of kisses up the sensitive nape of your neck, savoring the way you shivered beneath his touch.

Precious thing, she truly is.

With a knowing smile, he lifted you effortlessly into his arms, and you gasped, clinging to his shoulders.

He laid you down upon the silk sheets, climbing in above you, and leaned down— immediately pressing his lips to yours in a searing kiss that tasted faintly of sweet wine.

“Mmh...” His mouth moved against yours with hunger, tangling his fingers into the locks of your hair. He kissed you until you felt the room spin— each time he pulled back a fraction of an inch, it was only to catch his breath before leaning down to devour your lips again, deeper and more bruising than before.

His toned hips pressed down firmly against yours, pinning you into the silk sheets. Through your thin linen shift, you could feel the hard, growing length of his bulge pressing against your thigh.

A quiet moan caught in your throat as he started rolling his hips, the friction sending a wave of unfamiliar heat straight to your core. Your fingers grasped the nape of his neck, and he groaned, a low vibration that you felt as much as you heard.

“Do you even know—” he rasped against your lips, still grinding against you, his voice tinged with unbridled desire, “how badly I want you?”

Just as the tension stretched to a breaking point, Gwayne suddenly went still. With a ragged exhale, he pulled away, leaving your lips tingling. He leveled his dark gaze on you, watching you panting for breath.

Lowering his head to rest his forehead against yours, he made no move to strip away the rest of your linen shift. He simply anchored his weight against you.

“Ser Gwayne…?” You blinked up at him, confusion clouding your eyes.

He let out a low chuckle, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw.

“We have just survived the court of vipers today, my darling. Both of you and I need rest, nothing more.”

“But—”

His eyes then crinkled, his smile softened, looking at you as if he knew clearly what were currently going through your mind.

“What did I vow to you before the Seven?”

Wide-eyed, spellbound, with swollen lips of his making. Gwayne found his princess bride really endearing. Looking at you as he would a treasure, he recited the words he had spoken before the High Septon:

“I pray that my days will be long at your side. May your hand be in mine, by sun and by night...”

His dark blue eyes bored into yours with sincerity that made your chest tighten.

“Let our breaths twine and our blood become one, and even when our bones return to dust... may I find your soul still sworn to mine.”

Once again, he caught your heart with his sweet devotion. The way he was pure in his affections for you made you almost tear up.

Is this what it feels like to feel completely safe?

“There is no rush.” He traced a finger on your lips. “My only desire is to cherish you. With me, you are free to speak your mind— and as I am yours, you are entirely mine.”

He flashed you another sweet smile before rolling onto his side. He reached down to grasp the velvet blankets, pulling the covers all the way up over you both to block out the chill—tucking you securely under his arm and pulling you against his chest.

When you clung to him, he let out a giddy laugh, his hold instinctively tightening around you.

“Thank you, husband,” you whispered against his broad chest, nuzzling your face closer to him.

You received a tender kiss on the crown of your head in return.

For the most part, you were the happiest bride in the Seven Kingdoms.

Everyone in the realm, from the lowly stableboys to nobles, had offered their felicitations, your knight’s devotion was absolute and his tenderness behind closed doors a sanctuary against the court.

Yet, you hadn’t missed the way Ormund Hightower, the heir of Oldtown and Gwayne’s cousin, had eyed you at each and every turn.

His morning greetings had felt entirely too personal for your comfort, and the way he boldly stared at you made your skin crawl. You hadn’t seen fit to tell your husband just yet, choosing instead to give his cousin the benefit of the doubt.

Now, with the last day of your wedding festivities concluded, the gates of Red Keep were open as the lords and ladies of the realm prepared their wheelhouses to leave King’s Landing. Seeking an escape from the noise, you ducked into a cloistered walkway near the Godswood.

But you weren’t alone.

A shadow fell over the stone floor, and before you could turn, Ormund stepped out from behind a carved pillar, blocking your path in the deserted corridor.

“Your Grace,” he greeted with a cold smile.

“Ser Ormund.” Your voice adopting the icy tone you had practiced for years, as you began to question what he was truly after. “Should you not prepare to return to Oldtown? I imagined you would want to be ready for the long journey back to the Reach.”

Ormund didn’t answer right away. He closed the distance between you, tilted his head, a patronizing smile touching his lips.

“Preparations can wait. I merely wanted a private moment to bid my farewell to you.”

“You have had seven days of feasts to bid your farewells,” you retorted.

His smile only deepened. Instead of moving away, he stepped closer, trapping you between his frame and the pillar.

“Now, Princess... You know it as well as I do that we play a less than pretty game here.”

His gaze dropping to your collarbone before lifting to pin yours, with a look of a man who knew how much you weighted before the Iron Throne.

“Everything you lack in birthright is amply compensated by that pretty face of yours.” His blue eyes narrowed. “With a face like that, you could bewitch knights and lords across the Seven Kingdoms. A tragic shame... If only the timing had been right, you could have chosen me instead.”

A wave of disgust rushed through you. “You would do well to remember yourself. You are already wed.”

“A man never knows,” he replied in a sultry whisper, “when he might find himself in need of another wife.”

Ormund chuckled at your horrified expression. He leaned in closer, his eyes boring into yours with a terrifyingly casual entitlement, and in that moment you caught a striking smell on him.

Incense? Pomander? It was a potent smell, but surprisingly and jarringly pleasant.

“Why him?” he sneered, placing both arms against the wall on either side of your head. “An easy prey, is he?”

“He is kind,” you spat, your gaze hardening with defiance, willing yourself not to tremble before him. “A kinder man than anyone could ever be. Now I command you to let me pass, as I will not suffer you insulting my lord husband, Ormund Hightower.”

“Kind, is he now...? My cousin is the very paragon of a gentleman, and you thought you could bend him to your will, no?”

He leaned even closer to your ear that you could feel his breath—his scent filling your being, his blue eyes narrowing and burning into you with cold certainty.

“A word of counsel,” Ormund warned, his voice dropping to a menacing purr. “Gwayne remains a Hightower. The blood of Oldtown runs thick in his veins, and whatever sweet words he whispers in your bed… In the end, he will never betray his own house.”

The words echoed in your mind, striking a sudden chord of doubt— before nausea and fury flared within you.

With a sudden surge of strength, you shoved hard against Ormund’s chest, breaking his hold and causing him to stagger.

Without giving him the satisfaction of another word, you spun on your heel and swept past him, leaving him alone in the shadows of the corridor.

Throughout the seven days and nights of your wedding festivities, Gwayne Hightower had been a man utterly besotted, and he wasn’t reluctant in showing it before the court.

These were, without a doubt, the best days of his life. A dizzying happiness bestowed upon him by the Gods.

And patience was a virtue he possessed and would gladly practice if it meant your comfort. He had no wish to rush you and would like to give you as much time as you wanted, because after all, he knew deep-seated worries a new bride had regarding the marriage bed.

To that end, he had been standing by the hearth for a while now, stoking the coals so the chamber would be warm. When the heavy oak door finally creaked open and you stepped inside, Gwayne turned, already expecting you.

“Well, hello again, darling,” he greeted, an easy smile instantly gracing his features. “Are you ready to retire for the night?”

“Oh—!”

A startled gasp escaped you, and you nearly jumped out of your skin, completely caught off guard to find him waiting. Even from across the room, he caught the rigid hunch of your shoulders and the panic in your eyes. It took only a second to realize how you were shaking.

His smile vanished, replaced by a sudden, sharp concern.

“You look unwell,” Gwayne noted, frowning. Immediately letting go of the poker, he stood and crossed the chamber to you.

However, you were always a quick thinker. Meeting his gaze, you forced a placating smile. “No— It is just the wind, husband, and I am weary. I shall summon my handmaiden to help me undress and get ready for bed.”

Now there really was an unsettling weight gnawing at his chest. It was something he realized recently, but you were actually a wretched liar when caught unprepared. And now, you looked fragile, as though you desperately needed comfort.

“Has something happened?” He closed the remaining distance, his hands sliding up to catch you gently by the arm, drawing you closer to him.

His first instinct was to unquestionably provide you that comfort, and he was just about to pull you into the safety of his arms when—

His nostrils flared as he caught the fragrance clinging to you— and the air left his lungs. It was a scent he loathed with a visceral hatred, yet one he recognized almost instantly.

Gwayne went rigid, the blood turning to ice in his veins. A dark, sickening realization settled over him in a matter of seconds.

How?

Just how close had you been... to carry his scent so clearly upon your skin?

His gentle demeanor hardened into a sudden steel, and his voice dropped:

“Were you with Ormund?”

. . .

You wanted nothing more than to collapse in his arms.

You were really going to when suddenly you noticed how his face darkened. Gwayne’s blue eyes locked onto yours, demanding the truth you were trying to hide.

“Why were you with him?”

That striking smell, you realized. “No, I wasn’t—” you stammered, the words catching in your throat as panic flared inside you.

But Gwayne was far from convinced. He immediately let go of you, stepping back as if your very touch burned him. The sudden loss of his warmth made your heart ache with a sharp pain.

He looked utterly lost now, unable to look you in the eye. And worst of all, he looked terribly hurt.

“Nothing happened between us!” you blurted, desperate to bridge the sudden chasm between you. “We just exchanged a few words—”

“Do not lie to me. Ormund has a certain pomander he prefers—a blasted scent I would know anywhere. To carry that scent, you must have been so near to each other, so close that...”

He couldn’t even finish the sentence. The compromising image of you and his cruel cousin choked the words right out of his throat, his jaw clenching as he fought back the raw betrayal burning in his chest.

You, however, wouldn’t allow him to believe the worst. You forcibly threw yourself into his arms, desperate to mend the fracture between you—

“Gwayne, I swear this upon my mother’s name: I would never hurt you in such manner.”

You wrapped your arms around him tightly, burying your face against him. In that moment, even you found a fleeting peace in his warmth and listening to his erratic heartbeat. At first, his entire frame went completely stiff under your touch.

But as your vow settled over him... the tension broke, and he melted into your embrace in surrender, holding onto you with a crushing grip.

Oh. Such a sweet man, he is. The clarity almost made you cry—even when he thought he was in his darkest moment, he silently chose to believe you.

The two of you stayed like that for a while until a sudden, dark terror seemed to occur to him. His eyes snapped back to yours, searching your face for any sign of ruin.

“Did he force himself upon you?” he asked then, his voice uneven, almost trembling with rage at the mere thought. “Because if he did— if he laid a single unwanted hand on you, I will—”

“No!” you fiercely rejected the notion. “Nothing happened! I— I might have incited his displeasure, yes, but nothing more!”

Gwayne let out a relieved sigh, cradling your face with both of his hands to anchor himself, looking down at you like a lovelorn man. The ache in his chest subsided somewhat, and for a moment, he contemplated hearing more.

Ormund was not a kind man. He knew that better than anyone, having spent his childhood under his whims. And Ormund was ruthless and cunning— so if he had approached you, he undoubtedly had a purpose.

It might prove him a fool, and it would cost him another piece of his soul, yet Gwayne chose faith. Just as he had done a hundred times before.

“Whatever transpired between you, I do not wish to hear of it.”

You blinked at him, only to find him staring back with a grave expression.

“Just do not come near him again,” he warned, his voice a low, commanding growl. “Can you do that?”

You barely nodded when Gwayne leaned down and captured your lips in a punishing kiss—one born of relief, jealousy, and a fierce need to erase every trace of his cousin from your skin.

His hands, usually so practiced in their courtesy, lost their gentleness as he crushed you against him. He groaned against your mouth, breaking the kiss only to drag his wet lips down your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin over your pulse point just roughly enough to make you gasp.

The sounds of your mingled breaths and sensual sighs filled the room. Your thoughts burned away by the sudden, suffocating heat of him. He backed you towards the high, velvet-curtained bed, and then swept you off your feet—

“Oh! Ser Gwayne!”

Just like your first night together as man and wife, he laid you down on the marital bed, but this time, he came down over you—his hands tearing at the laces of your dress, his breath hot on your jaw.

“Princess, I can’t—” His voice broke into a growl as he lost it, capturing your lips in another senseless kiss.

Somewhere in the feverish haze, he shrugged off his own shirt, letting out a grunt when he felt the burning touch of your fingertips wandering across his bare skin.

With a single, fluid pull, he rid you of your dress, and only then did he draw back, his dark eyes wide and dilated as he drank the sight of your naked form.

Every inch of you... is dazzlingly woman. How had the heavens deemed him worthy of a wife so breathtaking?

A primal urge flared within him— he had to mark you, to write his name upon your skin. Every lord in the Seven Kingdoms should know that he alone was husband to the princess.

Gwayne buried his face in your chest, suckling your breasts, swirling his tongue around the aching peaks until you arched off the mattress, breathless.

Fuck patience.

He roughly parted your thighs next to devour your sweet cunt with his mouth and lips, making you squirm to hold back your lewd moans. Within minutes, the intense coil inside you burst, your fingertips clawing at the bedsheets as your climax tore through you.

Fuck virtues.

Your head were still spinning in a daze as he proved just how masterful he was in pleasuring you. Before you could properly recover, Gwayne parted your knees wider and settled his weight over you.

“Will it hurt?” your voice came in a whisper, laced with such raw innocence when you realized what was to come that it immediately softened him.

“The first time always is,” Gwayne answered truthfully. “Scratch me, bleed me, scream if you must. Tell me if the pain outweighs the pleasure, and I will stop.”

He aligned himself against your entrance and with a push, inched himself inside you. You winced, a sharp cry escaping your lips at the foreign intrusion, your nails digging into the skin of his back.

“Hush, darling... I have you,” he whispered thickly. He held you tight, anchoring you against the mattress as he drove himself deeper. You trembled beneath him, half in tears and choked by little gasps of pain, your body struggling to accommodate his sheer size.

So tight. Gwayne really was on the verge of losing it when he realized he had broken your maidenhead. Still a maid, and I have claimed her.

When he sheathed himself completely, your body stretched against an agonizing fullness and more tears fell from your eyes. Gwayne held himself perfectly still, giving your body a moment to adjust to his length, before pressing a tender kiss to your lips to soothe you and beginning to move.

As his hips drove into yours with bruising thrusts, the initial sting quickly melted away, replaced by a deep, rolling friction that felt incredibly good, drawing whimpers from the back of your throat.

You looked sinful beneath him. His hands slid up from the mattress to cup your face, his thumbs wiping away the stray tears at the corners of your eyes even as his lower body dictated a merciless pace.

There was only the heat, the slick friction binding you together, and a man utterly possessed.

“You are mine,” Gwayne rasped against your skin, his voice a ragged edge of pure devotion and dark triumph. “From this night... until my last.”

The pleasure wound tighter and tighter within you— until the dam broke, shattering you in a blinding release. You cried out his name, your body clamping tightly around his length.

Fuck.

The pulsing squeeze of your walls was the final blow to his restraints— your husband groaned aloud, as he thrusted into you one last time, before collapsing against you and spilling his seeds inside your womb.

You awoke before him.

With the morning light filtered through the velvet curtains, you observed your husband’s serene, sleeping face. Free from his courtly mask and the heat from the night before, Gwayne looked peaceful, almost like a boy.

Even in sleep, he had one arm on your waist. His red hair was a mess against the sheets, and the blanket barely covered him, exposing the impressive breadth of his back—and the faint red marks where your nails had scratched him last night.

Sweet man, and he’s all mine.

A wave of tenderness washed over you, a deep-seated realization sank that you were truly his woman now. Reaching out, you gently cupped his jaw, the pad of your thumb tracing his cheek.

At your touch, his eyelashes soon fluttered. His eyes blinked open, unfocused with sleep.

“Good morrow, husband,” you fixed a sweet smile, and he blinked blue eyes at you, staring at you in a hazy daze for a moment as his mind worked to bridge the gap between his dreams and reality.

Then, a soft sigh escaped him. He reached out, his strong arms wrapping around your waist to pull you against him, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“Forgive me,” he murmured in a drawl, his voice muffled against your skin.

You blinked. “What for?”

“I have conducted myself in a manner entirely unbefitting of your husband.”

“Oh?”

“I was far from gentle with you,” he mumbled into your neck. “When you have asked it from me.”

He really thought that? A giggle bubbled up from your chest, the light sound causing him to curl into you even further, hiding his face like a guilty boy.

“I am perfectly well,” you laughed, hugging him close to your chest. “A bit sore, perhaps, but quite intact.”

You stroked his red hair, and he clung to you a little tighter, as if you were the only anchor he needed. However, you were in the mood of being mischievous.

“Although, I must confess, I never knew you had that side in you, husband.” Your lips curling into a smirk as you looked down at him. “I must admit I doubted its existence.”

Gwayne went utterly still in your embrace. Slowly, he pulled back, looking at you with an expression of pure despondence. Then as though he couldn’t bear to look at your face, he groaned, clenching his jaw.

“I am glad my utter lack of composure is a source of amusement for the princess.”

His cheeks had started to redden, and your heart swelled. Reaching out, you caught his jaw with one hand and stole a quick kiss, catching him off guard.

“Am I not your wife?” you teased. “What is there to be so flustered about?”

“Are you secretly a wanton?” Gwayne fired back, a dimpled, shy smile breaking through his lingering embarrassment. “You certainly seem fond of kissing me first.”

Would a man so devoted to you not choose you, when he is faced by the impossible choice between his wife and his house?

Mayhaps that was a question that would find its answer in the years to come.

“This is how you kiss, darling.”

And with that, he leaned in and captured your lips in a chaste yet deep kiss. The shyness that had flushed his cheeks moments ago vanished, replaced by the effortless grace of a man who knew exactly how to cherish his wife.

When he finally parted from you, he didn’t pull away far. He rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with your own as the early morning sun caught the rich blue of his eyes, and his grin was the sweetest as he gazed at you.

Not because he had more duties to uphold to, but simply he could not spend his time doing as he wished. He was right where he wanted to be lounging back against the piles of pillows, a hand tucked behind his head the other resting against your thigh.

You sat up straight, your hair unbound moving slightly as you tilted your head back and forth. Your hands moved widely as you made gestures to follow through with your stories of the day. Both that included you and simply ones you had heard through the line of gossip.

He did not care for gossip. He did not often indulge in it himself, but by the Gods he loved to hear the tales that came from your pretty lips. Of who was partaking in what scandalous activity and better yet your own thoughts about the situations.

This was the best part of the day without a shadow of any doubt. Where the pair of you could simply be two young adults in love, without the constant eyes on you. Where he could stare at you as long as he wished without someone else begging for his attention some important matter.

Nothing was ever more important than you, but alas as a prince and future Heir to the Throne duty always called, and must be upheld.

He had always been regarded as quiet, respectful, and watching. You were on the opposite side. You had always talked, a lot according to your family. To which they regarded as a flaw, but he disagreed.

He loved the sound of your voice. He loved listening to the workings of your mind or simple observations you had picked up on. He would never speak again if that was what it took to hear your voice forever.

You were so bright. So beautiful and filled his world with so much light it brought him peace. That despite all the chaos, all the weights on his shoulders he still had this. He stull had his small moments of solace of being your husband.

It was his favorite title. One he wore with pride and made him peacock around more than the one of prince ever had.

You were his and only his.

He watched you carefully, listening to every word you deemed him fit to be graced with and he took everything in with utmost attention. He even often tried to piece together the ending. Seeing as if he could get it right.

Sometimes he did, and that was his favorite part. Watching your face light up even more realizing how he had listened to everything you had said, and even formed his own opinions on it.

He would always store the expression of your face into a small part of his brain so he could remember just how warm he felt during that moment when things got tough. That despite the duty, despite everything he still had you, and your wonderful stories.

You stopped, and he waited for you to continue patiently, wondering if you had lost your footing or something else had came to mind. He never minded straying course form the original topic. Sometimes you ended back at it, and sometimes not.

Your eyebrows came together as your eyes scanned across his face,"Valarr?" you questioned, causing him to hum in reply automatically You looked half surprised as if you had been expecting him not to listen. You clearly did not know you held his entire attention, his devotion, his heart even. "You look bored, my love."

His mouth opened immediately in shock or perhaps sorrow that you could ever think that. He pushed himself up from his lying position, his hand moving to cradle your cheek, "You could never bore me, ābrazȳrys."

"If you are tired you can rest. I know you have had a long day."

He shock his head in denial, "No. I wish for you to continuing

"Truly?" you asked, the doubt was evident seeping through all your features and it caused his gut to churn. Oh, how could you belie there was anything he rather be doing then sitting here, listening to you.

The Prince leaned forward instead pushing his mouth to yours gently, and he could feel you melting into him. His other hand moved to the side of your neck as he held you to him. Kissing away all the doubt that there was anything more important than you.

You were everything. And he would not trade this nightly routine for anything. No crown, no duty could ever stop him from enjoying the small unguarded moments of life with you.

He only pulled away when his lungs begged for air, and he more so did it for you then himself. His forehead rested against your own as he continued to cradle you as if you were glass, "Truly. I could listen to you talk all day," he assured you.

You hummed in reply and he smiled finally pulling back. He smirked pressing a kiss to your forehead, letting his lips linger to seal his words once more, before settling back against the pillows.

Valarr smiled at you, "Now continue on with your story of Lady Lannister I am waging to see if I can predict the ending."

You laughed, and the sound hit him directly in his chest, a warmth spreading through him, as you continued on with your story. Your hands moving widely once more, your face lit up in the happiness that mirrored his own.

The war had been grinding on for eight months, but Ormund Hightower had not slept in four.

Not since the night she disappeared. She had taken Aethan—his son, his blood—and vanished into the darkness like a ghost, like a traitor, like the ungrateful little whore he had always known she could become if he did not keep her close enough.

He had torn the reach apart searching for her. He had sent riders in every direction, had questioned every guard and servant and spy who might have seen something. Nothing. She had simply… gone. As if she had never existed at all. As if the months of marriage, the nights in his bed, the child she had borne him meant nothing. As if he had not shaped her, taught her, owned her.

He had not been the same since. His men whispered about it behind his back. Lord Hightower had grown erratic. Lord Hightower had stopped eating. Lord Hightower's eyes had taken on a wild, feverish light that made even his most seasoned commanders uneasy. He still led them into battle—he was too good a soldier to abandon the war entirely—but his mind was somewhere else. Always somewhere else. Always chasing the ghost of a silver-haired girl who had slipped through his fingers like smoke, taking his son with her.

And now this. The letter had arrived an hour ago, delivered by a rider who had nearly killed his horse getting there. The man had stumbled into camp, half-frozen and wild-eyed, clutching a scroll sealed with the mark of Ormund's own spy network—the network he had deployed across half of Westeros with one purpose and one purpose only: find her.

The tent was crowded with commanders when the rider was ushered in. Ser Brynden stood at Ormund's right hand, as he always did, Ser Gwayne, and half a dozen other knights and lords who had pledged their swords to the Green cause. They had been in the middle of a strategy session, poring over maps and troop movements, planning the next offensive.

Ormund took the scroll without a word. He broke the seal. He read.

His face went pale first. Bone-white, as if all the blood had been drained from his body in a single instant. Then the color rushed back, flooding his cheeks with a dark, dangerous red that spread down his neck and disappeared beneath the collar of his tunic. His hands began to tremble, just slightly at first, then violently, the parchment shaking in his grip like a leaf in a storm.

"My lord?" Brynden stepped forward, concern etched into his weathered features. "What news?"

Ormund did not answer. His eyes were fixed on the letter, reading and re-reading the words as if repetition might change them. His lips moved silently, forming syllables that no one else could hear. The trembling in his hands spread to his arms, his shoulders, his entire body.

And then he began to scream.

"CREGAN STARK!"

The sound was not human. It was the roar of a wounded animal, a beast caught in a trap, a man whose last thread of sanity had just snapped like a bowstring pulled too tight. The commanders scrambled backward, knocking over chairs and sending maps flying, but Ormund did not seem to see them. He was already moving, already reaching for the sword that rested against the campaign chest in the corner.

"CREGAN FUCKING STARK! I WILL KILL HIM! I WILL TEAR HIS HEART OUT WITH MY BARE HANDS!"

The first blow took the map table in half. Wood splintered and cracked, and the maps that had been spread across it fluttered to the ground like dying birds. Ormund ripped his sword free and swung again, and this time the blade carved a great, jagged slash through the canvas wall of the tent, letting in a shaft of cold grey daylight.

"MY LORD, PLEASE—" Ser Gwayne started forward, but a wild swing of the sword sent him reeling backward, his hands raised in surrender.

"SHE IS MINE!" Ormund brought the sword down on a chair, and the chair exploded. "SHE HAS ALWAYS BEEN MINE! AND HE—THAT NORTHERN SAVAGE—HE HAS TOUCHED HER! HE HAS PUT HIS HANDS ON WHAT BELONGS TO ME!"

She was there. She had been there for weeks. Living openly in Cregan Stark's tent, sleeping in his bed, wearing his colors, warming his furs like some Northern whore. Everyone in the camp knew. Everyone could hear them—the sounds she made, the way she cried out his name, the way she begged for more. His wife. His Aethan's mother. Screaming for another man like a common camp follower. A public affair, the letter said. A very public affair. As if she wanted everyone to know. As if she wanted him to know.

And the child. His son. Living under Stark's protection, being held by Stark's hands, perhaps already learning to call another man father. The thought made something behind his eyes go red and hot and blinding.

"DO YOU KNOW WHAT THEY ARE DOING RIGHT NOW?" He rounded on his commanders, and they shrank back from the madness in his eyes. "RIGHT NOW, WHILE WE STAND HERE DISCUSSING STRATEGY AND SUPPLY LINES? HE IS TOUCHING HER! HE IS INSIDE HER! HE IS MAKING HER MOAN—THOSE MOANS BELONG TO ME!"

He threw the letter aside and grabbed another chair, hurling it against the central support pole with enough force to shatter it into kindling.

"I taught her everything," he snarled, his voice cracking. "Everything she knows about pleasure, everything she knows about her own body—I taught her that. I was the first. I was the only. And now she—she is using what I taught her with HIM—"

He could see it. That was the worst part. He could see it so clearly in his mind, as if he were standing in the corner of Stark's tent watching. Her silver hair spread across Stark's furs. Her body arching beneath another man's hands. Her lips parting on another man's name. The sounds she made, the expressions that crossed her face, the way she clung and gasped and pleaded—all of it, all of it, was his. He had discovered it. He had cultivated it. He had spent months learning every secret her body held, every spot that made her gasp, every rhythm that made her shatter.

And now Stark was reaping the harvest. Stark was enjoying the fruits of Ormund's labor. Stark was touching what Ormund had claimed, had trained, had owned.

The thought made him want to kill someone. Everyone.

"GET ME A MAP!" he bellowed, driving his sword into the floorboards. "A MAP OF THE NORTH! I WANT TO SEE THE FASTEST ROUTE TO WINTERFELL!"

Ser Brynden stepped forward, his old bones creaking, his weathered face set in lines of grim determination. "My lord, you cannot—"

"I CAN AND I WILL!" Ormund rounded on him, and for a terrible moment, the sword came up. But Brynden did not flinch. He stood his ground, steady as an oak, and met his lord's wild gaze without blinking.

"Strike me if you must," Brynden said quietly. "I have served your house for forty years. I served your father, and his father before him. And I will not stand by and watch you destroy yourself."

"Destroy myself? DESTROY MYSELF?" Ormund laughed, and the sound was utterly unhinged. "I am already destroyed! Do you not see that? She destroyed me the moment she spread her legs for another man!"

"Then let her destruction mean something." Brynden's voice was steady, measured, the voice of a man talking a jumper down from a ledge. "Win the war, my lord. Win the war, and you can have everything. Everything."

Ormund's grip on the sword tightened. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that if you ride north now, you die. You take men into the snow, into Stark territory, and you die. Cregan Stark will put your head on a spike, and your wife will watch, and she will not shed a single tear. Is that what you want? To give him the satisfaction? To give her the satisfaction?"

The words hit Ormund like a physical blow. He staggered, his free hand coming up to press against his temple.

"No," he said, his voice raw. "No. She is mine. She belongs to me."

"Then win the war first." Brynden stepped closer, close enough to lay a hand on Ormund's arm. The touch was gentle, almost paternal. "Win the war, and you win everything. The Iron Throne will owe you a debt that can never be repaid. You can demand Stark's head. You can demand your wife's return. You can have her back in your bed, back where she belongs, and you can make Stark watch while you remind her exactly who she answers to. But only if you win."

The tent was silent. The other commanders held their breath. Somewhere outside, a horse whinnied, and the wind snapped against the torn canvas walls.

Ormund stood perfectly still, his chest heaving, his eyes wild, his sword still clutched in his white-knuckled grip. The letter lay crumpled on the floor at his feet, the words still burning in his mind—words about her, about him, about the sounds she made and the way she cried his name. Stark's name. Not his. Never his, not anymore.

"Stark's head," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "On a spike. Outside my gates."

"Yes," Brynden agreed. "Stark's head on a spike."

"And my wife. Back in my bed. Back where she belongs. In chains if necessary."

Brynden hesitated. "Yes."

"And my son. Back in my house."

"Yes."

Ormund closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the wild, feverish light had not disappeared, but it had banked. Transforming from an inferno into something colder, something infinitely more dangerous.

"Then we win this war," he said. He pulled his sword from the floorboards and slid it back into its sheath with a soft, deadly hiss. "We win this war, and we take King's Landing, and we put Daeron on the throne. And when it is done—when the dragons are dead and the pretender queen is ash and there is no one left to stand against us—I will march north with a full army at my back. And I will tear Winterfell apart stone by stone until I find her."

He turned to face his commanders, and the smile that spread across his face made every man in the tent take an involuntary step backward.

"And when I do," he said, "I am going to make her watch while I kill him. I am going to make her watch every single moment of it. I am going to make her see what happens to men who touch what belongs to me. And then—" He paused, letting the silence stretch, letting them all imagine it. "Then she is coming home. And she is never leaving again.

Cregan Stark was a dead man. He just did not know it yet. Every battle Ormund fought, every victory he won, every strategic decision he made, all of it was in service of that single, burning goal. Win the war. Claim the throne. Take back what was his.

The war would end, and Cregan Stark would die, and Ormund Hightower would have his family back—by any means necessary. By fire and blood, if that was what it took.

He had been patient once before, he could be patient again. He could wait. He could plan. He could let the rage simmer and build and concentrate into something lethal.

--

Every night, the same ritual. Ormund Hightower would sit alone in his tent, a flagon of wine at his elbow, the crumpled spy's letter spread before him on the table, and he would lose his mind all over again.

He tried not to. He tried to focus on strategy, on supply lines, on the thousand logistical details that came with commanding an army. But the moment the silence descended, the moment he was alone with his thoughts, the images would come creeping back. Vivid. Detailed. Unbearable.

Her. With him. Cregan Stark was younger than Ormund. That was the first thing that ate at him, gnawing at his pride like a rat at a corpse. Stark was her age—only a few years older than her, if that. A young man in his prime, not a grizzled lord of forty with grey threading his temples and lines deepening around his eyes. Stark was tall and broad-shouldered and hard-muscled from a lifetime of swinging a greatsword in the Northern wilderness. Stark had a full head of dark hair and a strong jaw and the kind of rugged, wolfish handsomeness that maidens swooned over in the songs.

Ormund had seen him once, years ago, at some tourney or council. He remembered thinking the boy was arrogant. Northern savages, all of them. But now—now he could not stop picturing that arrogance in his bed. In his wife.

He would pour another cup of wine and drink it down in one burning swallow, but the images only grew sharper.

Stark's hands on her hips. Stark's mouth on her throat. Stark's body—younger, harder, stronger—pressing her into the furs. The furs. Northern furs, rough and barbaric, not the fine silk sheets of the Hightower. And she was moaning for him. Making those sounds—those sounds that Ormund had discovered, had cultivated, had taught her to make—for another man.

A younger man.

A man her own age.

"FUCK!"

The goblet flew across the tent and clanged against the central pole, spraying wine across the canvas. Ormund was on his feet, pacing, his hands tearing through his hair.

He was not just any man. That was the second thing. That was what made it so much worse. Cregan Stark was the Lord of Winterfell. The Warden of the North. A Great Lord in his own right, who ruled a territory larger than all the other Kingdoms combined. His titles were ancient and unimpeachable. His bloodline stretched back eight thousand years to the First Men, to the Kings of Winter. The Starks had been royalty when the Hightowers were still lighting signal fires and calling it civilization.

Ormund was a powerful man. He knew that. He was the Lord of Oldtown, the Beacon of the South, the head of one of the oldest and wealthiest houses in the Reach. But he was not a Great House. He was not a Warden. He was a vassal to the Tyrells, technically, however much he might disdain them. He did not have a crown in his history. He did not have the blood of kings.

But Stark did.

She was a princess of the blood. A Targaryen. A dragonrider. And now she was spreading her legs for a man who could call himself her equal—or near enough. A man whose titles could almost match her own. A man who could give her a castle that had stood for thousands of years, a kingdom that bowed to no one, a name that commanded respect across the entire continent.

What could Ormund give her that Stark could not match or exceed?

The thought made him want to kill someone. "HE IS NO BETTER THAN ME!" he roared at the empty tent. "HE IS A SAVAGE IN FURS! HE KNOWS NOTHING OF HER! HE DOES NOT KNOW HER THE WAY I DO!"

But the cruel voice in the back of his mind whispered: He knows her now. He's learning her. Every night, he's learning her.

He hurled the wine flagon against the tent pole, and it shattered, spraying dark red liquid across the maps and the bedroll and the crumpled letter. He picked up a chair and smashed it against the ground. He drove his fist into the tent pole, once, twice, three times, until his knuckles were bloody and the pain cut through the red haze for a few blessed seconds.

"She was MINE!" he screamed at no one. "She was MINE before she was his! She will be MINE after he is dead!"

But the voice whispered: She chose him. She ran from you and chose him.

He staggered to his cot and collapsed onto it, his bloody hand pressed to his face, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. The images would not stop. They never stopped. Every night, the same torture.

Her on her back, her hair fanned out across Stark's furs, her eyes hazy with pleasure. Her legs wrapped around his waist—his young, hard waist, not the softening middle of a man twenty years her senior. Her nails raking down his back. Her lips forming his name. Stark. Cregan. Not Ormund. Never Ormund.

Did she think of him at all? When Stark was inside her, when she was crying out for him, when she was shattering around him—did she remember the man who had taught her what pleasure was? Did she remember her husband?

Or had she forgotten him entirely?

"Ungrateful little WHORE," he snarled, but the word felt hollow. Because she was not a whore, was she? A whore took coin. A whore spread her legs for anyone. She had spread her legs for one man—one other man—and that made it so much worse. That made it a choice. She had chosen Stark. She wanted Stark. She was with Stark not out of duty or desperation but because she preferred him.

Because he was younger. Because he was her age. Because he was a Great Lord, a Warden, a man whose power matched her own.

Because he was not Ormund.

"I GAVE HER EVERYTHING!" The cry was torn from somewhere deep in his chest. "I gave her a home, a name, a son! I protected her! I loved her! And she—she threw it all away for—for a Northern savage who—"

Who could give her a kingdom. Who could give her a castle that made the Hightower look like a merchant's counting house. Who could give her the blood of the First Men, the loyalty of the North, a place at the side of a man who answered to no one but himself.

Ormund had spent his entire life climbing. Clawing his way up the ladder of power, building alliances, accumulating influence. He had married a Targaryen princess—a feat that should have been the crowning achievement of his house. And now she was in another man's bed, and that man outranked him, and there was nothing—nothing—he could do about it except win this damned war and take her back by force.

"I will kill him," he whispered into the darkness. "I will kill him slowly. I will make it last for days. I will make her watch every moment of it. And when he is dead—when she has seen what happens to men who touch what is MINE—she will beg for my forgiveness. She will crawl back to me on her knees. And I will decide whether to give it to her."

He lay back on the cot, staring at the canvas ceiling, his bloody hand cradled against his chest. Outside, the camp was quiet. The sentries walked their posts. The horses stamped in the picket lines. The army slept.

But Ormund Hightower did not sleep. He never slept anymore. He just lay there in the darkness, listening to the sound of his own ragged breathing, and pictured his wife in another man's arms.

Younger. Stronger. Higher-born.

It did not matter. None of it mattered. Because when this war was over, Cregan Stark would be dead, and YN would be back in his bed where she belonged, and he would spend the rest of his life reminding her exactly who owned her.

That was the thought he clung to. That was the thought that got him through the night.

That, and the image of Stark's head on a spike outside the gates of Oldtown, his sightless eyes staring at nothing, his blood dripping down the stone walls.

So.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not punishing myself, Titus.” 

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

You roll your eyes. “Fucks sake Ti—” 

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

“It didn’t work—" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah a sex thing about my twin brother.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

+ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He liked it even better when you practiced on him. 

+ 

February 14th. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hear the wife is a total psycho.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The King of Hearts. 

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

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

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

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

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

But. 

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

+ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+ 

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

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

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

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

+ 

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

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

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

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

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

+ 

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

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

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

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

+ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+ 

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

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

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

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

+ 

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

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

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

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

“Nice try, old man—" 

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

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

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

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

+ 

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

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

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

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

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

+ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+ 

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

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

+ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+ 

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

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

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

+ 

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

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

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

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

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

+ 

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

Behind you, Felicity giggles. “Yes.” 

+ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+ 

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

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

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

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

+ 

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

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

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

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

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

His body falls to the ground with a heavy thud. 

+ 

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

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

+ 

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

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

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

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

+ 

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

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

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

Ursula giggles, “Gross.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smirks and you and bows his head. 

“We’re allowed to kill family members.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t need—" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you wear the gloves?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think so too.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+ 

DANFORTH COUPLE EXPECTING  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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