rich

the clipped bite in his tone ebbed whenever you floated into the room, like his bullheadedness suddenly became something gentler. you were so thought-provoking to a man accustomed to straight answers and military-grade obedience.

you questioned him at every turn, all while invading his personal bubble like it was completely normal.

no one ever questioned him before. no one ever touched him before.

it was small actions he began to notice. the way your cheek would subtly brush the back of his shoulder as you squeezed by him, like a cat greeting its human. or how you always squished up against him whenever you two were indulging in a particularly interesting consult.

you always followed attentively whenever he beckoned, angled diagonally so that your hand could grab the back of his scrub top whenever the hallways got too crowded.

these were intentional ministrations, he noted, things that you had grown to enact absentmindedly.

to a normal person, they'd call something like this affection, but brendon park is far too emotionally constipated for anything of the sort.

and so, instead of acknowledging the quiet fondness you displayed for him, brendon acted like it never happened. his face remained steely even when you leaned your chin on his shoulder while evaluating a shattered femur, even when you grabbed at his scrubs like the little remora you were. he was outwardly indifferent to your touch, never ever reciprocated it.

but he couldn't keep that facade up forever, and he realized that very quickly in the midst of performing an easy arthroplasty with you.

it's a total knee replacement, something routine for a man like park. however, he's allowing you to do most of the dirty work this time.

he's looming as he stands some feet behind you, hands tucked behind his back with his shoulders squared. he's assessing not just your work, but your ability to remain in control. you pass with flying colors per usual, much to his dismay.

"is this lookin' good?" you chirp, which breaks him from his moody stupor. you're looking back at him with silent wonder, a scalpel poised in your delicate grip. the deep concaves of his mind fleet to a brief scenario where your fingers struggle to wrap around his bicep as it flexes.

what the fuck. he shakes his head.

he hums, leaning forward to peer over your shoulder. the work is neat and tidy so far; everything is in place to ensure a bright recovery for the patient—

and then he inhales.

and then he smells you.

it's something citrusy and sweet, like a fresh mango dusted with granulated sugar. and then he catches something warm beneath it, earthy like morning dew on the leaves of a willow tree.

it was otherworldly to a man so accustomed to saline and hand sanitizer burning his nose—a nose that was insanely acute and actually somewhat sensitive. his pupils dilate, even under the harsh lighting, like a shark picking up on a drop of blood in the open ocean.

he exhales sharply. it's a punched out noise that hollows his lungs and makes him recoil from his position and straighten his back. you're looking at him still, but now your brows are pinched because he's never made a sound like that.

and he's suddenly mortified because everyone else in the OR is also looking at him the same way.

he clears his throat, nodding his head.

"looks .. promising." he groused, staring down at the flayed leg on the table as if it were now way more interesting than the heavenly smell of his little remora.

you simply nodded back, a slow motion, before you proceeded.

your focus is admirable, unlike park's throughout the rest of the surgery, because now all he can think about is the way you smell.

and how he can't quell the carnal part of him that wants more of it, needs more of it.

and he is slowly succumbing to a horrific fact: stonewalling your affections was not sustainable for a man as starved as brendon.

OUGH i want this to be a little slowburn slice-of-life thing between them but i also want them to make out passionately RIGHT NOW.

❗️if anyone has any other ways i can make their tension (aka brendon being an inept freak) worse please go put some requests in my inbox🙏🙏i want what the people want.......

the simple answer: he has no idea what to do with you. but he wouldn't admit that in a million years, so he just acts like he can tolerate the rainbows and unicorns that follow you around.

he brings them down with him on a consult in the ED, some construction worker with a severed hand that had high hopes of reattachment.

everyone puts on their best military-grade facade, even garcia's back straightens noticeably because park is just that much of a dick to everyone.

and here comes reader, practically buzzing with excitement as they trail right on brendon's heels. it really throws everyone for a loop because you're so close to him, and you're the one asking all the questions to robby—who seems so chuffed by all of this—and he answers happily.

park unwraps the hand and you're right there with him, cheek squished against his meaty bicep with eyes glimmering bright with wonder. you're grinning with delight and clapping your hands when brendon green-lights the reattachment.

and then you're both gone, park the shark being tailed by a little intern bristling with anticipation.

everyone is fucking gobsmacked because, what the fuck? since when was anyone under park's supervision happy to be there?

it wasn't uncommon to see park followed by a brood of his residents. the usual joke was that they were his shark pups, his offspring that he molded into annoyingly good surgeons.

but that doesn't apply to you. you're nothing like him, yet you learn from him all the same. your relationship is almost symbiotic, in a way, where you thrive on the challenges he throws at you and he secretly feeds off of the warmth you radiate.

and the correlation smacks garcia square in the face after crossing paths with the two about five ED consults later.

you are his remora. you clean up the mess of his apathy and he feeds you the fruit of his knowledge.

and that's what she starts calling you—that's what everyone starts calling you.

and brendon? he starts to call you the stupid name too.

but to him, it's possessive. it is a name that claims you as his own, not as offspring, but as something far more important that he doesn't want to name.

"i'll write a recommendation letter for you," he says one quiet afternoon when you're both munching on leftovers in the breakroom.

you're confused, he can tell by the apparent tilt of your head.

"when you complete your residency. i'll recommend you for an attending position here."

"... that is disgustingly generous for a guy like you."

"i won't work without my remora."

stay tuned for season 48 episode 7 when they finally kiss and hold hands🙂🙂🙂

He loved your cousin and treated Daeron as if he were born of his own blood. But though you were often found in the same trouble, Ormund's display of discipline was always a bit different when directed at you.

Not only a raised voice but a physical punishment, too.

A rough hand on the back of your neck. A lashing across your knuckles. Fingers curled tight around your jaw.

You'd let yourself believe that things would change when you became a woman grown. It is one thing to discipline a girl with the intent of guidance, but it is another thing to strike a lady.

The solution was to discipline in private.

Once, you'd gotten caught stealing wine from the kitchens in the dead of night. And when Ormund had been told of your transgression, he'd come to your bedchamber alone. Sat on the side of your mattress, fingers gentle as they stroked your cheek.

He shook you awake, and pretended at patience while you rubbed away the drunken stupor from your eyes.

And then he'd explain, "I am hard on you because I care. Because I see the potential beneath all your corruption. I understand it is not your fault you have such atrocity in your blood. I am only teaching you to overcome it. And you have much yet to learn, sweetling."

This is the first time Ormund takes you over his knee.

His palm lands sharp and hard across your bottom, five good times for each and every cup you'd stolen. He makes you count, and does not comment on the tears as they brim at the corners of your eyes.

The first time is the worst, because you hadn't expect it.

But by the tenth time it stops being a surprise and starts to become an expectation.

The routine is always the same. The sun will set, and he will slink into your chambers. Sometimes he doesn't even speak. He will simply stare down at you where you lay, head tilted, eyes dark, and you'll whisper apologies in the flickering candlelight.

He is meaner, you come to notice, when he is encumbered by duty. His strikes are harder and there are more of them. Sometimes he will spend hours in a day listening to petitions or dispersing soldiers or politicking with lords who come to him with future propositions.

On these nights, Ormund will groan low in his throat when you twist in his grasp, your legs flailing as you run from the impact of his tingling palm. But he will always wait for you to compose yourself, and then he'll lift his own leg over yours to bracket you in place, all before striking you again.

It is only after several months of this routine of discipline that you begin to wonder if it is less for your sake and more for his.

On one particular night, you're on strike eight out of ten, the number gritted through your teeth as you speak it aloud. Your breath comes fast and labored in your chest, lungs burning as you greedily drink up oxygen. Your muscles tire of pulling tight in anticipation only to melt in relief as the pain disperses across your skin.

It is later than usual, and you'd spent the day on horseback, and you're so exhausted that you fold your hands over one another and lay your head atop them. Face turned, you steal a glance up at Ormund to find his lips parted and his shoulders relaxed.

Posture far different than it had been when he'd closed your chamber door behind him.

You force your eyes to stay open as he hits you again, observing the look on his face.

Troublesome and argumentative woman you are, you're smart enough to recognize solace when you see it.

"Nine," you say, though it is more of a whisper than a fully spoken word.

Ormund notices.

His eyes find yours, gaze heavy and intense, as if he were seeing something inside of you that he could not put a name to if he tried.

This time, when his palm comes down against your cheek, it is hard enough that the sound echoes against the stone walls.

Your eyes squeeze shut and your ears ring and you can hear and feel and sense nothing but the heat of him beneath you and the pain he elicits. Breathing does not come easily. Each inhale is short and labored and choking.

"Count," Ormund says, the word low and demanding, the way he so often is.

You cannot catch your breath.

"Count, girl," he repeats. "Or we will begin again."

A spark of fear ignites in your chest, because you could not endure another ten lashes. Not like this, not knowing this is not even about the cruel words you'd spoken to your septa but rather for his own selfish respite.

"Ten!" The word is rushed. "Ten, ten, ten—!"

His hand smooths over your spine, as if to heal the ache he himself inflicted. "Very good," he whispers, shushing your cries. "You did so well."

The following morning, your flesh stings and bruises have already begun to form, but all you can think of is the way his praise had made your heart sing inside the cage of your ribs. The words echo in your mind, a mantra, a song, a poem.

The feeling is only because it is so rare to hear such things from his mouth, you tell yourself. It is not for desire. You could not desire a man like Ormund, could you? Who'd shaped you into the woman you are. Who saw such corruption in you and had spent the better half of your life trying to root it out.

But no matter how hard you try, you cannot shake the look you'd seen on his face. Like he'd enjoyed it.

And because you are stubborn and far too curious, you conduct an experiment to disprove your theory.

For weeks, you try very hard to be good. You go to your lessons without complaint, you listen to your septas, you pray to the seven and deny yourself excess in all forms.

You speak kindly. You cling tight to poise. You cast your eyes away when a man speaks to you and bow graciously instead of arguing or challenging a direction, no matter how stupid it may be.

You are perfect.

It is the longest you have gone without punishment in all your life.

But the stretch of time only lasts so long. And you wake late one night to find Ormund standing at your bedside, hovering.

Staring, with that same look he's leveled at you for years—not disgust, but something more complex. Something hotter. Searing.

You lift yourself up on an elbow and ask timidly, "Did I do something wrong?"

His jaw feathers as he clenches his teeth. "No."

Somehow, his answer is worse than if he had found a reason to punish you. Because this meant you were right, that his discipline was not only for you. It meant there was something else beneath it all.

It meant that this perverse craving in your chest that you have tried to fight off was not only yours. It was shared.

"If I've not done anything wrong, then what are you—?"

"Get up." He lifts his hand, motioning for you to remove yourself from the comfort of you linens, finally breaking the intensity of his stare.

And because you have been trained to heed his every beck and call, you do exactly as he says.

He sits at the edge of your bed, the way he always does. And you stand in front of him awaiting instruction, the way you always do.

Your heart feels suddenly too large, pushing against your bones.

He is supposed to say, kneel. He is supposed to say, over my knee. He is supposed to say, do you know what you've done?

Ormund does not.

Instead, he says, "Take off your gown."

You blink in surprise, unsure if perhaps this is a test. Maybe he's temping you, goading for a reason. Trying to get you to reveal yourself, to sacrifice your modesty so that he might prove you are just as wicked as he believes you to be.

"What?"

"Your gown," he says again, voice firmer now. "Take it off. Do not make me repeat myself."

You can hear the blood rushing in your ears and feel suddenly frozen. Afraid to move, afraid to say one thing when he truly means for you to do another, and—

Ormund stands suddenly and his hands are on you. Big and rough and mean, tearing the lace fabric over your chest so hard it leaves indents against your shoulder blades. Your nightclothes are thin and give so easily beneath his violence.

You do not stop him. You don't even try.

You don't want to.

Before you can fully process what's happening, you're standing completely bare before him, white fabric pooled at your feet. Your nipples harden beneath the night's cool air and your heart hammers in your ribcage.

He is not shameful in his assessment of you. His eyes are greedy and roaming, leaving no part of you untouched, starting at the curve of your throat and the the swell of your breasts, and eventually lower down to your navel and the space between your legs.

Ormund stares, and his lips part on a hollow sigh. His hand comes up to cup his jaw, squeezing hard, trying to rub the tension away.

You want so badly to hear the thoughts in his mind but know better than to ask.

Does he think you're beautiful? Does he like the shape of your body? Does he enjoy the softness of your skin, or the scent of honeysuckle oils at your pulse point? Are you womanly enough for him?

Does he want you? Does he think of you, the way you have him? Do you appear in his dreams, too?

He clears his throat, the sound masculine and powerful, startling you out of your reverie. And then he sits back down on the edge of your bed and says, "Kneel."

You do.

"Over my knee."

This instruction, too, you follow.

Warmth blooms low in your belly at the texture of his leather breeches against the top of your bare thighs.

He doesn't ask if you're aware of your transgressions, because there are none.

Ormund sets one hand on the small of your back, and the other comes to rest against the globe of your arse. His hands are calloused. Rough. Hardened from the weight of a sword.

And above all, they are…delightful. Delicious. "How—" you swallow thickly. "How many?"

His hands are gentle as they stroke your skin. Feather light and mistakenly devoted. Ormund leans forward, lips a breadth away from your ear as he answers, "As many as I'd like."

And then his hand comes down sharply, the sound of skin against skin a piercing echo.

A whine leaves you, and it takes a moment to gather yourself enough to choke out, "One."

He hits you again, and again, and again—and each time those delicate touches in between last just a bit longer. As if he is able to find peace in your punishment, granting him the gift of softness.

Everything feels hot. Your skin, your hands, the place between your legs. It throbs and aches and grows stickier by the minute.

You think he must see it. He must. Each strike has your spine arching, exposing you even more, the number more of a moan on your lips than a cry.

It is around number six that you begin to feel him harden beneath you.

The swell of his cock presses against your belly, right beside your navel. Growing larger with each loud echo.

He does not mention it, and neither do you. But your head feels fuzzy with the truth of it.

Ormund settles around strike fifteen. You are certain it will be painful to sit tomorrow, but you can't find yourself in it to care when he traces delicate patterns over your warmed flesh with the tips of his cool fingers.

The praise comes after some time, when your muscles relax in his hold, when you stop expecting one more strike to befall you.

"You always look so beautiful in the aftermath," he mutters. and you feel yourself smiling, despite your better impulses. "Pretty, obedient little girl."

His hands knead at your sore skin, squeezing the pillowy flesh and spreading you open. You look up to see him staring at your most intimate place, likely seeing the wetness that's gathered.

He then does one more thing you don't expect.

With only the pad of his thumb, Ormund slides his finger through your slit.

The touch is firm and so unforeseen that it sends a jolt straight to your heart. You let out a true cry this time, but not of pain.

Of pleasure.

You're so sensitive that your muscles clench at the contact, so lost in the feeling that you hardly hear the low groan that rumbles through his chest.

And then he's pushing you off of his lap onto your bed, and standing to his feet. He does not even spare you a parting glance over his shoulder as he says, "Enough for today."

You do not see him again for some time.

In fact, Ormund leaves Oldtown entirely the next morning and he takes Daeron with him. It is only from your septa's that you learn they've set on a quest to deliver goods to the Citadel.

Usually Ormund will mention as much to you over supper with your cousin, and you cannot help thinking the reason for his sudden and unannounced absence is due to what transpired between you the night before.

And to yourself only, you admit his absence has made you yearn for him.

You cannot quiet the thoughts in your mind each night, the longing for him, the hope that he will simply appear at your bedside with a heavy hand and that familiar stare.

But he never does, and left to your own devices with thoughts of his touch invading your every thought, it is not long before you try desperately to abate the need yourself.

In fact, you form a new routine of your own.

It starts as desperate rocking against nothing, but you learn rather quickly just how much better it feels with your linens wedged tight between your legs as you do.

The bulk of the fabric presses deliciously against your center, and each roll of your hips has your vision turning black around the edges. You can think only of Ormund—your mentor, your disciplinarian, the hand that shaped you.

You think of the force behind his strikes and of his low groans and of his sweet, sweet praise. You think of the darkness in his eyes and of his strong jaw and the way the muscles in his shoulders flex when he moves.

Even his gait makes your belly squeeze tight in desire—the surety in his steps, his confident posture and the way he towers over you. Always so big and hulking and intimidating.

Sleep only comes to you each night after you reach the peak of bliss. After a fog clouds your mind and your vision goes all starry.

You think if Ormund were to see the things you'd been up to in his absence, you don't believe fifteen strikes would be nearly enough.

He would tell you it is a sin to indulge lustful fantasies in this way. That your pleasure is reserved for your husband, meant to be given at his discretion.

But you've never been a perfect listener nor a rule follower. If there is anything in your life you are certain of, it is that.

You allow yourself to freely walk about the tower in his absence, too. The rookery and the kitchens, plucking fruit or cheese from nearby trays and sending ravens to your cousin Helaena in the Red Keep.

You visit the stables to pet the horses and even make friends with a bastard boy who'd recently come to Oldtown from Casterly Rock.

When Ormund does finally return, you're there to greet him in the great hall with a flicker of delight in your chest.

He looks the same as when he'd left. Strong, masculine, confident. His skin is maybe a bit more sun-kissed than before, and his normally polished leather boots are caked in mud.

Yet still, you cannot help but smile when you see him. You'd worn your most beautiful dress, a gown of emerald velvet and white lace, low cut with a jeweled bodice. He'd complimented you on it once, several moons ago, and it has been your favorite ever since.

When he comes to stand in front of you in greeting, you bow low. "My lord," you say. "I am grateful for your return."

His eyes stay glued to yours when you rise, his pert mouth turned up at the corners. "I am grateful to be back," he says, taking your hand in his and bringing your knuckles to his lips.

Ormund's kiss is chaste, but it feels anything but. The simple touch of his hand has your belly flipping and your face heating.

He does not linger long, though you wish he would. But there is much to tend to in the keep, things that have simply been awaiting his return.

The cooks prepare a feast that night. A massive spread for both Ormund and the knights that traveled with him.

Ormund sits at the head of the table and Daeron sits to his right. You are placed on the other side of your cousin, who spends most of the night recounting tales of the Citadel to you. Of the towering stacks of books and the tomes bigger than his head.

He tells you in a whispered tone just how old the Grand Maester truly looks. "Ancient," he explains. "With tufts of graying hair and eyes that no longer see."

You laugh and giggle together about it, indulging your childish whims that always manifest whenever you are near him.

Daeron tells you, too, about the ambush they'd suffered from raiders who's been lying in wait off the King's Road.

"Uncle Ormund nearly died from a stab wound," he whispers, and it makes your heart give a sudden lurch. "He fought bravely. Slashed the raider clean in two, if you'd believe it."

This makes you mirth fall. You have never considered his loss before this moment. Ormund has always been there, a steady presence in your life.

Just the thought of it—of losing him, it does not sit well in your gut. Though hated by him as you are, you could not imagine...you could not imagine.

Ormund does not speak to you, but you can feel his stare. Heavy and warm on the side of your face. You wonder silently if he'd missed you as you have him.

Had he been thinking of that night, too? Of how it had felt to be bared before him? Of the heat you saw in his gaze?

Had he thought of you with a blade pressed to his belly? Had it truly gotten that close?

Ormund makes a toast to his men near the end of supper. To their valiant efforts that contributed greatly to the trade and to their protection.

Your maidens ready you for bed that night and spend a little longer scrubbing you clean at your request. They dress you in white silk and by the time they leave, the fire in the hearth has dwindled to cinders. The excitement in your chest is a roaring flame, however.

But, Ormund does not come to you.

You toss and turn restlessly, hoping to hear the creak of your chamber door or footsteps on the stone just outside.

Yet, there is nothing. The night is still, as it has been for the last several weeks.

You lie there with a longing in your chest, an ache between your legs, and your head filled with a thousand questions.

The setting sun has long since given way to the moon by the time you leave your bed.

Ormund's chambers are on the other side of the Hightower, but you are more and more certain with every step you take.

Ser Roy of Oldtown stands guard outside his door, the way he does most nights. He bows low when he sees you, eyes cast away from the too thin fabric of your gown. "My lady."

"I wish to speak to him," you say, trying to muster the strength to keep your voice from wavering.

"He did request not to be disturbed lest there was an emergency," the knight tells you.

"I don't care," is your simple response, because it is true. "Please, ser, step aside so that I might—"

Ormund's door opens, the heavy weight of it daunting.

He looks at you and stares. Hard and knowing.

Your breath gives way at the precision attention, all the jumbled thoughts in your mind untangling like a pulled thread before promptly vanishing. There is…something new behind his ire for you. Something you might call intrigue, if you didn't know any better.

Ormund does not take his eyes off of you as he speaks. "Find something to busy yourself, Ser Roy," he says, eyes searching your face now, flickering from your nose to your cheeks and then to your mouth. "And do not come back," he adds to the knight.

Roy nods stiffly and doesn't argue. He, too, knows better.

The clang of his armor disappears down the corridor, and before long it is just you and the man who haunts your insides. Heart and head alike.

He smiles down at you. A true smile. Small, but real, and it weathers your resolve in an instant. Because it's a kindness he does not give freely or often, but he is here now, giving it to you—who you'd thought he'd hated.

But this doesn't feel like hatred to you in the slightest.

It's heavier. Sharper. Sweeter.

In the end, it is you who breaks the spell, pushing past him and into his chambers. You recall all your cousin had said about the journey to the Citadel. How blades had been drawn and blood had been spilled and the thought of it makes your eyes sting.

Ormund closes the chamber door behind you, but you face away from him. Staring into the crackling flames in the hearth, trying and failing to fight the tears that brim in your eyes. "Daeron told me there was an…altercation on the King's Road," you say. "He speaks tales of blood and death. Is this true?"

His heavy footfalls sound in your ears. Ormund nears you, yet you still do not turn to look at him. "It is," he answers simply. "These are dark times, as you well know. Darker yet to come."

The idea of it—of war, of famine, of the rot and loss that he speaks of, it makes you terrified. You've seen men die before, in jousts or tourneys, even on the way here to Oldtown. But thinking of Ormund in the middle of it all?

Finally, you turn to face him. He is closer than you'd expected. Only a single step away, focus narrowing as he sees the tears in your eyes. "You could have died."

"But I did not." His head tilts curiously. "Where do you place your ire?"

"In you!" You should not yell. You know this, and yet the venom in your mouth refuses to be washed out. "It is from someone else that I'd had to learn you'd been attacked on the way to the Citadel. From another I'd learned you'd taken a wound that very nearly could have put you in the grave. And even those details I'd had to overhear from one of your men when it should have come from you!"

He watches it unfold; your rage surfacing, all masks of poise absent. He does not stop you or speak a warning into existence, he only watches with curiosity on his face and something far more intense alongside it.

"I have longed for your return for weeks! You leave without a word and take my cousin with you, leaving me to sit all alone and wonder if perhaps I'd done something wrong or worse—disappointed you!" Your tears fall freely down your cheeks now, but you are far past the point of sparing yourself any embarrassment.

Ormund raises his hand to your face, cradling your head in his palm. His thumb strokes gently across your cheek, swiping your tears away. "Is it for me that you weep, sweetling?"

Yes, you want to say. Yes, of course it is. He is everything to you and has always been. "Do you have any idea how I would have mourned you?"

His eyes soften, and it soothes something inside of you to see it. Ormund leans forward slowly, carefully so as not to frighten you.

And you stand there, frozen in the gentle hold of his hands, as he licks the tears from your cheeks. His tongue is warm and soothing against your ruddy skin, and it feel so intimate that it makes you shiver.

He then kisses your eyelids. The left first, followed by the right. "I cannot promise to tell you of each of my wounds," he says, voice softer than it's ever been before. "But I can promise to warn you before I leave the tower again. I thought you'd be glad to be rid of me after all I've done, in truth."

"Glad?" The thought does not register in your mind. "I could never be glad of your absence. I confess, I…I hate it."

"Is that right?" Ormund takes a step back, and you see him inhale a shaking breath as he does. "More than you hate me?"

You wish you could deny the words, but you cannot. You've hated him all your life—the man who'd always looked at you as if your very blood was wrong, who'd never hesitated to raise a hand to you, who'd been cruel and rigid. The man who denied you the softness you've always craved unless you'd earned it.

You do hate him.

But yes, you hate his absence more.

"There is another matter," he says, not giving you time to answer his question.

Perhaps because he did not care to hear the answer, or perhaps because he could not bear it.

"I am told you'd been quite disruptive while I was away," Ormund says. "That you'd stolen and spoken with a sharp tongue. All things I could forgive, considering the worst of your misdeeds."

Your brows furrow. "And what was the worst?"

"I have told you a hundred times to stay away from the stables," he explains. "So, imagine how unexpected it was to hear that you'd been spending far too much time with a boy who works in the very same stables I've warned you against."

Your stomach twists at the sharp tone of his voice. A stark contrast to the way he'd spoken to you only moments ago. "He does magic tricks," you say. "We were not being inappropriate."

"Magic," he spits. "Is that what you'd sell your virtue for? Your maidenhood? Worth nothing but a few tricks?"

"What? No! I—!"

"It does not matter if you truly did it," Ormund interrupts. "All that matters is the way it might seem to the passing eye. A whisper in one ear turns to truth in the mouth of another."

"But I didn't do anything! There was another, in the stables," you argue. "An old woman mucking out the stalls. Ask her, she can attest we were simply brushing the mares and—!"

"He did not touch you?"

"No, my lord. On the seven above, I swear it."

You see something rigid relax in him as you say the words aloud. His posture softens, his hands unfurl. Ormund wets his lips and says, "There is still the matter of precedent. I told you not to do something, and you went ahead and did it anyway. On this much we can agree, yes?"

"Yes," you echo.

He nods thoughtfully, steps closer to his four poster bed, and says, "Come."

You do not know quite why, exactly, you feel your heart slow as he says it. The word is rehearsed and familiar and puts you at ease in all the places you've felt wound tight for weeks now. You stand in front of him and await further instruction, and Ormund does not hesitate to give it.

"Remove your dress."

That spark of excitement returns. You obey wordlessly, unlacing the fabric just enough to pull the silk over your shoulders. It falls down your body like water and pools at your feet.

And then, finally, he says, "Kneel."

You do.

Ormund does not sit on the edge of his bed for several moments. He simply exists in the space you've created, drinking up the power he holds over you. He's still fully clothed, wearing a black tunic and leather breaches, towering over your naked body that awaits his instruction.

When he does finally sit, he speaks a word you have not practiced before but it invokes something primal in you all the same.

"Crawl."

You do.

Ormund's chest heaves as you keep your eyes firmly on his, closing the space on all fours. And when you're close enough that you're right between his spread knees, you lay your cheek against the inside of his thigh.

He squeezes his eyes closed, whispering under his breath, so quiet you'd have missed the curse on the tip of his tongue had you not been paying attention.

His throat bobs as he swallows and exhales slowly. When his eyes find you again, there is something akin to wonder in them. "Over my knee."

You assume the practiced position and find yourself slick between your legs before he's even touched you. But you know he sees it, too, when he squeezes your flesh and spreads you open wide enough to feel to cool air touch your cunt.

"Ten," he says lowly. "Because I can see now that you were only acting out in response to my lack of thought for your isolation."

Ormund does not give a warning. He never does. He simply raises his hand and brings it down sharply against the swell of your cheek. The impact is painful and soothing all at the same time, and though your breathing stutters you feel your chest loosening.

You count each and every one in perfect succession, skin growing raised and warm to the touch. You cannot be sure if his hand comes down harder each time or if perhaps you've just grown more and more sensitive.

By the sixth strike, you're throbbing. Your hips move of their own accord, desperate for something to be wedged between them. Your toes curl and your feet cross at the ankles, thighs squeezed together as you try to abate the need.

By the eighth strike, you can feel Ormund's cock pressing against your belly, hard as stone. You cannot bear to look at him, not like this. Because you think you might lose all sense of self if you do, might kneel and beg for him to touch you. To violate you.

"Nine," you hiss, fingers curling in his sheets. You can feel everything, everywhere, all at once. Not just his hand and the way he hits you but his other, pressed firmly to the small of your back to keep you in place. You can feel the leather beneath you and his breath as it fans across your spine. You can feel the cool air that drifts in through the open window pane and the warm lick of the fire across the room.

You can feel your blood in your veins, the air in your lungs, the holiness in your body.

"One more," Ormund says. "Breathe, girl."

You obey, sucking in a slow breath of air and letting it fill your belly.

He strikes you on the exhale, and this time his hand stays against your tingling skin.

"Ten," you whimper. It feels as though your bones melt in his hold. The tension in your muscles dissipates, fading to nothing.

Just one touch would be enough. The pressure has become a mountain inside of you and it's on the verge of collapse.

"Are you…enjoying this?"

You cannot lie. Not to him. "Yes," you answer breathlessly.

He hums, a sound at the back of his throat that you're not sure is because he's pleased with you or because he's appalled. You half expect him to strike your backside again.

He does not.

Instead, his hands drift slowly down the back of your thighs. And as his thumbs move, they slide through your slick and your spine arches back of its own volition.

"Oh—" You grit your teeth, trying to hold back the moan that threatens. But it feels so good, better than anything else.

He lifts one hand, and you expect it to hurt when he touches you again. Ormund instead curls his fingers inwards, spreads your knees, and strokes his knuckles through your syrupy folds.

This time there is no chance at holding back your sound of pleasure. It rips through you, deep and heady, goosebumps spreading across your skin.

"So sensitive," he muses, more to himself than words spoken to you. "You've always been such a sensitive girl."

You press yourself backwards, chasing the sensation of his hand. He gently strokes you again, soft enough you'd convince yourself it's a touch of love if you believed he were capable of such a thing.

His knuckles graze over your clit and what was once warmth in your belly now spreads like wildfire beneath your skin.

"Please," you whimper. "More, please. I'll be good, I'll be—I'll be so good, I promise."

"Of course you will be," he says. "You're my perfect girl."

The word clangs around in your emptied mind. Perfect.

Perfect, perfect, perfect—

Ormund smooths his hand over your cunt, the pressure and roughness of his touch dizzying. He then presses his thumb directly to your clit and you feel all the blood in your body rush to your center. "Do you know what you're asking of me?"

"Yes," you answer truthfully. "I want it to be you. I need it to be. No one else…" You swallow.

"Speak, sweetling," he encourages.

"No one else makes me feel like this," you admit, turning your head to look up at him.

And what you see is catastrophic to your aching heart. Because you've known Ormund all your life, but you've never seen him look like that.

Despaired, hopeless, a slave to the thoughts that plague him. There is such longing in his eyes that it makes your stomach flip. But beneath it all there is understanding—like he relates far too well to your words to ever deny them.

"I could ask for your hand," he mutters. "Though your mother will likely deny me for my allegiance to my cousin and my house."

"So take me." The words come unbidden, a treason in their own right. "Steal me away. Hold me captive, a prisoner of a war not yet waged."

Something dark and searing flares behind his eyes when you speak.

"I am yours," you admit, and you think it may just be the truest thing you have ever said. "The way I have always been."

Ormund growls low, a frustrated sound at the bottom of his chest. He leans forward and presses his forehead to the space between your shoulder blades. "You are, aren't you."

Not a question.

He sighs, breathing in the scent of your skin deep into his lungs to soothe himself.

You are unsure of what comes next, once the truth of your feelings for him has been laid out in the open.

It feels raw. Like your chest has been cut and your ribcage cracked so he might see your very insides.

What happens next is a kiss upon your shoulder.

Gentle. Devoted. Faithful.

There is a deep crease between his brows, and you can feel evidence of hesitation in his hands.

"You are troubled," you observe aloud. "Is it because of me?"

He winces as if you'd struck him. As if the words were far more painful than anything he's ever done to you. Ormund's jaw feathers, and he breathes in deeply before saying, "Of course not. You have never…"

He shakes his head, swallows, and tries again.

"Understand this; my feelings for you do not come from a righteous place. I should feed you, guide you, protect you, and do nothing else. You should not be here now. I should not want this. Or—or you."

"But you…do?" It sounds mousy as you ask it, said with an unsure tongue.

"I do," he admits in a hoarse whisper.

There is pain in his eyes as he says it. As if this feeling has been sitting in the depths of him for some time, and only now does he allow himself to succumb to it.

You move. You are uncertain and cautious as you do, but you will strength into your limbs anyway. Climbing into his lap, straddling his hips, winding your hands around his shoulders and tugging gently at the hair at his nape. "You don't have to take," you say, so close now you're breathing in his air. "Not if I give."

His stare is heavy and dark. Full of more longing and lust than you have ever seen exist in a man before.

You close the distance. Ormund freezes, unmoving as you press your lips to his experimentally. He tastes of smoke and cedar, of steel and blood, of safety and familiarity.

He tastes of home.

When you pull back, his chest heaves and his hands curl into the sheets. The thought crosses your mind that he is angry with you—furious, even.

But Ormund does not shout or raise a hand to strike you.

He grabs you by the back of the neck and crushes his mouth to yours. Less experimental and less nervous than you were.

Ormund kisses you like he's starving.

His lips move against yours, soft and wanting. And when his tongue slips between them, he moans into your mouth as he tastes the inside of it.

It is a battle of a different kind. He bites and sucks and licks, and you try to meet his fervor. You are just as desperate, but Ormund is untamed. A feral dog let off its leash.

Your center throbs and you whimper, rolling your hips on top of him to abate the feeling. He is still fully dressed while you sit naked in his bruising grip, and you suddenly want nothing more than to feel his bare skin beneath your fingertips.

When you tug at the buttons of his tunic, Ormund's hands find yours to assist your clumsy movements. He is much faster than you are, and tugs the garment over his head the moment he is able.

There, along the left side of his abdomen, is a jagged wound.

You pause to press your fingers tenderly to the angry, red skin. His muscles are strong and hard beneath your touch. Though the stitches are removed now and the wound is mostly healed, he still winces at the pressure of your fingertips.

Without thinking, you lean forward and press a soft kiss to the scarred skin.

Ormund melts beneath your affection. And then he brackets his arms around your waist and turns you both, laying you flat against the mattress. He kneels between your legs, seeming so large and intimidating from the new angle.

His hands find your face, feeling your skin. They move slowly over your bones, down your neck, over the swell of your breasts, your navel, your hips. As if he were trying to memorize this particular moment by sight and touch alone.

"I have thought of this more times than I could ever say," Ormund tells you. He settles low, hovering over your body, pressing his mouth to the hollow of your throat.

His lips follows the same path as his hands, peppering wet kisses over your skin and leaving goosebumps in his wake.

"Your taste, you scent, your sweetness—I have dreamt of it," he continues. His tongue circles your navel once before moving further down. And when he kisses your pubic bone, Ormund pauses. Looks up at you through dark lashes, his stare soft but still no less intense. "Is this where you ache, sweetling?"

The words feel filthy and depraved and so delicious that you whine. "Yes," you tell him, squirming. "Will you kiss me there?"

A malevolent smirk forms on his pretty mouth. "More," he answers.

And with no warning at all, Ormund licks a stripe through your heat, tongue flat and soft and so very wet.

It sends you reeling. The sensation, the sensitivity—him. "Oh, gods, I—"

He does it again, this time licking back down as well. Ormund moans low and the vibration of the sound spreads through you mercilessly. Again, and again, and again, his tongue laves through your apex. You feel yourself clench, muscles pulled taut.

Your spine bends off the mattress and your hands come to his head, fingers twisting in his soft curls, pulling his mouth impossibly closer.

When he takes your clit between his lips and sucks gently, your vision blurs. Everything else in the world fades to nothing, every sensation muted apart from the pleasure his warm mouth brings.

Ormund is relentless. He doesn't stop, even when you're writhing and gasping for air. His face flushes and you can feel his stare on you even when you can no longer keep your eyes open.

It's far better than linens between your legs, far more intense. It doesn't take long before you become a trembling mess, legs shaking around his head, heels digging into his spine as you scramble to find some sort of purchase.

And then it happens—a searing pleasure, ripping through you mercilessly. Light flashes behind your eyes and your spine arches and your fingers tighten in his hair.

He licks and sucks you through it, making those sweet, rumbling groans all the while, as if this is more for his pleasure than yours.

The bliss is blinding and fizzles out slowly, leaving remnants of euphoria behind. Only then does he settle, tongue slowing as it slides through your wet heat with less pressure now.

When he finally pulls his mouth away, his cheeks are flushed and his lips are glossy with your arousal. "Better," Ormund whispers. "Far better than I ever could have dreamed."

You can hardly react to his praise, too lost in the feeling he'd given you. "I did not know it could be like that," you admit, breathless. "That it could be so…"

"Perfect," he finishes for you. And you think, yes. He is perfect.

Maybe not in everything, but for you.

Ormund crawls over you until you are face to face once more. He is heavy on top of you, muscles thick and smothering in the best way. His length presses against your hip, so hard now you can feel the pulse of it.

He kisses your mouth but this time it's slower. Softer. The taste of you lingers on his tongue, sweet and intoxicating.

His hands cradle your face far gentler than another ever has. It is dizzying, the way he can bring such pain and still grant such ease.

You wriggle your arm beneath his abdomen, reaching for the metal of his belt buckle.

Ormund groans, but you feel the way his lips turn up just slightly against yours. "Greedy girl," you says, pulling away to nuzzle your cheek with the tip of his nose. "I have warned you against overindulgence endlessly."

He speaks true, but you have never listened to his warnings. Have always bent the rules until they break, have retained a sharp tongue and a love for all that might destroy you.

Including him, you suppose.

"Will you deny me, then?"

"No." Ormund shakes his head. "Never in all my life."

It eases something in you to hear the response. To know this is a sin you share, a mirrored reflection of one another.

He leans backwards, just enough to unbuckle his breeches and remove them. His cock is larger than you'd anticipated. Thick and veiny and flushed at the tip, hanging heavy between his legs and decorated with a thatch of dark, coarse hair at the base.

Ormund kneels in front of you, staring hard, watching you take all of him in for the first time.

He's beautiful, you think. Strong and powerful and profound. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, your brain going fuzzy again, carnal impulses beginning to take hold.

"I can be gentle," he says. "If that is what you need."

But it's not gentle you want. You want him—with all his sharpness, with all his anger. The totality of it; his heart, his soul, his body. If it hurts, you think it is meant to. "What I need," you whisper, "is you."

He watches you for a moment, eyes searching your face, trying to find hesitance that doesn't exist. And then he nods, leans forward to kiss your temple, and says, "You will tell me if it becomes too much."

You swear to him that you will.

Ormund takes his cock in his hand and slides the head of it through your center, coating his length in your wetness. Each stroke of him over your clit has you sighing, hips canting towards the sensation.

He lines himself up at your entrance, and your attention is so focused on his movements between your legs that it startles you when he uses the other to grab your face.

Ormund's fingers curl tightly around your jaw, forcing your head back, forcing you to look at him. "Eyes here," he says, voice firm.

And then, gently, he begins to push in.

The stretch of him burns, but it is not terrible. It simply aches, and you whimper a distorted version of his name but he does not stop. He keeps going until he's fully seated inside of you, so deep you swear you can feel him in your belly.

All the while, he keeps his big hand around your jaw, squeezing so tightly it momentarily distracts from the throbbing of your cunt.

Ormund touches his forehead to yours, breathing in your air. He says, "You are so fucking perfect."

And it makes you moan.

He starts to move, slowly at first. Pulling out of you tenderly just to slide right back in. A few strokes, encouraging your endurance. Sweet and soft and loving.

"Feels so—so full," you say, whimpers falling from your lips.

Ormund pulls out again, nearly all the way this time. He still forces you to look at him, and you can see the desperation enter his eyes mere moments before he slams his cock in deep.

There is nothing soft about it. Nothing sweet.

Your vision goes blurry and the air vanishes from your lungs as if it'd never existed there in the first place. The force of it aches so deliciously you feel pressure begin to form behind your eyes. "Oh god—!"

He does it again, pulling out almost completely before slamming back into you. "My perfect girl," he mutters against your lips. "Does it hurt?"

"Yes." Your hands find his shoulders, fingernails digging into the thick muscle .

"Do you wish for me to stop?"

That familiar warmth spreads someplace deeper than before. Not just your belly but in your womb. "No, please don't—don't stop."

Ormund turns your head just enough to press his own against the side of your cheek. He inhales the scent of your skin and a low growl reverberates in his chest.

Finally, blessedly, he picks up the pace. Hips grinding hard against yours, finding a rhythm that feels somehow both satisfying and violent. He breathes shallowly against your cheek, pressing kisses to your jaw that feel so tender in comparison to the way he fucks you.

And when he reaches between your bodies with his free hand to find you clit, you think you might die. It's too much, too sensitive. Your toes curl and your spine arches, pressing your breasts against his chest. The only word you seem to have held onto in your bliss is, "Please. Please, please—oh god, please."

"You beg so prettily," he says. "Almost like you were made for it. Made to kneel before me. Made to be mine."

The possessiveness in his tone alone has you teetering on the precipice of release. You'd given yourself freely to him, willingly—but Ormund still manages to take. Your innocence, your purity, your heart.

You're falling. Bliss blinds you, thighs trembling, nerve endings coiled and white-hot. His name falls from your mouth and Ormund kisses you hard to swallow up the sound.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "There you go, sweetling. Give it to me. My perfect girl."

He doesn't stop, even when tremors rock through your body. He keeps fucking his cock into you without remorse, fingers moving over your clit in tight circles, ratcheting your pleasure higher and higher until you feel like you might burst with it.

The pace of his hips falters, and then he's groaning low against the curve of your neck and laying wet, open-mouthed kisses against your pulse. With his cock buried inside of you, he fills you with his release, painting your insides all sticky and white.

Ormund gives a couple of slow thrusts, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath, before gently pulling out of you and rolling to his side.

It is not you who reaches for comfort first.

His arm wraps around your waist, hauling you across the mattress and into his warm embrace.

You nestle beneath his arm, head resting against his shoulder. He is so large and the heat of his skin is so comforting. Familiar in some ways, despite this being the first time you've ever been so close.

That same warmth that emanates from him seeps through your bones and touches your fast-beating heart. A delighted giggle escapes you, and you can feel Ormund's mouth turn up into a smile against your forehead.

He tilts your chin up so you're facing him. "What is it that you find so amusing?"

You shake your head. "Nothing, just...I am—I am happy."

His smile softens into something heavier, but no less pleased. You don't believe you've ever seen him look this way. So vulnerable. Benevolent, even.

Silence settles for some time. And you would be content to stay here, skin tingling in the aftermath of bliss, safe in his arms. But there is something weighing on him, and you can feel it in the stiffness of his hands that stroke gently over your hip.

When you can stand his distance no longer, you ask, "Is there something wrong?"

He doesn't answer right away, which frays the edges of your comfort. But then he says delicately, "I have something for you. A gift."

"A gift?" You prop yourself up on an elbow. "From the Citadel?"

"No," Ormund answers. "I'd had it made for you some time before my journey. But I—it is not a…kindness, exactly. More a token of my own grotesque worship of you."

Your brows furrow in confusion. "What is it?"

Ormund untangles himself from the sheets, unkempt and messy now below you. He crosses the chamber to his wardrobe and pulls open a drawer.

It is hard to see from so far away, but you watch as he takes something hesitantly in his hand before returning to the bedside.

"I…I sometimes believe that I have been shackled to you by the gods themselves," he begins. "Fated to bend my own morals in response to my longing for you. I am but a wolf coiled around a lamb and there will never be anything else, not for me."

You don't understand. It makes a million questions form in your mind, none easily answered.

Ormund swallows thickly. "I am a slave to your affection," he says. It makes your chest pull tight. "I do not deserve your softness but I will never turn it away so long as you continue to give it."

He extends his hand in front of you, opening his palm to display the prettiest necklace you've ever seen. Made of glittering emerald stones and a silken black ribbon.

You reach out to touch it on instinct, and Ormund lets you take it from him. But as you do, witnessing the lack of length, realization dawns on you. "This heralds a collar," you say.

Ormund nods slowly. "I only wished for you to be…possessed by me, the way I have been possessed by you."

A response does not come easily.

There is a part of you that knows this is not the way of things. A man should love his lady. Should be kind and respectful. He should certainly not place a collar around her neck as if she is owned property or a family pet.

But there is…something else, too. A part of you where desire sparks at the thought of being so wholly his, of surrendering to whatever fate may befall you so long as it is done by his own hand. There is peace in it. And certainty.

"I'd told myself to get rid of it a thousand times, but there has always been a hope within me that perhaps one day you might return my wretched affections," he says. "It is yours. But if you are to wear it, you must do so willingly."

The decision feels heavy. Weighted.

But you do not need long to decide.

You hand the necklace back to Ormund, who takes it hesitantly from your grasp.

And then you turn, facing away from him but looking over your shoulder to ask, "Will you tie it for me?"

He smiles, and there is something deeply fragile in it. Almost boyish, as if this is the first time in all his life he has ever felt truly loved by another.

Ormund kisses the back of your neck and sets the ribbon in place around your throat.

And when he ties it, he pulls the ribbon tight.

He didn’t know how, or exactly when he started paying more attention to you than likely necessary — only that he was very often looking at you for a lingering second longer than he knew probably he should be. He found that there was something distinctly wild about you, that bordered on insane at times. You were loud, spoiled, and easily bored, like all young members of royalty seemed to be. You were either violently excited or utterly detached, with hardly anything in between.

The unwavering intensity of your presence at court wrapped around the old man’s days like a snaking grapevine — the same way you burst into his study now: unexpectedly and terribly uninvited.

“Did nobody teach you to fucking knock?” Maeker thunders, when the quiet of his office swells suddenly with the chaos of the Red Keep outside.

His head snaps towards the door, half-expecting to find his son standing there. The words of an instinctive argument rise in his throat and turn to dust on his tongue when he sees you in the doorway instead — wide-eyed and wearing the throes of the ball all over. Your chest heaves beneath the ornately decorated bodice of your dress, which clings most ardently to every dip and curve of your torso, as if you’d just been running from something.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” you say through panted breaths, mustering a wavering smile. “Sometimes, I forget I’m not at home anymore— I shouldn’t just intrude—”

“No. The offense is mine, princess,” Maekar dismisses with a shake of his silver head, softening with a heavy exhale. “I didn’t mean to shout. I mistook you for my son.”

Your kind smile widens in amusement at the look of embarrassment that flickers across the man’s weathered features, right before he turns away from you again. He pours himself a goblet of wine, if only to have something to do with his hands, and you mourn his attention when the moment it’s gone.

You’ve grown to like the way Maekar looks at you — with his brows lowered and his eyes wide — like he’s always a little confused by you, as though you were some inhuman creature he couldn’t quite make sense of. You found yourself appreciative of his slight disgust, especially after spending so many weeks dealing with the ogling of high lords, who only wanted the riches between your thighs or the ones in your castle back home.

You liked that he didn’t want you the way the rest of the noblemen around him did. It made him that much more fun to play with.

“May I ask which one I was mistaken for?” you press playfully as you shut the door behind you. You lean softly against the heavy oak, letting it cool your burning skin, until it closes with a dull click behind you. “I wouldn’t be much offended if it were Daeron, but surely I’m much prettier than that Aerion of yours, Your Grace.”

“Of course, my lady,” Maekar mumbles, then clears his throat behind his fist — because the constant coddling of you felt borderline strangling at times. He walks the short distance back to his desk and struggles to meet your prying gaze when he sits down again, reaching for his ink pot. “Forgive me. I meant no offense—”

“No forgiveness needed, Your Grace. I only jest, I assure you,” you lilt with a lazy shrug.

Your pretty boots pad softly along the cobblestone as you stroll across the expansive office — silk skirt swishing around your ankles, dainty hands clasped behind your back. Maekar can feel your stare searing into him when he refuses to meet your gaze.

You smell of roses and jasmine and strawberry wine when you lean over the man’s shoulder, a much more delicate scent compared to his whisky-leather-spice concoction. His weathered hand freezes on the feathered quill as he turns slowly to look up at you.

You meet his scowl with a tight-lipped grin.

“What are you writing?”

“I’m drafting a law to add a tenth-percent increase on mill taxes to accommodate your being here,” he explains in a gruff monotone — a not-so-subtle jeer at what the constant celebration in your name is costing the crown, which will only be worth it if you marry within the Targaryen name, so that they might inherit your riches upon your betrothal.

“Wow…” you hum with a slow, sarcastic nod. “The only thing more exciting than that is the game of hide-and-seek I’m currently in the midst of. And it truly is quite heated, Your Grace, so if you would be so gracious as to let me seek refuge here…”

Maekar blinks wildly at you, scruffy features twisted in confusion. His squinted eyes follow your form as you lift your skirt from your feet to duck down beside him. “What—?”

“Excuse me,” you huff, swatting at his leg like you’re half annoyed that it’s in your way, as you weasel beneath the desk to hide at his feet.

He jerks back from you on instinct, chair legs scraping audibly against the cobbles. You settle against the aged wood with your back bent and your knees brought to your chest. You tilt your wild head to peer past the table’s edge and up at the gaping man above you.

“Try not to be so obvious, Your Grace,” you joke in a whisper, lips curling in a playful grin. “Unless, that is, you want me to be found—”

The door squeaks open once more.

Maekar’s eyes flit away from yours to where Valarr bursts into the study the same way you had moments before — wild and out of breath. The sounds of the distant party fill the quiet room once more. The young boy cowers at the sight of the man there, and the way his silver eyes bore holes into his brown-blue ones.

“Forgive me, uncle,” Valarr pants, clasping his pale hands behind his black-red coat. “I was searching for the princess— I thought I saw her come this way.”

Maekar exhales a sound of annoyance in his throat, waving his weathered hand in the opposite direction — a silent signal that you’d gone further down the hall. You cage your bottom lip between your teeth to bite back a giddy laugh when you hear the door squeak shut and Valarr’s hurried footsteps rush down the opposite way — in search of a princess he will surely never find at this rate.

“Is he gone?” you murmur quietly, poking your head between Maekar’s legs to see past him over the desk’s edge.

“Seven fucking hells…” the man grumbles, flinching away from you once more — far more fazed by the dwindling proximity between your bodies than you are, it would seem.

“Thank you for your sensitivity on the matter, Your Grace,” you lilt playfully as you crawl back from beneath the desk like a bumbling child. Your hair snags softly on the aged wood; your dress, as expensive as a castle, brushes the dirty cobbles; and your plush breasts threaten to spill out over the top of your tight corset.

You don’t bother to ask before spreading your manicured hand over Maekar’s strong thigh, using him as a brace to stand to full height again. Your entitlement only continues to surprise him — he’s left gaping at you, stunned foreignly speechless, as you tower over him once more, with a lazy smile curling at your wine-slick lips.

“I’m glad I can count on your discretion,” you lilt and bend gently at the waist to curtsy rather clumsily before him — far more graceless than a princess of your stature should probably be. You stumble slightly on your feet as you twirl away from him again, headed back towards the door.

“And I pray you’ll no longer need it,” Maekar grouses as he returns his attention to his letters — to warn you that he is not amused by your games, perhaps; or maybe, subconsciously, to stop you in the doorway before you can leave again.

You flash him a devilish grin over your shoulder, with something half-crazed glimmering in your eyes. “I guess we’ll see about that, then, won’t we?”

The throne room fills with the sound of lively music and a thousand different conversations.

Maekar sits beside his brother at the long feasting table, surveying the half-strangers and begrudging acquaintances with an unenthusiastic gaze. His eyes find your form weaving within the dancing bodies with a strange sort of ease that makes him curse the Gods — if only he could stop finding you, if only he could stop constantly running into you, maybe then you would finally leave his head.

But for now, he freezes mid-chew of the tough steak between his teeth and scowls when he catches his second son’s silver head flitting through the crowd and closer to you.

Aerion approaches you like a predator to prey, sliding between you and the high lord at your side, standing just a little too close for comfort, as he cuts off your conversation without apology. The two of you stand still in the center of the bustling ballroom, momentarily blanketed by the dancing bodies around you.

“Are you not having fun here, princess?” Aerion asks with a squint to his silver eyes at the detached look on your pretty face.

You have to tilt your chin to keep his gaze as the proximity between your bodies decreases to make room for the couples surrounding you. You can smell the mint leaves on his breath from here, which he must have chewed following the luncheon, as well as the subtle sandalwood on his milky white skin.

“I’m not much of a dancer, Your Grace,” you answer with a smile.

“So my grandfather threw a ball for a princess who doesn’t dance?” Aerion laughs. “I presume this isn’t what you wanted, then?”

“I don’t really have much of a say in what I want,” you confess.

“So you’d rather be elsewhere?”

Your eyes cut over his shoulder and find Maekar with ease. The older man is already looking back at you, you find, with his jaw clenched tight behind his silver beard. He doesn’t dare look away when your gaze locks with his, lest he give you the impression that you have the upperhand here (though, you both know that you already do.) Your lip quirks into a quiet smile as you look back to the young boy ahead of you.

“I’d rather live my life in solitude,” you answer honestly. “In the biggest castle in the Seven Kingdoms— With no feasts, no dances, and no princes.”

“Sounds lonely,” Aerion quips with a crooked grin, taking a daring step closer instead of getting your hint. His blue eyes flit away from your gaze to where your plush breasts are cradled in your corset. Either he doesn’t notice his unabashed staring, or he feels entitled to his leering. “Surely you would be in need of some company, princess— To tend to all your… needs.”

His light eyes dart back to yours and find you utterly unfazed by his flirting.

“That is quite presumptuous of you, Your Grace,” you hum with a crooked grin, clasping your hands behind your back. “Especially considering you aren’t even the highest bidder here.”

Aerion falters for a moment, blonde brows pinching. He had not totally registered that there was any other competition, in truth, or any other man that you could possibly choose over him. The fact that you had not swooned at his feet the second he stepped in was surprising enough.

“You mean to say my cousin?” he questions with narrowed eyes.

“Valarr, yes,” you nod with a whimsical sigh and wandering eyes. “Though my father is much more partial to Lord Baelor, for rather obvious reasons— even though I told him that it was the Master of Coin that had the real political influence our house is most hopelessly searching for.”

Aerion’s eyes dart wildly between both of yours, hardly registering any of the words out of your pretty mouth, much less so when his name had not been uttered once from between them.

“Careful now…” the boy croons lowly, ducking to meet your gaze when you try to look away. “I’ll start to think I’m not wanted here, pretty girl.”

“Oh, and what a pity that would be,” you lilt with a sarcastic pout, fighting back a smile when it makes the boy’s chiseled jaw clench tight. “How could the poor, neglected little prince possibly survive without a little attention—?”

“Watch it,” Aerion spits through gritted teeth.

“I bet you’re still searching for daddy’s love in all the whores you bed, aren’t you, Your Grace—?”

The words get caught in your throat, beneath the cold hand Aerion wraps around your neck.

His long, milky white fingers dig hard into your skin, tugging you impossibly closer and making you stumble into his chest. He doesn’t strangle you enough to truly hurt, just enough for you to feel the weight of his hand there — for you to know that he could hurt you, if he really wanted to

“Did I strike a nerve, my prince?” you choke out over the sound of gasped breaths from the surrounding crowd.

The mint-wine concoction on his breath fans warm over your jaw as he spits back, “I should have your tongue that, you wench—”

“Stop this!” a familiar voice booms, momentarily hidden within the flock of flitting bodies until they inevitably part for the person it belongs to. As the minstrels cease their instruments, Maekar reveals himself to you, bursting through the crowd like a white-hot flame and burning just as hot.

Aerion stumbles over his feet when the harsh hand of his father collides with his shoulder, sending him backward and away from you. “What in the seven fucking hells is wrong with you, boy?” Maekar thunders.

“She was being—” Aerion cuts himself off, struggling to find the words. “She was speaking ill of the family name! Of your name!”

Maekar’s head snaps in your direction, weathered features made of something harder than stone. His silver eyes dart from the faux-innocent look in your wide eyes to where you rub at your throat with your fingertips.

“I was only complimenting your exceptional parenting, Your Grace,” you murmur.

Maekar sneers as his eyes cut back to his son’s. Aerion cowers beneath his father’s steely-eyed glare.

“She is here to be courted, not to be manhandled by a whinging fucking prince,” the man grumbles, deep and low like a storm cloud. “If you cannot handle some mindless drollery without losing your temper, I’ll send you to the wet nurses to coddle you. Do I make myself clear?”

Aerion nods wordlessly, face flaring at the stares he gets.

“Apologize,” Maekar commands.

“Forgive me—”

“To her,” the man corrects, pointing in your direction without taking his eyes off the boy.

Aerion can only partially muster the courage to glance at you. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing. “Forgive me, princess.”

“Go collect yourself before you embarrass me more than you already have,” Maekar spits lowly, eyes harder than stone as he watches his son slink through the silent crowd. The silver-haired man seethes at the stares he gets.

“Fucking dance!” he yells, voice booming.

The minstrels resume their lively music, which hardly matches the sudden tension in the air, as the members of the court abide by his shouted command.

“Thank you, Your Grace—”

“Nonsense,” Maekar dismisses you with a wave of his hand. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“No,” you assure with a shake of your head, still tracing your fingers over the ache in your throat. “He was surprisingly tender about it— I think I might’ve enjoyed it, actually, under different circumstances.”

Maekar gives you that look again, the one of palpable confusion and distant disgust, like he isn’t totally sure what he’s looking at.

“Skoros iksis pirta lēda ao?” he wonders in High Valyrian. It’s the only way he can ask the question so it’s phrased as a genuine curiosity rather than the curt accusation it would sound like in the common tongue — What is wrong with you?

“My father’s been trying to figure that out for years,” you quip in the same language, words rolling like honey from your tongue. Your smile widens when the older man gawks at you, perpetually surprised by you. “Kessa, nyke ȳdragon ziry tolī,” you tell him with an arched brow.

Aye, I speak it, too.

Maekar takes a step closer to you as twirling bodies spin around the two of yours. You tilt your chin to keep his gaze, wide eyes darting between his squinted ones.

“What the fuck are you getting at?” he spits in the royal language.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you shrug.

“Do you play me for a fool?”

“No, Your Grace,” you shake your head, with a feigned air of innocence he can see right through. “I’m only trying to fit in. I’ll be a part of your lineage one way or another, I’m only trying to find my place here—”

“Aye,” Maekar spits, bearded jaw clenched tight. “And it is not with me.”

“It is not with your son, either, I presume,” you squint and take another daring step closer, until you can smell the wine on his mouth. “He will be a fine knight, to be sure, but a terrible husband. He will beat me, and he will take his whores, and he will utterly bore me.”

“If a loving marriage is what you’re looking for, princess—” Maekar spits, though the High Valyrian turns his harsh words to velvet. “—I suggest you return to your home across the Narrow Sea. You will certainly not find one here.”

Your brow perks with a mischievous look. “Do you speak from experience, Your Grace?”

“My previous arrangement has long been dissolved,” he says, because it’s easier than telling the truth.

“So take me then,” you tell him and step closer in time with the spinning bodies flitting around you, each of them smelling of a mixture of wine and sweat and sweet food. Maekar’s scent is the only one filling your lungs now, a spicy musk that makes you dizzy. “Stake your claim to me, make me your princess. I may not yet be married, but the hours do pass swiftly, Your Grace—”

Maekar quickly loses his breath when the fruity-floral scent of you pervades his senses. It takes a surprising amount of strength for a man called The Anvil to keep his eyes on your smirking face rather than the pair of breasts spilling out of your corset, which threaten to brush his chest at the proximity between you.

“This is not the arrangement made with your father—”

“Fuck my father,” you curse, suddenly hardened. Your quickness of mind finds him like a hiss, a lethal bite. “If you want me — which we both know you do — then take me to Dragonstone, make me your wife, and fuck me in the biggest castle in the Seven Kingdoms—”

“My lady?” Baelor’s voice cuts in.

Your poison sweetness returns to you in a flicker.

Maekar watches, unable to take his eyes off of you, as you turn away to flash his older brother a pretty smile. He mourns your gaze the moment it parts from him. He cannot stand your unwavering attention most days, but he hates it even more when it’s pointed elsewhere.

“Your Grace,” you greet in a sickly sweet lilt.

“I come with apologies for my nephew,” Baelor says, passing you the jeweled goblet of wine in his right hand. “My brother can attest— Aerion is not known for his temperament.”

“Nor am I,” you grin and let your fingers brush the Lord Hand’s ringed ones for an obvious moment too long before you take the cup from his fist. “There is no harm done here, I assure you.”

“I only hope this does not send you back across the Narrow Sea,” Baelor smiles, brown-blue eyes flitting back and forth between your glittering ones. “We have grown quite fond of your company here at the Red Keep. I’m sure my brother can attest to that as well.”

Maekar only scoffs. “Do not drag me into this folly,” he mumbles like a stubborn child, averting his silver gaze elsewhere.

“Don’t mind him,” Baelor hums, lips quirking into a smile behind his greying beard. “He is only regrettable for his son’s actions.”

“And I assure there is no need for it,” you lilt with a warm smile that gets hidden behind the rim of the cup you bring to your mouth. Your following words echo inside the goblet. “Would you like to dance with me, Lord Baelor?”

The man’s brows raise at your forwardness. His mismatched irises flit to you, then to his brother, and then back to you again. “Well, I’ve never been much of a dancing man, my lady, but… The princess’s wish is my command, is it not?”

Your wine-slick mouth curls into a wider grin, which you flash to a brooding Maekar when you pass him your cup as if he were the help.

“Ydra mazverdagon nyke umbas daor,” you mutter in High Valyrian, just before your tongue darts out to lick the remnants of strawberry ale from your lips.

Do not keep me waiting.

Maekar remains in place while you take the pale hand Baelor offers you, whisking you away in the dancing crowd of the throne room. He waits until you’ve disappeared to take a sip from the cup, pressing his lips to where yours had been, and wondering if it’s the same as kissing you.

Maekar concocts a plan to find you when the feast is over.

He spends the night stewing in it — how he’ll burst into your room the same way you had his study, how he’ll take you off-guard and corner you the same way you’ve seemingly mastered, how he’ll watch you tremble when he finally snatches the whip hand from you.

Maekar’s buzzing with the anticipation of it all when he pushes past the knights guarding your door and storms into your room, swelling with golden candlelight, jasmine-scented oils, and steam from the bath you’re taking in the corner. You’re swathed half in the flickering fire and half in the silver moonlight streaming in from the window as you swipe soap from your damp arms.

You pause in place at the sudden intrusion, not quite frightened, as your head whips in the direction of the sudden footsteps. You smile when you find Maekar standing there, frozen in place at the sight of you — naked in the tub and only partially concealed by the suds settled on top of the steaming water. His thin mouth falls softly agape as his silver eyes widen.

You contort your pretty face in the most masculine look of anger you can muster — furrowed brows, squinted eyes, snarled nose. “Did nobody teach you to fucking knock?” you mock in your best Maekar Targaryen impression, though your voice is far too pretty to match the grittiness of his deeper one.

He does not try to defend himself now, or to otherwise stumble over himself for an excuse he’ll only halfway be able to stammer out. Instead, he clenches his hands into fists and asks, “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?” you retort beneath the sound of dripping water, as you drag your bare leg from the bath and smear sweet-smelling soap onto the glowing skin there.

“So take me then?” he repeats in a hiss. “Stake your fucking claim to me—”

“I did not say ‘fucking,” you squint. “I am a lady, Your Grace—”

“Did you mean it?” Maekar repeats, firmer now.

You nod once and answer simply, “Yes.”

His silver brows lower in the same look of confusion you always get from him, though this one feels different than all the rest — as if he thinks you must be lying.

“Why?” he agonized.

You shrug with a pretty grin, glistening shoulders bobbing in the steaming water. “Well, just because marriages here are loveless, doesn’t mean they can’t be fun, Your Grace.”

“Fun?” Maekar spits back — a word which, before now, had never been used to describe him.

Your smile blossoms. “And I do think I could stomach a lifetime of watching you make the face at me all the time.”

His parted-mouth look of not-so-subtle shock ebbs into a hardened look of anger, grey brows pinching and thin mouth snarling beneath his silver beard.

“Do you jest?” he hisses.

Your brows raise into a doe-eyed look of feigned innocence. “Do I look like I jest?”

He blinks owlishly. “Yes.”

“Well, you can’t even see me from that far away,” you quip with a faux pout, dragging your knees to your chest beneath the water. “Surely you cannot seek to determine my earnestness from such distance, Your Grace.”

You tilt your head to your shoulder and peer at the man across the room from beneath your lashes. He sneers, knowing exactly what you’re playing at, and opting to stand his ground.

“I’m plenty close, my lady.”

Your smile ebbs in an instant, replaced by something too pretty to be intimidating, but enough to take his breath away all the same.

“Come,” you command with an arched brow. “The princess’ wish is my command— Is that not what your brother said?”

Maekar scoffs cynically. “My brother says a lot of things.”

“Your brother is quite a good listener, too. You should take after him,” you joke, then narrow your eyes. “Come.”

“I am not a fucking dog,” Maekar curses bitterly, but stalks slowly forward anyway.

“Good boy,” you sing-song with a wide grin. Water splashes when you lift your hand from the bath, reaching out for the man to beckon him nearer. “Come closer, Your Grace. I have a secret to tell you.”

The man squints and takes a daring step closer despite himself. “I’m not in the mood for your games.”

“If you were not in the mood for games, you wouldn’t be here, Your Grace,” you tease him and tug at the hem of his black coat when he’s in reach. “Bend down.”

Maekar huffs and bends at the waist. “What in the seven hells is it?”

You tilt your chin upward, and your nose brushes the coarse silver hair at his jaw, smelling of whiskey and spice. “I saw how hard you were under that desk this morning, Your Grace…” you confess in a whisper.

You pull back from him after a lingering moment and smile at the look of shock he gives you in return, right before you pull hard at the collar of his coat.

“Shit—” Maekar blurts as he loses footing, unable to brace himself in time before piling into the bathtub with you. Warm water splashes onto the cobbles, drenching his coat as he tumbles in on top of you at a most awkward angle — lanky legs spilling out and long arms hanging off the rim.

“You fucking whore!” he thunders over the sounds of your giggling, and swallows down his own instinct to laugh

You bring a hand to your bare chest to feign offense. “That is no way to talk to your wife, now is it, my prince?”

The older man turns his hand to gape at you, still grimacing as the water heavies his clothes and the scent of floral aromatics surrounds his senses — every time he tries to worm his way out, he falls further in.

“Wife?” he spits.

“I can write a raven to my father,” you tell him with a devilish smirk. “Let him know his only daughter is officially betrothed— Unless you have any complaints, that is…”

Maekar opens his mouth to speak. The words die in his throat just as quickly when you reach for his right hand, dragging it beneath the water to where your thighs part for his touch.

You keep your eyes locked on his weathered face, which remains pointed at the steaming bath, as you press his fingertips to the lips of your pussy. You’re softer than velvet under his calloused touch, with a tuft of coarse hair that makes his breath catch.

You inhale sharply at the feeling of him there. It hitches in your throat when his silver eyes snap to yours.

“Just one,” Maekar says, tracing the silken outline of your pussy with his fingertips. His chest flares with a warm feeling when it makes you shiver. “Iksā vaogenka.”

You’re filthy, he tells you in High Valyrian, words spilling from his snarled mouth like honey.

“Se syr vaogenka,” you smile back.

The filthiest.

His father, Lord Otto Hightower, had arranged the match six moons past. Lady Elara Tyrell, a perfectly suitable bride from a perfectly suitable house. She was pretty enough, with honey-colored hair and gentle brown eyes, the kind of woman any lord would be grateful to call his wife. Gwayne had tried to feel grateful.

The wedding was set for the turn of the year. Three months. Three months until his life would be bound to a woman he barely knew, to duties he had never asked for, to a future he didn’t choose.

He had come to King's Landing to see his sister, Alicent. The Red Keep rose before him as his carriage passed through the gates, its red stone gleaming in the afternoon sun.

He was shown to his chambers by a young squire, a boy with sandy hair and a nervous stammer who seemed eager to please. Gwayne dismissed him with a wave, too weary for pleasantries. The room was comfortable enough, decorated in the red and black of House Targaryen, with a large window that overlooked the training yard.

He could hear the clash of steel from below, the shouts of men at practice. For a moment, he considered going down to join them, to lose himself in the rhythm of swordplay. But the trip had drained his energy.

He settled into a chair by the window, watching the activity below with half-lidded eyes. He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, the light had shifted to the golden haze of late afternoon, and a knock at his door roused him from his stupor.

"Enter”

The door opened to reveal his sister, Alicent, Gwayne rose to greet her, crossing the room in three quick strides to pull her into an embrace.

"Gwayne” she breathed against his shoulder. "I was so pleased when I heard you were coming. Father didn't mention it in his letters."

"I wanted to surprise you” he said, pulling back. "How are you, sister?"

"I am well enough” she said, though her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "The King has been... unwell of late. It keeps me busy."

Gwayne nodded, understanding what she didn't say. King Viserys was sick. Alicent's position was precarious, her influence tied to a man who was slowly slipping away.

"Come” she said, taking his arm. "I have arranged a small dinner in your honor. Just family. Princess Rhaenyra and her sister will be there, and the King if he feels well enough to join us."

The mention of you, Rhaenyra’s little sister, brought a slight tension to Gwayne's shoulders. He had met you, the princess, years ago, when you had been a girl of twelve with a fierce in your eyes. He had not seen you since, and he found himself curious about the woman you had become.

"Of course” he said. "I would be honored."

The dinner was held in a small private dining room, far from the grand halls where the court feasted. It was intimate, the table set for six, with candles casting dancing shadows across the walls. Gwayne arrived with Alicent, his hand resting on his sister's elbow as they entered.

The King was there, seated at the head of the table. He looked older than Gwayne remembered, his face lined with pain, but his eyes were kind as he welcomed them. Beside him sat Rhaenyra, chin up with a proud smile. And beside her, sat you, dressed in jewels and the dark red of house Targaryen, and Gwayne felt his breath catch in his throat.

You had grown into something extraordinary.

You had become a woman, your silver-gold hair cascading down your back in loose waves, your lips curved into a small smile as you watched him approach.

"Ser Gwayne” you said, "It has been too long."

"Princess" he replied, bowing. "You have grown."

"Most people do. Though I suppose some of us grow more than others."

Your playful tone that caught him off guard. He had expected cold formality, royal etiquette. But you wanted to play with him so badly.

He found himself smiling despite himself. "I would hope I have grown as well, Your Grace. Though perhaps not in the ways that matter."

Your eyes flickered with interest, and you gestured to the seat beside you. "Sit with me, Ser Gwayne. Tell me about Oldtown. I hear the Hightower is quite magnificent this time of year."

The dinner passed in a blur of conversation and wine. Gwayne found himself drawn to you, your wit and quick laugh, specially, in how beautiful you had become. He could not take his eyes off your lips, neck, and decency kept himself from wandering further.

"The Reach is beautiful” you said at one point, fingers tracing the rim of your goblet. "But it seems so... peaceful. So tame. Does it not bore you, Ser Gwayne? To live among fields and dirt, when here we have dragons?"

"Not all of us are fortunate enough to have dragons, Princess," he replied. "Some of us must make do with simpler pleasures."

"Simplicity is a choice, a choice you seem to have made quite willingly."

The way you said it, a hint of accusation, that made him pause. You were right, of course. He had made his choices, had accepted his father's plans without question. But hearing it from your lips, hearing the judgment in your voice it was different. Different in the way we all realize things we already knew if someone mentions them out loud.

"Perhaps I have been too willing” he admitted, the words slipping out before he could stop them. "Perhaps I have not considered all the choices available to me."

Your eyes widened slightly, and you leaned closer, voice dropping so only he could hear. "And what choices would those be, Ser Gwayne?"

"I have not yet decided, but perhaps I am beginning to see possibilities I had not noticed before."

Gwayne felt his heart pounding in his chest, felt the heat rising to his cheeks. So did you. He had never felt this way before, never been so consumed by a woman's presence.

"Gwayne” Alicent's voice cut through the moment, and he blinked, turning to see his sister watching him with a curious expression. "I was asking if you would like to tour the gardens tomorrow. The roses are in bloom."

"Of course” he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil within him. "I would be delighted."

But even as he spoke, his eyes drifted back to you, watching him with a knowing smile. You’d seen it, he realized. You had seen the effect you had on him, and you were savoring it.

The next few days passed in a haze of stolen glances and fleeting moments. Gwayne found himself seeking out your company at every opportunity, inventing excuses to be near you, to hear your voice, to feel your presence. He slowly found himself obsessed.

And you? You were more than delighted to welcome his attention, finding ways to be alone with him, to speak with him in quiet corners.

"You are betrothed" you said one afternoon, as you walked through the gardens. "To Lady Elara Tyrell. Is she beautiful?"

"Her mother thinks so” Gwayne replied, and you laughed.

"Her mother” you repeated. "And what do you think, Ser Gwayne? Do you find her beautiful?"

He stopped walking, turning to face you. The afternoon sun was behind you, casting your features in shadow, but he could see the smile on your lips.

"I find myself thinking of other things" he said. "Other women."

"Other women?" You asked, voice innocent, though your eyes told a different story. "How scandalous. Your betrothed would be heartbroken."

"I doubt she would notice" he said. "We barely know each other. The match was arranged by our families, as these things always are."

"A tragedy” you said, stepping closer to him. "To be bound to someone you do not love. To have your life decided for you before you have a chance to live it."

"Is that how you feel, Princess?" he asked, his voice soft. "You are the King’s daughter. Surely you have more freedom than most."

"Freedom” you said, "I am a woman in a world of men, Ser Gwayne. My freedom is an illusion, a pretty cage that I am expected to be grateful for. I am a princess, as long as I do as I am told."

"But you don’t do as you’re told, my princess" he said. "Do you?"

You looked at him sharply, and for a moment, he thought he had overstepped. But then you smiled.

"I don’t" you said. "I should. If i don’t, how will i earn the people’s respect? The love?"

"Is that what you want?" he asked. "Love?"

"I want to be seen” you said, voice a whisper. "I want someone to look at me and see who I truly am, not what they expect me to be. I want to be known."

"Then let me see you” he said, reaching out to take your hand. "Let me know you."

You did not pull away. Your fingers were warm in his, your skin soft as silk.

"You are betrothed” you repeated. A kind of sadness, a resignation that broke his heart.

"I do not care” he said. "I have never cared less about anything in my life."

You laughed, but it was a hollow sound. "You say that now. But when the time comes, you will do what is expected of you. You will marry Lady Elara, and you will have children, and you will live a peaceful, contented life in Oldtown while I sit here in the Red Keep alone as if i was my sister’s shadow"

"I will not," he said fiercely. "I will not let that happen."

"What will you do?" You asked. "Run away with me? Steal a dragon and fly to the ends of the earth?"

"If I could, I would" he said. "I would take you anywhere, princess. Anywhere but here."

You looked at him for a long moment, your eyes searching his face. Then you leaned in, lips brushing against his ear.

"Prove it" you whispered.

And then you were gone, walking away through the roses, leaving him standing there with his heart pounding and his mind reeling.

The next few days were harsh, he could barely resist the urge to see you. Gwayne found himself sneaking through corridors and slipping into dark corners. He had never done anything like this, had never broken the rules so thoroughly. But with you, rules seemed irrelevant. All that mattered was you.

You met in the library one evening, the candles had burned low, casting long shadows across the room. You were perched on a reading table, legs swinging idly. Your eyes lit up immediately as you saw him approach.

"You came" you said, as if you had doubted he would.

"I always will” he said, crossing the room to stand before you. "I would follow you anywhere."

You smiled, "And what would your betrothed say if she heard you speak like that?"

"She would not hear it" he said. "Because I will not tell her. I will not tell anyone. This is ours, princess."

You reached out, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch, feeling the warmth of your skin against his.

"I am not the kind of woman who shares" you said, voice low. "If we do this, if we allow ourselves this, I will not be content to be a secret forever."

"We will find a way" he said, opening his eyes to meet your gaze. "I will find a way."

You pulled him closer, hands tangling in his hair, your lips brushing against his. And then you kissed him, a small noise came out of his throat, a relieved noise.

He pulled you into his arms, his hands found your waist. He could not get enough.

"Gwayne," you said against his lips. "Gwayne, I—"

The sound of footsteps interrupted you, and you broke apart, breathing ragged. A servant passed by outside the door, oblivious to what had nearly happened within.

"We must be more careful" You said, voice shaking. “Everyone here knows about your commitment, If anyone found out—"

"I know," he said, his hand still resting on your waist. "I know."

But even as he said the words, he knew he could not stop. The taste of you was still on his lips, the feel of you still in his arms. He was lost, consumed by you, and he did not want to be found.

A/N: well well idk if i should make a part 2 but lmk if you wanna be tagged.

That morning you went down with Daeron to the space they'd improvised for the dragons, a chamber dug underground, too small, too dark for creatures born for the open sky. You felt Blackhunt's restlessness before you even saw her, a tremor that climbed up through your bones, a tension the two of you had shared ever since they'd been locked in there. The dragon scraped her claws against the stone, made the air crack with a low growl every time the ceiling seemed too close to her folded wings.

Daeron stood in front of his own dragon, speaking to her in whispers.

"We'll be flying again soon," he told her, running a hand along her warm scales. "Have patience."

You stayed a step behind, your hand resting on Blackhunt's flank, feeling the heat of her body pass through your palm. She didn't bear the confinement well either, neither of you did.

That was when the door opened and your uncle's figure filled the stone doorway.

"I warned you," Ormund said, looking at Daeron with that voice he used for everything, half reproach, half sermon. "I told you not to grow fond of the beast."

"She's not a beast," you said, before you'd even thought it through, your voice cutting through the silence of the chamber. "And she has a name."

Ormund barely looked at you, as if your presence were background noise he could ignore.

"Stay out of this."

"You don't give me orders," you answered, taking a step toward him, feeling your blood pulse hot behind your eyes. "I'm a princess, I could burn you if I wanted to."

He didn't answer. He turned to Daeron with a brief smile, almost tender, the only tenderness you'd seen from him since you'd arrived.

"At least you're a good boy," he said, placing a hand on Daeron's shoulder. "Gentle. You say your prayers. The light of the Seven shines on you, the Father favors you."

"As if the Seven existed," you said, contempt rising up your throat.

Ormund looked at you then, finally, with something close to disdain.

"Both of you carry tainted blood," he said, slowly, as if savoring each word. "The Targaryens are a wild line. Of little intellect, but great cunning. With dark spells that created abominations to seize what belonged to others. We are superior."

You felt Blackhunt's growl before you heard it, a low roar that rose through the dragon's chest, her nostrils flaring, fire pulsing somewhere behind her ribs. She knew.

"Calm the beast," Ormund said, without taking his eyes off you.

You didn't. You let Blackhunt growl a second longer before resting your hand on her neck, a gesture that was more a warning to your uncle than comfort for the dragon.

"The gods have assigned you a divine purpose," he said then to Daeron, ignoring you completely, as if he were already done with you. "A purpose only you can fulfill."

"What is it, my lord?" Daeron asked, in that voice that hadn't quite finished becoming a man's, unsure, almost childlike.

"They put a woman on the throne," Ormund said. "And you've lost your brothers, that leads to only one path. Now you must be king."

You watched Daeron go pale, watched the weight of those words come crashing down on him like a slab of stone.

"You're not asking me to turn against my siblings," he said, almost in a whisper.

You stepped forward before Ormund could answer.

"What he's doing is treason," you said, driving each word in like a knife. "Aemond is next in line for the throne, and I, in turn, am the queen. My mother didn't promise me to him for nothing."

"Those are matters of the past," Ormund replied, unruffled, as if your anger were barely a breeze. "Daeron will restore the old order. He'll begin a new world."

He gestured toward the door, and two guardsmen came in dragging a soldier who resisted, his hands bound and his face already swollen from earlier blows.

"A good king must show that he treasures many virtues," Ormund said, with the calm of someone reciting something learned long ago. "Honor. Wisdom. Justice…"

"He defended a woman who was attacked!" Daeron exclaimed, his voice breaking between indignation and fear.

"He laid a hand on a Hightower," Ormund answered, unyielding. "That soldier is an extension of you. Of the Crown. Justice must be done."

"Isn't mercy also a virtue, my lord?" Daeron asked, and this time his voice trembled entirely, his eyes searching for something in his uncle's face that was no longer there.

"That's what your father would have said."

Daeron took a step back as his uncle suddenly closed the distance.

"Forgive me," he murmured.

That was when you approached, slowly, unhurried, letting your footsteps echo against the stone. You took his face in your hands with a care you reserved only for him, for that brother who was barely two years younger but whom you protected as if he were made of glass.

"You always dreamed of being free, like a Targaryen," you told him, quietly, only for him, though you knew Ormund heard every word. "This is the moment to begin. Do justice the way we do it. Feed that man to Tessarion, a true Targaryen never trembles, take what's his by fire, start with him."

You held his gaze a moment longer, searching for that spark you knew was there, buried under fear, and then you stepped back, went to stand beside your uncle, your spine straight and your chin raised.

Ormund approached Daeron and drew his sword, offering it to him with both hands, like a relic.

"I risked everything to raise you," he said. "You won't want to disappoint me."

Daeron took the sword. He sought your eyes one last time, and you nodded, just barely, a minimal gesture that was all the answer he needed.

The man begged for mercy. The word broke in his throat as Daeron ran him through.

Ormund stepped forward to take the sword from his hands, then bowed, and you did the same, never taking your eyes off your brother, then you walked over to him, ignoring the body still bleeding out on the stone, and rested a hand on his shoulder.

"You did well," you told him.

Behind you, Tessarion released a brief burst of flame, a roar of fire that wrapped around the body and filled the chamber with sudden heat, with the sickly sweet, horrible smell of burning flesh. The dragon approached afterward, slowly, to feed.

You left the chamber without looking back, leaving Daeron with the sword still trembling in his hand and the smell of burnt flesh clinging to his clothes. Every step you took through the corridors made your blood boil a little more, until you reached your uncle's chambers and found the door ajar.

You walked in as if the place belonged to you, and in a way you felt it did, that everything Ormund believed he possessed in there belonged to you too, even if only so you could tear it from his hands.

"I won't let you take away my right to be queen," you said, without preamble, your voice cutting through the silence of the room.

Ormund didn't even flinch. He stood by the window, and looked at you with that exasperating calm he used for everything, as if your fury were nothing more than a child's tantrum.

"As I already said," he answered, without looking away from you, "those are matters of the past. Daeron will be the new king, and I'll find him a worthy wife, a submissive one."

"I won't let you do that," you said, taking a step toward him.

"It's not your decision to make."

"No," you agreed, and took another step, and another, until you stood a hand's breadth from him, close enough to see his jaw tighten. "It's mine. If I have to, I'll marry him. I'll have as many children as I can, uncle. To be queen, to extend the Targaryen blood you hate so much."

Something crossed Ormund's face then, something that wasn't quite surprise nor quite disdain, but an uncomfortable mix of both.

"You won't do any such thing," he said, his voice lower, more tense. "I'll lock you up if I have to, you won't marry him."

"I could have children all the same," you answered, not retreating a single inch, holding his gaze like a challenge. "Daeron could give me bastards, and I'd make sure the Hightowers were erased from history, if that's what it takes. No one is going to stand above me."

Ormund let out a low, dry laugh, almost a growl. The sound reverberated in the stone room, closer than it should have been. You were pressed so tightly against him that you could feel the heat of his chest, the scent of incense and old leather that always accompanied him, and something darker underneath: the sweat of a man who had just manipulated his nephew into killing.

“Bastards?” he repeated, tilting his head toward you. His voice dropped an octave, hoarse. “Do you really think I’m going to allow my nephew, my Daeron, to sully his lineage? To let your dragon-swollen womb produce more monsters with violet eyes and silver hair?”

You took another step forward, your chest brushing against his, and neither of you pulled back. The air between you grew thick, charged with fury and something neither wanted to name yet. You felt your breathing quicken, the heat rising up your neck.

“Disgust?” you whispered, almost against his mouth. “I doubt you want to mix your precious Hightower blood with mine, uncle. It would make you nauseous, wouldn’t it? Imagining me naked beneath you, legs spread, receiving your seed. Imagining my womb growing with something of yours inside. Everything that comes from me repulses you, doesn’t it? My body, my blood, my children… everything that carries the seal of the dragon.”

Ormund stared at you fixedly. His eyes, normally cold and calculating, now burned with something wild. His hand suddenly rose and gripped your wrist tightly, not to push you away, but to keep you there, pressed against him. You could feel his pulse beating fast beneath his skin, his hot breath against your cheek.

“Don’t provoke me,” he said through gritted teeth. His other hand rose to your jaw, holding it firmly, forcing you to maintain eye contact. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

You felt his body tense against yours. The fabric of his tunic brushed against your dress, and beneath that… the unmistakable hardness of his arousal pressing against your hip. It wasn’t just rage. It was desire, raw, forbidden, disgusting to himself, and that only infuriated him more.

“You think you’re so superior,” he continued, his voice hoarse, almost a dangerous whisper. “With your dragon, your Valyrian blood, your damn pride. But look at yourself now… trembling against me, with your nipples hard under that dress. Are you so desperate for power that you’d spread your legs for the man who wants to take your throne?”

You smiled, slow and dangerous, and pushed your hips forward, deliberately rubbing against him. The gasp that escaped his throat gave you more pleasure than any victory.

“Maybe I am,” you replied, lowering your voice until it was only a purr. “Or maybe I just want to see how much you hate yourself when you take me. Because you will, uncle. You’ll hate every second you’re inside me… and you’ll want more.”

His hand on your jaw tightened harder, almost painfully. For a moment you thought he was going to kiss you, or hit you, or both. The silence was deafening, broken only by your ragged breathing.

Then, with visible effort, he pushed you back, but not enough to let you go completely. His eyes dropped for a second to your lips, betraying him.

“Get out of here,” he growled. “Before I do something neither of us can undo.”

But you didn’t leave, and he didn’t let you go either.

Your pulse throbbed between your legs, hot and treacherous. You didn’t pull back. Instead, you lifted your chin and brushed your lips against his, barely a touch, a provocation.

“I’m not leaving,” you whispered against his mouth.

That was all he needed.

With a guttural growl, Ormund pushed you against the oak table behind you. The impact was sharp, but it didn’t hurt; it only fueled the fire. His mouth crashed down on yours with fury, kissing you as if he wanted to punish and devour you at the same time.

His lips were hard, demanding, and his tongue invaded your mouth without asking permission. He tasted of wine and contained rage. You responded with equal intensity, biting his lower lip while your hands rose to his chest, tugging at the laces of his tunic.

“I hate you,” he growled against your neck, biting the sensitive skin just below your ear. His hands slid down your sides, gripping your hips hard, pressing you against his hard, hot erection straining beneath the fabric.

“And I despise you,” you replied, panting, as you slid a hand between your bodies and stroked him over his clothes. You felt him throb under your palm. “But that doesn’t change what I want right now.”

Ormund let out a hoarse sound and lifted your dress with brusque movements, pushing it up to your waist. His fingers found your bare skin, sliding up your thighs until they reached your already wet center. When he touched you there, sliding two fingers between your slick folds, you both moaned at the same time.

“So wet…” he murmured against your throat, almost in disbelief. “For me.”

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a coherent response. You only arched your hips against his hand, seeking more friction. He slid one finger inside you, then two, moving them with a precision that made you clench your teeth to keep from screaming. His thumb found your swollen clit and rubbed it in slow, firm circles, bringing you to the edge with an ease that infuriated and aroused you in equal measure.

You pulled the dress over your head with trembling hands and threw it to the floor. You stood naked before him, save for the gold chain hanging between your breasts. Ormund paused for a second, looking at you with raw hunger: your hardened nipples, the curve of your waist.

He removed his tunic in a single movement, revealing a torso marked by old scars and tense muscles. His body was imposing, broader and stronger than you had imagined.

You pulled him toward you again, kissing him violently while untying his pants. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the head already glistening with precum.

You wrapped your hand around it, stroking him up and down with firm movements. Ormund let out a choked gasp and lifted you, sitting you on the edge of the table.

He spread your legs with his hands and positioned himself between them.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

You did. His eyes locked onto yours as he guided his erection to your entrance and thrust into you in one deep movement. The stretch was intense, almost painful at first, but pleasure followed immediately. You both moaned. He was big, hot, filling you completely.

He began to move with strong, controlled thrusts, each one deeper than the last. The table creaked beneath you. You clung to his shoulders, digging your nails into his back as he fucked you with a mix of hatred and lust that made you feel powerful. Every time he bottomed out, he brushed that spot inside you that made you see stars.

“Tell me you want it,” he growled, biting your shoulder. “Tell me you want me to fill you.”

“I want it,” you gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist so he could go deeper. “Please…

He picked up the pace, his hips slamming against yours with force. The wet sound of flesh against flesh filled the room along with your moans.

He kissed you again, more savagely, while one of his hands moved down to rub your clit in time with his thrusts. The orgasm hit you suddenly, intense and overwhelming.

You clenched around him, screaming his name against his mouth as waves of pleasure coursed through your body.

Ormund didn’t last much longer. With one final hoarse growl, he sank to the hilt and came inside you, spilling his hot seed in deep pulses. He stayed there, buried inside you, breathing heavily against your neck.

For a long moment, only your breathing could be heard. Then, slowly, he lifted his head and looked at you. There was no longer only fury in his eyes. There was something darker, more possessive.

“You’re not going to marry Daeron,” he said quietly, still inside you, his hand slowly caressing your belly. “Nor are you going to bear anyone’s bastards. If anyone is going to swell this womb… it’s going to be me.”

You felt a shiver that had nothing to do with fear. A part of you, the wildest and most Targaryen, ignited at the image: your body changing because of him, carrying his children, uniting the two bloodlines into something new and powerful.

“Then take me as your wife,” you whispered, running your fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. “Make me truly yours, uncle. I want your children. I want my womb to carry your legacy…”

He closed his eyes for a second, as if your words hit him harder than any sword. When he opened them, there was a fierce determination in his gaze.

"really," he nods and pays you no mind, he tries to take the goblet from your hand but your grip is tightened around it, the bone of your knuckles threatening to break through your skin. "give it here, stupid girl." he moans and you swing the rest of it down, thrusting the empty cup in his direction with an insane grin plastered on your face.

"what is so special about that boy anyways?" he huffs, eyes darting across the room to where your vision has frozen in place. "he's most likely still hung up when i unseated him from that horse of his long ago."

"it could also be our damn brother marrying his sister," you sigh, "that itself is," you pause, sickness filling your stomach, "loaded." there's silence between the two of you as you stand in the shadows, the beat of music looming over you and the party continues. daemon replaces your cup with one filled with water but you make no move to consume it; how could you when every cell in your body has stretched and expanded beyond normal to fit in thoughts of gwayne hightower.

"daemon," you whisper, "he's just so pretty." your slurred confession is almost pathetic and your brother breaks the intense staring competition to place a hand on your shoulder in awkward reassurance. "like a deer," and your eyes shine an alarming amount, streaks of moonlight glittering across your iris. god, you are a goner.

"not that pretty," he scoffs, "you are prettier."

"you say that because we share the same mother," you roll your eyes and nudge his shoulder. the compliment from him is born from his distaste of the hightowers and maybe a twinge of fondness for you as he ruffles your hair in return.

"true, but you do have such foul taste in men. of all possible sorts, a hightower?" his brows raise incredulously, "really, is there no other man in this realm?"

"no, not for me," you shake your head in a daze, everythings starting to appear fuzzier, softer but you can still make out the small smile painted across his pink lips so clearly. you wonder what itd be like to touch them up close, to feel them against your own, on your bare skin, on your sheets, just anywhere for you.

"oh no," he groans in desperation, "i beg you to find some sanity, even just a shred of it. no, in fact, find some dignity and if you truly must then bed him and be done with it," its mortifying in a sense for him to say this to you, his younger sister but you are in dire need of saving yourself before ypu melt entirely defenseless to this one-sided love.

"you cannot just bed a man like gwayne hightower!" you hiss quietly in annoyance, "look at him," your eyes dart to his direction once more, "no, it will not do. i must marry him," you declare and daemon snorts out, the cackle leaving his lips in a proud twist and he turns to you.

"you have gone mad, dear sister, truly mad," maybe not mad, but definitely drunk, he gathers. but you can't focus on him. not when you've caught the eye of the pretty red-head and you have never been so grateful to have such an annoying brother. you wave, fingers dancing in a slight tease and you watch as his brows knit together in a small scrunch. he then turns his attention back to the kingsguard as if it had never happened. as if he hadn't just knocked on your heart, entered and laid to rest before slicing you inside out.

oh.

"he definitely hates me," your lip wobbles with each word, eyes glassy with dejection and pure heartbreak. daemon looks at you horrified, unsure of what to do with you in this emotional and heightened state.

"come sister," he tries to usher you away from the table and in the direction of the hallway, "we can always let caraxes have her fun, hmm?"

"you'd hurt him?" your eyes widen comically and daemon can make out the heavy breaths heaving from your chest with great concern. oh god, he's just making things worse for himself.

"send me to the seven hells, no! no, of course not," he drawls, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and trying to keep you moving, "maybe just a little," he murmurs but you catch it and push off of him instantly.

"but i love him," you gasp, and daemon sighs. its like having a child, truly.

"love who?" comes the voice of alicent hightower and the two of you turn. daemon shakes his head at the sight of her brother making his way over and landing inches away from the two of you.

"you," you whisper to him and its a moment too soon before daemon can smother your lips with the heavy weight of his palm.

"me?" gwayne speaks with great confusion, he has no recollection of whats been said before thankfully but his sister sends you a knowing look, a mischievious glint in her eyes as she smiles. you've always thought of alicent as oddly sisterly. she's been kind to you when others have not, she's given you chances when others have paired you with your chaotic brother and some part of her wishes that the two of you couldve been greater friends despite the fate that had been forced upon her.

gwayne looks to his sister, hoping for some explanation and almost misses how you bite down on daemon's palm. the elder pulling back with a curse and a wince as you shoot him your most dazzling smile. its earth bending, soul shattering downright gorgeous the way you look in your black beaded gown; a princess of the night and defender of the realm that gwayne allows himself the mercy of letting his gaze linger longer than it needs to.

"hello, you," the excitement is gathered in your voice and gwayne's eyes narrow in. theres a softness in your shoulders, the relaxed state of your posture, the wind in your hair and the wildness in your features.

"are you drunk?" alicent beats him to the question and he inhales slowly, exhaling slower trying to gather restraint and patience. sober you he has been able to handle. he approaches you with nothing more than polite kindness. he knows the way your soul seeks him out in every room he walks, he knows you ask after him, how you wait at the gates anytime he is planned to return to kingslanding and hes very fond of you.

he also knows the family you come from. the cruelty, the power, the damn dragons that give you the ego boost to demand what you have and take what you must no matter the expense. he despises your brothers particularly and though he tries to be fair to you, he knows its easier to create the distance. to be noble gwayne and play his part in this deathly game.

but drunk you? the adrenaline rushing through your body and mind, no gwayne doesn't know how to handle drunk you when he just about keeps hold of his facade of barely tolerating sober you.

"unwell," daemon corrects her without a second glance, "she is unwell and i was just escorting the princess to her chambers, she is rather tired," daemon stresses, keenly aware of how you're minutes away from embarassing yourself and him by extension silly.

you hold up four fingers cheekily and scrunch your nose in delight, "four cups!" you cheer and alicent lets out a laugh.

"is that all?" she grins, taking in your amusement.

"is that all?" daemon scoffs, "anymore and you will find her at the bottom of the barrell," that instantly has you shaking your head in defiance.

"you will find me on the dance floor!" your eyes widen with pure joy and childish excitement, buzzing through each of your veins and you break free from daemon's hold in the direction of the main party again.

you probably make it two steps ahead before a certain knight blocks your path, "princess," his hand is held up, palm outwards, a silent request for yours to join him and you do. he brings your hand to his lips and the second he presses a soft fleeting kiss you are airborn. its only a greeting but you float, rising and lifting and lord can nothing bring you down. its a manifestation of your earlier thoughts and you are purely giddy.

"ser gwayne," you swoon and its the first of a teasing smile you're met with. youre sure hes reserved this just for you.

"oh fuck me," you brother moans, palms smacking against his face in pure embarrassment but gwayne ignores him entirely, his gaze fixed on solely you.

"are you well?" he murmurs just for your eyes, pure honesty and earnest and you somehow melt even more.

the air softens around you and you're not sure your knees are working, everything feels so light and like heaven. "i dunno," you are stunned, your response incomprehensible as you focus on the invisible print of where his lips have scorched your skin. he lets go of your hand and yours drops to your side. no force or willpower to hold it open, no you are molten.

"might i escort you back to your chambers? perhaps for some rest?" he's hopeful. he catches daemon's deathly stare from behind your back, boring holes straight into him and for a second he's nervous. however, he can sense the hesitation of daemon and the need to get you to safety in this state. youre unguarded and though gwayne would never let anything happen to you now or never, it seems wiser to let you sleep this state off. roaming drunk is not ladylike and he doubts you care too much of what the other noblefolk think, he for sure knows that you are out of control with your actions as you usually like to be and that? that unnerves him incredibly.

"i am perfectly able to do so," daemon cuts in but you pat your brother's chest, cutting off his sentence halfway with a mischievous grin.

"no, ser gwayne will," you order, you clap your hands in delight and press a lazy kiss to your brothers cheek and then one to alicent. "goodnight brother, goodnight alicent, i shall see you both in the morrow," you throw out your arm for gwayne to take and he chuckles at how overly confident you appear before him now. how miliseconds have hardly passed and you stand with great eagerness before him. its a downright straight ego boost and soar to his chest.

sober you is usually more refined, more subtle and reserved for only the right people. gwayne's not spent much time in kingslanding to meet your close aquaintance but theres some things he can gather from afar. like the way you hold yourself with a rare gentleness from a targaryen he's sure its because of you that halaena has grown to be so fond. you take pride in the way you dress and carry yourself, you are friendly with the animals. you tend to the gardens and so often he finds you in the company of the cooks. yet you are still strategic when helping stage coups and plan attacks, you listen attentively to the working folk and despite what you come from, gwayne is intrigued by who you've become.

you hold yourself looser now, slightly leaning into his side as he carries most of your weight. its evident in the slower steps he takes, the silence he finds himself in in an attempt to catch the slow rise and fall of your breaths. he wishes the two of you were so much more than your last names because all he can see is how perfect you fit at his side. he must do a terrible job at conveying it because you stop so abruptly that his body moves in great whiplash, attending to you immediately.

"is something the matter, your grace?" unlike you, he hasn't drank the slightest drop and is so acutely aware of his environment his senses have heightened. your stance surprises him as he takes you, your fists have balled at your sides with an impatience and theres hurt scrunched across all over your face. a sudden flush of dread works it way into his throat.

"yes, i think you detest me, ser gwayne hightower," and his stomach does somersaults with the way his name slips from your lips. he stutters, trying to catch his breath and mind from moving at a million miles per hour.

"detest? my, oh my, that is a strong accusation," he tries to land it in light-heartedness, the chances are you'll most likely not even remember this tomorrow but the betrayal lingering in the lines of your face has him inhaling slowly, choosing his next words carefully. he opts for a simple truth, "i do not hate you," he speaks plainly, brows jumping with each word.

"no?" you question, the bottom of your lip rests into a little pout and gwayne's eyes move like a laser, narrowing in on it.

"no," he confirms with a steadfast heart, "come," and he holds out his arm again, "let us continue."

"no," you refuse and gwayne wonders which of his sins must be in need of divine punishment right now for this to be happening. his hand drags across his face and tries to think of his next course of plans.

"okay," he shrugs, "what would you like to do?" and he watches how you light up with pure ecstasy. your arms raise in the air and he watches how you hurl your body in a poor attempt at a twirl. the drunken spin has your left foot landing wrong, catching onto the seams of your gown and you feel the world falling back.

the scream dies in your throat when youre surrounded by such intense heat. gwayne hightower is warm all over, his arms have caught you just in time, your head neatly tucked against his chest as his arms span the length of your back and waist. its almost intimate the way you can hear his heartbeat, it bounces and jumps and you'll play it as a soundtrack to your life if you could. you bring your own hands to rest onto his chest, the crisp velvet sliding against your skin as you look up.

it must be the biggest mistake of your life to look up because as soon as you do you're sucked straight in. its like the ocean has swallowed you whole, and in the midst of its vastness you can hear the quiet, you can feel the serenity and calmness hit you so gently.

"princess," his voice tries to pull you from its trance, and the throated rasp cuts you free.

"gwayne?" you whisper, and the rest of his features appear back into focus. the small freckles dancing along his skin almost disappear the way the moonlight streaks before him. the bridge of his nose, the way it slopes so perfectly, gwayne hightower must have been made and born of pure precision and patience.

you're not thinking and he's momentarily distracted by the way you've dropped his title, saving the way you've said his name into pure permanent memory. so you reach out, your cold index finger touch his nose and he freezes beneath your touch. your finger then drags, following the path of his nose and down to his lips, they pause on his bottom lip momentarily before continuing its course down to his chin and then the length of his neck. you can feel his adam's apple tense as he swallows under such intensity and then they rest teasingly on the junction where his two clavicles could meet. the small amount of skin escaped from his tunic and burned into memory.

"princess," he murmurs, trying to gather his footing and he's still holding you so tightly he's realised. "this is not proper," he manages to get out and a slow smile reaches your lips. you've done it, you've broken gwayne hightower and it has only took four cups of wine to do so.

"i wonder what five would get me," you want to touch his hair next, feel the copper strands beneath your fingers and tug on them, feel how they would be burrowed against your skin or what noises he would make if you pulled them right. you don't reach out though however, your hands travel lower to his abdomen, pushing yourself more upright and steady on your feet but gwayne tenses at the contact.

"sweetheart?" he breathes in confusion, he has no idea what you're on about or whats even happening but youre set alight. this is new. you love the way this one sounds, you want to brand it to your forehead and let the term of endearment be the only thing he's ever allowed to call you by. you stand on your own, centimetres from him and try to dust the nonexistenr fluff off your gown and even just moving has you slightly dizzy. you try to reach for a railing but gwayne's hands move quicker and he's steadying your weight once more.

"i don't think you should move so suddenly," he warns, "you need to rest, sleep this haze off."

"i'd like to dance," he watches as your face morphs into something so fierecly determined and for a second, he's almost scared. it doesn't last very long however because a boyish laugh quietly escapes his lips at the sight of you.

youve taken a step back and your eyes are closed, your swaying so slowly and way off beat for this to be considered a dance. you imagine your partner to be there, leaving the gap empty for a body as your hands play with the air, mumbling along to the faint tune you can hear but its all so unrhythmic that gwayne almost feels sorry for you. you're going to make yourself dizzy and sick, you'll probably fall into a bush soon and gwayne decides to put his title as protector into action.

"you are," he breathes, and he steps into the gaps, his hand at your waist and the other taking charge of your outstretched one. your palms are interlocked as he moves you to a more practised rhythm. gwayne may be a knight and soldier but hes a man of nobility, a member of the court and he'd be damned if he didn't how to dance.

"mad?" you offer, opening your eyes to steal a peek at him. its so natural how your bodies align together, fit and move as one. its fluid and light, you can hardly feel your feet on the ground.

but gwayne certainly can, you've stepped on his toes twice, lopsided and lazy footing that he finds endearing, "wonderful," he corrects you with a unguarded softness, "you are wonderful," and you swoon once more.

"keep your eyes open," he whispers and you obey, and when he spins you he does it at such an incredibly slow pace in fear of you falling and your nausea rising. you're having so much fun with him right now that you don't realise you've been dancing with the knight for the length of minutes; so long that he has walked or rather cleverly danced the two of you back to your chamber.

truth be told he doesn't actually know which is yours. he ends the dance with a final spin, before holding onto the two of your hands and kneeling into a bow. he presses a kiss to each of them, so gentle that when you shoot him another smile it goes straight to his head. hes unsure of how hes still alive right now, he swells with pride at having earned so many of them tonight they ought to declare him a champion.

"thank you ser gwayne," you mumble, your hand ready at the knob of your door.

"just gwayne," he smiles and the world tilts its axis. "and if you ever find yourself in need of a dance partner then i am at your service," he drawls and a giggle escapes your lips as you open the door then lean your head against the frame tiredly. you are exhausted and want nothing more to go to bed, you also just want to stare at gwayne all night long.

"even if your partner is barely tolerable," your voice is slurred not from the wine but the fatigue now and gwayne steps forward by an inch. but an inch is all you need to feel the sheer heat radiating from his body and heart again.

"i told you," he uses a finger to trace your cheek now so tenderly it shatters all the walls youve ever built in your heart and laid entry for gwayne and gwayne only, "you are wonderful."

"wonderful," you whisper and there's moons in your eyes again.

"goodnight, sweetheart," he pulls back, clearing his throat. he sees the gears in your head turning and a faint furrow in your brow but before he can even ask what is the matter, youve stepped forward in an ambush, wrapped your arms around him in a bone crushing hug.

and to finally finish him off and send him to heaven, you aim to kiss his cheek. its lazy, off target and lands in the corner of his mouth. before he can register whats happened youre off him in an instant and the door closes.

"w-what?" he whispers to the dead of the night, his fingers come find the place where your lips met his if you can even call it that and its slightly wet. he has half a mind to knock the door down, break it with his bare hands and steal a proper one. however, you are drunk. beyond so and you need to rest.

he could bring this up tomorrow to you but theres a strong possibility that youd either not remember or would be mortified at the memory and avoid him entirely. the latter would devastate him for centeries.

hes still standing at your door, burning holes inside of it that he doesn't know how much time passes. a young jaecarys passes by and stops.

"ser gwayne?" he calls out and the elder is undeterred, his gaze still stuck on where you had once been before him that he doesnt register the onyx curls before theyre completely blocking his view.

"yes?" the trance is broken.

"what are you doing here?" jace speaks, suspicion laced in his tone.

"dancing," he mumbles, "i was dancing," he nods to himself and then lets out one last longing exhale before making a move to the opposite direction. the distance between the two of you burns as it grows but gwayne forces himself to keep moving. and despite the man not having a single drop of alcohol tonight, gwayne feels the buzz in his blood.

"drunk," jace mutters and continues his footsteps.

yeah, he is.

You wake up with post-text message clarity the next morning, but there’s little you can do to backtrack now. You gave the man your name and number. You spoke to him on the phone about it, albeit briefly. Sure you could call John again and tell him that you thought it over a little more and decided against it, but then—

“It’s gonna cost four thousand dollars.”

Your coworker lets out a hissed breath, wincing. “That’s not cheap.”

It’s a pea-soupy summer morning, all hot and humid with the sky tinted a yellowish colour from forest fires up in the country, the hazy light seeping in through the windows in the office kitchen. Not a cloud in sight. You wouldn't call it a particularly pleasant morning, with the weather as overcast as your mood, but it could always be worse.

She’s the first person outside of a few close friends that you’ve told about going to the clinic at all, but she reacts exactly as you thought she would. It’s both affirming and annoying; it’s not so bad hearing from someone else that four thousand dollars is a bit pricey for a single person, but part of you wishes she’d try to convince you to go through with it. You need someone to push you in a direction—in any direction. 

You nod, mouth screwed into a grimace. “And that’s only for a single try. I think she said it would be closer to, like, twelve thousand dollars altogether.” 

“So are you gonna do it? Or are you gonna keep looking around?”

“I have another appointment next week,” you half-answer, getting cagey all of a sudden. 

The truth is, that appointment isn’t the only thing you’ve got on the books. There’s another dot in your calendar for a few days before, one that seems to glow ominously when you stare at the date as it slowly approaches, lumbering forward one ground-shaking step at a time. 

You wonder how long you can go without telling anyone. Theoretically, you could keep up this ruse for the rest of your life, pretend you always went through with the treatment. Lie through your teeth when your friends ask you if you know anything about the donor. No, they didn’t tell me anything, I just picked a profile with a good medical record and family history. 

Don’t think about how you live in the same city. Don’t think about the likelihood of running into him around town with the baby in tow. 

You shake your head. Those are concerns that you can foist off onto a future version of you. All the current you needs to worry about is making this all a reality. 

You don’t know what to wear out to dinner with him. It’s both a date and not, more of a prelude to the later events of the night. Part of you wonders if you should just text him your address and tell him to skip the preamble and come on over. 

The only reason you don’t is because a little voice at the back of your mind insists that you at least do your due diligence and screen him a little more over dinner. You can always back out at the last minute if a few too many red flags pop up. 

(You tell yourself that as if a strange man offering to knock you up within five minutes of meeting weren’t a big enough red flag on its own.)

John meets you at the restaurant looking every bit as handsome as the day you met him, once again nearly taking your breath away. A little more buttoned up this time though, actually quite dashing in a proper dress shirt and suit jacket, even his shoes polished. 

You have a second to think about calling it off. A second to consider turning tail and getting as far away as possible. Maybe, with enough time, you could scrape together the money for IUI. You could wait a year, or take out a loan with your bank, or pray for a decent enough raise to manage it on your own. 

But then, as the time before, he turns his head and locks eyes with you. 

It would probably be a good idea to take a picture of him, maybe even a picture of his ID, and send it over to one or two of your friends, on the off chance that he turns out to be a dangerous man, but you don’t need to be inundated by a barrage of text messages and phone calls from your friends trying to talk you out of it. You’ve made up your mind. 

Walnut and burgundy furnishings decorate the large room, and the amber glow of candlelight and antique wall sconces saturates the restaurant in a dark, sensual bloom. A server guides John and you to a table right in the middle of the room, a better table than you might’ve hoped to get on your own. You eye him sideways when he pulls your chair out for you. 

His demeanour is so relaxed that if you didn’t already know the purpose of this dinner, you could be forgiven for assuming that you were out on a real date. John certainly acts the part. 

“You know, we didn’t have to do this,” you start awkwardly, eyes gliding over the room to look at all the other well-dressed patrons, some presumably out on actual dates. 

“Call me old-fashioned, but I was taught that dinner comes before the rest of the evening.”

“I just mean you didn’t have to. I would’ve been fine just…” getting right down to business, you leave unsaid, hoping that he doesn’t make you spell it out. 

“We’re two civilized adults. I thought we might get to know each other first.”

“Well, what do you want to know about me?”

“This is as much for me as it is for you—don’t you want to know anything about the father of your children?”

You wish he’d keep his voice down. He isn’t wrong though; it would be a good idea for you to take his candidature more seriously, actually ask him questions about himself and his parentage. He already emailed you a recent STI panel and bloodwork results, both done through the fertility clinic back when he was still keen on donating, but it wouldn’t hurt to learn a little more about him.

“Alright. How old are you?”

“Forty-six.”

You nod, pleased with yourself for guessing it right. “What do you do for work?”

“Just some work for the government,” he says, brushing the question off. “What else?”

That piques your interest though. “Oh, come on. What are you, M16 or something?”

“No, nothing like that,” John laughs, genuinely amused enough for you to believe him. 

You roll your eyes when he doesn’t elaborate any further though. “Fine, leave me in the dark. Anything else you want to know about me?”

“Where are you in your cycle?” he asks, blunt as a hammer.

A classic spit take moment. It’s a good thing you haven’t ordered a drink yet. 

“I think it’s, uh…it’s coming soon actually. Um. Next week or so.”

He chews on that for a second, mulling over the timing. “That’s fine. We should still be able to make it work.”

There he goes again, making comments that leave you fish-mouthed and stunned, jaw slack with disbelief. Never able to conjure up a good enough retort. 

When the server comes by to take your drink orders, both of you still deliberating over your food, John orders a beer for himself and a mocktail for you, not even bothering to consult you about it. 

“No alcohol,” he reminds you before you have a chance to ask. 

To be fair, the spicy blackberry-basil concoction that the server comes back with a few minutes later is a refreshing burst of fruit and fresh herbs, but that doesn’t excuse the overstep. You ignore it only because you know there’s no use getting worked up when you’ve already made your mind up. It’s a peccadillo in the grand scheme of things considering what he’s doing for you. 

Conversation flows surprisingly well over dinner, but at the back of your mind, you can’t stop thinking about how at the end of the night, he’s going to take you home and fuck you. It creeps back in whenever you let your guard down for a split second. 

So, do you have any hobbies? (In three hours, this man is going to strip you naked and have sex with you)

Do you have any siblings? Any twins running in the family? (In two hours, this man is going to climb on top of you and fuck you until he puts a baby in you)

It’s a lot to keep in your head at the same time.

“How long have you been thinking about doing this?” John asks apropos of nothing, the earlier thread of your conversation evaporating on the spot.  

“I mean, I’ve wanted to have kids for a long time, but actually planning to have them…maybe a couple months?”

“Why now? Why not wait a little longer? Wait for someone to start a family with?”

You’re not sure why he’d ask you that, why it would matter. It’s none of his business, quite frankly. You almost want to tell him that, let yourself get righteous, get angry, but you find you can’t fully commit to the anger. It wouldn’t change anything. You aren’t being forced to answer him. 

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I’m not much of a family man myself. ‘Least not when I was younger, when it counted. Never had the time nor the inclination. Work took me all over—it just wouldn’t have been fair if I had a wife or kids waiting around for me. But since it didn’t seem like having a family was in the cards for me, I thought it would be a waste of good genetics.”

“Oh.” It’s arrogant, but it’s as good an answer as any. 

He waits a beat then lifts an eyebrow when you don’t reciprocate. “So? Why didn’t you wait?”

“I did try, but there wasn’t much out there, and I wanted a baby more than I wanted to be with someone, so…” 

Leave him to fill in the blanks. He met you at the culmination of that longing after all, even changed the course of it, disrupted your plans to place himself at the centre of them.

At the centre for a time, you remind yourself. Not forever. 

After that, he keeps the conversation light, only delving into superficial topics to help pass the time. You excuse yourself after finishing your meal to go to the bathroom, and come back to two coffees laid out on the table with sugar and cream in pretty porcelain cups laid out between them. John must have ordered for you again in your absence. Good thing you like coffee. 

The bill is also there, discretely tucked under John’s napkin, and that makes your stomach flip, realizing that only a coffee now sits between you and the end of this night. 

Then, at a certain point, when all that’s left in your cup is the dregs, sugar spoon bone dry on your plate, John gives you a look from across the table that says it’s time for you both to go. 

Well, here we go, you think a little hysterically as you push back your chair to stand, nearly jumping out of your skin when his hand comes down on your back. 

At your car, you sway back and forth on your heels. “You can, uh…follow behind me, if that works.”

“Why don’t you give me your address and I’ll meet you there?”

You bite your lip, pretending to deliberate, then acquiesce. 

Let him think he’s pulling one on you. You’re bringing him home instead of the other way around because you don’t want to have any memory of a man’s bed when you think about your pregnancy journey. If it’s going to be you alone, then it should be about you alone. Your decision to go out and pick a man to father your baby. 

His participation will be a short blip in your life. A minor footnote. You’ll remember it in bursts throughout the rest of your life: staring at a carton of cream in the dairy aisle of the local grocery store; garden spade buried hilt-deep in a plot of soil, blue bigleaf hydrangea in a pot beside you, sweat dripping down the bow of your lips; your baby’s face, for the rest of your natural life.

In your foyer, his hands glide around your hips, pulling you into his chest, and you realize abruptly that ‘short’ might not have been the most accurate interpretation of what’s about to happen. 

(Honey, you’ve got a storm coming)

“This off first,” John rasps, pulling the bottom of your shirt up and over your head, blinding you for a split second before he yanks it over your arms. 

“Getting right to it, huh?” you joke nervously. 

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he asks, staring down at you assessingly, as if staring into your soul. That cuts the humour from the moment. Vacuums it from the room, leaving behind only the crackling, blistering heat of his gaze and his intentions. 

“Yes,” you whisper. Neither of you mention the tremble in your voice and how unsure you sound. 

It doesn’t stop him from undressing you though. Bra pulled down under your breasts, pushing your tits up into his face like an invitation, one he accepts without question, pulling your nipples into his mouth one by one, hands on your hips to hold you in place when you try to squirm away. Not that it’s bad—it’s amazingly good after all, toe-curlingly good to have a man run his tongue over your areolas and suck each sensitive nipple to a stiff peak, until you’re on the verge of coming—but it’s a lot, a lot that you have to wrap your head around, your bra pinched off shortly after that and underwear next.  

Your touch is hesitant at first, fingers barely gliding down his arms and fisting in the fabric of his shirt to jerk it up, but he makes it easy for you to get lost in it, your nerves fizzling out in the heat and fervor.  

You don’t even notice that John has walked you backwards into the bedroom until he pushes you down onto the bed, the mattress bouncing under you. “One second, love—need to get all of this off myself.”

You watch transfixed as the suit jacket comes off first, shrugged off and discarded. He undoes only a few buttons before wrenching it over his head, eyes on you the whole time, his stare never breaking. Scalding hot. 

That’s how you know that despite all his lofty words, this isn’t some favour he’s doing you. He wants this just as badly—wants it with a vigour that you don’t even know if you’ll be able to handle, aware that you are just flesh and blood. There’s a prickle at the back of your mind, a whisper reminding you that nobody knows that he’s here, that he’s a hot-blooded man about to slake his lust with your body. 

Then he slides the elastic waistband of his boxers down his thighs and your mind goes blank when you see the flushed, heavy shaft droop between his legs. 

The two of you work together to shove a pillow under your hips, John fetching it from the top of the bed and you lifting your hips to give him easier access. You don’t have to ask why. 

Nestled between your thighs, John looks up at you with heavy-lidded eyes and says, “Let’s get you all softened up to start, alright, love?” 

The first touch of his lips to your sex sends a lightning bolt up your spine, and then it’s practically an open mouth kiss. Tongue running up the seam of your lips, pushing into the clenched hole at the centre, the bristles of his beard scraping up the insides of your thighs and the thin skin of your labia. 

It’s good, but it’s taking too long and your heart is a rabbiting mess and you can barely think or see straight, so you tangle your fingers in his hair and try to push his head away. “That’s okay, John, I just wanna—oh fuck, can you please just put it in?”

“No, baby, it’s good if you come first,” he murmurs. “Helps it take.”

That floods your system with a frenetic, crazed exhilaration. Baby fever bubbling and boiling, frothing spilling over the top like a pot left on the stovetop for too long. 

You gasp when he tucks a couple fingers into your hole to stretch you out, a perfunctory, almost clinical motion. Just enough to loosen you up for him, unmindful of the way you squirm and whine, rolling your hips to get him to go faster. He does not. 

It doesn’t take much effort on his part after that to get you to come, too worked up and wound up, core squeezing his fingers like a vice until he gives your clit a suck and you squeal, oh, too much, breath ripping through your chest.

They’re wet when he pulls them out, and he dries them off by rubbing them on your belly. 

The shadow of his body draws over yours as he climbs on top of you. It’s as physical as it is visual though, John’s hands always on some part of your body, dragging up your legs and over your arms, fingers spreading over your belly before he runs a hand up between your breasts and over your throat, lingering there just long enough to close around your throat and hold for a second, then skating up to cup your jaw. 

And then he’s all big body on top of you, coaxing your legs around his hips, one hand squishing your cheeks when he bends down to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his lips, the tongue pushing into your mouth musky with the flavour of your cum. You’d protest if you could, but you can’t, his mouth slanted over yours and demanding. 

“C’mere,” he mumbles against your lips when he draws you in for another kiss, sawing his cock up and down between your folds, coating his length with your juices, until it’s there suddenly, breaching you. 

You have to grab him, loop your arms around his shoulders and squeeze to ground yourself. It’s a lot to take in. He’s a lot to take in. 

“I know, love, I know,” John murmurs soothingly. “Deep breaths, okay?”

You listen to him, letting a shaky breath out. It helps you relax. Barely, but enough to ease the strain a bit. 

He nuzzles his nose into your temple, his breath fanning out against your ear. “A little more, love, alright? You gonna be brave for me?”

“Oh—just get on with it,” you gasp when he eases in another inch, and John laughs in your ear. 

It feels genuinely romantic like this. Your arms wrapped around his neck and his hips slowly rocking into you, whispering sweet nothings like, there we go, you’ve got it, that feel good, love? When he fits his hand around the back of your neck and lifts your head up for a kiss, you swear you see stars. 

The kiss is too much. Too intimate. You wish you would’ve set that boundary ahead of time. It feels pointless now, trapped under the heavy weight of his body and impaled on his member, sucked into it, lips slotting and melting over each other, his tongue running over yours. He’s a good kisser at least, practiced from a lifetime of it. No awkward schoolboy tonguing. 

Too good. You wonder distantly how many other women he’s slept with (probably more than you have any business knowing). If he’s ever gotten anyone else pregnant. Your nails dig into his back instinctively at the thought and he gasps a wet and guttural sound, hips bucking harder. 

He gets rough enough to loosen a bolt of fear in your chest. All of a sudden, it becomes bright and clear in your mind. There’s a grunting, sweating man over you, all two hundred plus pounds of him laid out on top of you, with no protection between you. Raw cock plunging into your pussy. You can barely get a full breath in. 

“Fuck, I’m close,” John grunts, and your eyes flick down instinctively, trying to see past the dense mass of hair on his chest towards the length of his cock sliding into you. He’s pressed too close though. When he catches you looking away from him, he clamps his hand around your face again, forcing your gaze back up. “No, none of that. Eyes on me.”

You think you must gasp. Some horrified sound must escape you because you can feel the aftereffect of it, the big hollow where it used to be. 

His other arm wedges under your back to pull you closer to him, thighs spreading to brace his weight against the mattress before driving into you harder, deeper, the big, concentrated energy of him inescapable.

You can sense it the second before he’s about to come, his eyebrows digging in and his jaw going tight, the vein in his forehead prominent. 

“Christ, you’re gonna take it, aren’t you?” he snarls. “All this fucking cum.” 

On the next stroke in, you dig an ankle into the muscle of his ass and squeeze your inner muscles around his length, grinning hazily to yourself when that makes him shout. 

And then, oh, he surges in and you feel it, hear it, sense it all around you, his fingers from the hand wedged under your back digging hard into the side of your breast. Hips forcefully pumping into you and pushing his cum in deep, your own orgasm lost somewhere in there, a small, forgettable part of it all. 

Eventually, he stops moving over you, letting his cock slip out of you on the next stroke out. You hiss when he does, clenching up involuntarily. With nothing plugging it inside though, his cum leaks out, dripping down the crack of your ass and onto the pillow under your hips. 

John’s hot breath fans over your face as he pants, slowly winding down as well, the red flush in his cheeks still stark, though gradually fading. It’s only in the cooldown that you realize how claustrophobic it is being trapped under him, the sheer weight and heat of his body flush with yours becoming more and more uncomfortable, almost unbearably so. 

When he slumps off to one side, you can finally breathe again, the air rushing into your lungs. There’s sweat in your skin and tears in the corners of your eyes, everything tacky and humid, the frantic beat of your heart only beginning to slow down. The stiffness in your shoulders only dawns on you after a few minutes like that, and you push yourself up onto your elbows just to try to work some of it out. 

“No, don’t get up, love. We’re just gonna lie here for a bit,” he instructs, pushing your shoulder back down. “Better chance of my boys getting the job done if we keep it all in you.”

Of course he just wants to make sure that it takes. That way, you don’t have to do this again. “Oh yeah. I, uh, I didn’t think about that.”

He doesn’t just mean lie there, of course, though your body would like nothing more than to sink into the plush embrace of sleep. Instead he means keeping your hips propped up on the pillow now saturated with cum, and curling you into his side, separating your thighs again to palm your cunt, sliding his fingers through the wet. 

It’s a goopy, sticky mess that John plunges his fingers into, pushing it back up inside of you and shushing you when you whimper, a little gaped from his cock but sore to the touch. 

For much longer than you anticipated, he lies there on his side beside you and keeps two fingers pushed up inside you, blocking any cum from leaking out. 

“How long do we have to do this for?” you ask, voice all high and tight in your throat. 

John hums, unconcerned. “Ten, fifteen minutes.”

True to his word, he keeps you there for the full fifteen minutes. Only the sound of your breathing fills the room, quiet otherwise aside from the enormously large weight of his presence, too familiar now with the private corners of your world. 

He doesn’t warn you before idly circling your clit with thumb. You jerk, nearly biting through your lip. “John!”

“Relax, honey, I’m just making you come again.”

“I know that, John—ah, ah, ah—”

A leg hooks over yours, his thigh heavy enough to keep you pinned without even much strength behind it. His fingers don’t so much as twitch inside of you, buried to the fattest knuckle while his thumb circles the tight bud of your clit over and over again until you—

You haven’t finished the thought by the time he draws his fingers out, pearlescent strings of cum webbed between them. He hums approvingly when he sees that, pulling your thighs further apart to admire his work. “Gorgeous. That ought to do it for now.”

Your heart skips a beat and you stare up at him, exhausted, the sweat on the back of your neck now cold. 

Gwayne Hightower cocks his head from side to side after he dodges my assault. He puts on his irritating grin as he reaches for the grapes on the tiered dessert stand beside me. I swat him away but even that, he evades. His smug expression remains as he chews, "the carriage is ready now."

I shut my journal and bind its ties. I stand from my seat, lifting my foot, "fetch my shoe, dog."

He takes a bonbon and licks his fingers, "you are more than well-abled to fetch your own smelly shoe."

I rest my shoeless foot on my chair, "you dare insult and defy your lady?"

"Oh, but I see no lady," he knits his brows and pouts, "only a puerile, little girl," he stuffs his rubbish mouth with my sweet dessert.

"That isn't for your consumption, you swollen ignoramus."

He opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue. I make a face at the sight of the chewed up food. He shrugs and licks his lips, "you're more than welcome to pry it out of my mouth."

I try to swat him with my journal, but he steps back before I can. He watches me, bemused that I cannot follow, as I am unwilling to step my foot on the ground.

One of the maids pass. I point at her, "Abigail! Get my shoe."

She turns to me and nods, "yes, milady."

I watch as she scurries off to get my shoe from the grass where it landed. She grabs it and sprints over. Gwayne dusts off his hands, turning to her. He silently reaches a hand to Abigail and she bows, handing him my shoe.

When she walks away, the idiot walks over. He and I stare at each other for a moment. I roll my eyes at him when he licks his lips. I try to grab the shoe from him, but he moves, raising it over his head.

I chuckle dryly, "and I'm the puerile, little girl?"

Gwayne gives a lopsided smile and tilts his head back. Oh, how infuriating his dimples were.

My blood boils and I grip my skirt tightly. Before I am able to hit him with my journal, he drops down to one knee and takes my ankle.

My stomach drops and I gasp, nearly toppling back in shock. My hand comes to his shoulder too keep myself up, "Gwayne-"

"Hush, cub," he mutters, eyes not leaving my face. I stiffen as he slowly pushes my skirts up to my knee. His hand rubs my stocking-clad leg, and goosebumps erupt on my arms in response. My lips part as he slips the shoe on my foot, "you and your whining."

I pull my journal to my chest, feeling my heart thunder.

"Perhaps I should give you something to whine about."

My pulse skips when he kisses my shin. I feel my body burn.

He pulls my skirt down then abruptly stands. He places his hands behind his back and examines my face. I watch the way his adam's apple bobs as he swallows. In turn, I miss the way the corner of his lips quirk, "you look dull when there are no thoughts behind your eyes, dear."

I am immediately snapped out his my trance. The grin that spreads on his face enrages me. Without hesitation, I lift my foot off the chair and stop my heel to his foot.

Gwayne screams and lurches forward. He grabs me as he raises what I assume is his throbbing foot. I smile happily at him, yet a whine leaves me when he squeezes my arm too hard. I wrangle out of his grip and shove him away.

He leans on the chair for balance, and I quickly find my smile, "oh, come now, ser. You find yourself so easily defeated."

His only response is his pained sounds.

"The carriage is ready. We must not delay."

And some days, it felt like he only had eyes for her. But that was his job. That's all.

"Nyra?"

Her cousin's head shot up from whatever had caught her attention at her desk. Nyra was now in her twenties, pregnant with her first child with Laenor. She grinned, motioning her dear cousin in.

Y/n took her time stepping in, admiring the different parts of the room. She'd always liked it better in there. "How are you?"

Rhaenyra rubbed a hand over her swollen stomach. "The maester said I could give birth at any time."

Her eyes widened. "Any time? Do you wish for a boy?"

The heir to the throne shrugged lightly. "A boy or a girl can rule just the same."

"But surely you want something. Perhaps a boy might be better for the kingdom. But I know you. You want a girl."

"What I want," she stated with a bit more confidence in her tone, voice raising, "Is for your guard to stop lurking." She turned completely to the doorway. "Even I feel your stares, Harwin."

Sure enough, Breakbones steps into the doorway with a smile. "Forgive me, Princess Rhaenyra." His grin grew when his eyes moved. "Princess Y/n."

The women looked at each other, eyes swimming with communication best left unsaid. 

"As you were, Ser," Rhaenyra dismissed.

Harwin gave a curt nod, prying his eyes away from Y/n. "Of course. Thank you."

The moment he disappeared, Rhaenyra grinned and grabbed her cousin's arm, shaking it slightly. She mouthed excitedly, causing the other to lean in.

"He has loved you for years," Nyra whispered. "I don't understand why you-"

"Nyra!" She whisper-shouted. "He is my guard! He only does what he has sworn to do!"

"Ser Harwin!" Nyra shouted in a panic. "Ser Harwin!"

He rushed into the room with wide eyes like he was preparing himself for a fight. When no threat was there, he frowned.

Nyra pushed herself dramatically away from her cousin. "Get her out!" 

Y/n's jaw dropped. "Nyra," she seethed between her teeth.

His eyes shifted between the two, completely lost.

"She will not leave! Get her out, Harwin!" She almost giggled.

There was a flicker in his eyes like he was catching on to what was happening. But the broad man would never truly understand the workings of a cousin acting as a matchmaker. "Come, princess," he said calmly with a hand extended to her.

"No. No, I was not finished speaking to Nyra."

"Get her out, Ser Harwin! That is an order!" She outright laughed at this point.

Harwin sighed, though the smile on his face grew. "Princess Rhaenyra has asked us to leave. C'mon."

"Us?" She gawked. "Nyra, don't-"

But she felt those arms around her and she was suddenly hoisted into the air, flipped, and thrown over Harwin's shoulder. 

She squeaked, balancing herself with her hands on his back. "Harwin. Harwin!"

"Excuse us, Princess Rhaenyra," the guard politely smiled like he didn't have a princess of the Realm over his shoulder. "Please, be feeling better."

"Harwin!" Y/n huffed. 

When he turned around and headed to the door, Y/n pushed herself up to peek over at Nyra. Her dear cousin was biting back a smile, innocently waving.

'I hate you' Y/n mouthed.

Harwin set the woman down further down the corridor, stepping away respectfully once she was on her feet.

She brushed down her skirt, huffing slightly at the manhandling. 

"Forgive me, Princess. I forget myself sometimes."

The Princess sighed. "'S alright."

He stepped closer with a concerned expression. His hand gently rested on her shoulder as he leaned down a bit. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"Hm?" Her eyes met his and heat immediately rushed to her cheeks. "O-oh. No. No."

"Mm," he smiled. "Good." His hand stayed on her shoulder.

Their eyes stayed on one another, the distance closer than they'd ever had. 

She noticed just how green his eyes were. 

His eyes flickered down to her lips and back up before he remembered himself. "Forgive me again, Princess." He straightened up, offering his arm. 

She took it, biting back a grin.

…

"Do you ever imagine a life outside of this?" She asked him while laying in the grass of the courtyard.

"No, Princess. I do not." He stood vigilantly with his back to her, watching. Waiting.

"No?" She sits up, giving him a confused look. "You've never once dreamed of…. Being a farmer with a little family? A little wife and children and… goats or sheep to tend to?"

"I cannot say I have not thought of being a farmer. But I do not dream of childish things now."

"What do you mean?"

He sighed, turning to her. "I was never going to be a farmer. If I were not your guard, I would be the heir to Harrenhall."

"And even that would be a bad thing?"

His brows raised. "You believe I am fit to wear jewels and host feasts?"

"Do you think that is all they do?"

He grins. "No. But I am much more content here."

He turns back, continuing his watch. And she takes that time to admire him. 

"You're more content here with me?"

Silence.

"Yes, Princess."

She had to force herself to lay back down in the grass and remain quiet for the rest of the evening.

…

Ser Harwin sparred with Criston Cole in the courtyard. The two swordsman were quite the show. Their swords clashed, catching the attention of everyone in the yard.

Harwin had the brute forced that Criston did not. But Criston's skill with his sword heavily helped him.

"Ser Harwin!" 

He recognized that voice, and gave it his full attention, dropping the harsh facade of Breakbones. "Princess." He heard Criston huff from behind him, but he didn't care. 

She stepped up to him without a care. Dangerously strong men were put into the King's Guard. It warmed his heart that she was so comfortable with him. "I want to walk the gardens, Harwin."

He nodded, lips curling up. "As you wish." He turned to Criston. "'Till next time, Ser Criston."

The Dornishman sheathed his sword, crossing his arms and mumbling under his breath.

Harwin paused. His brows pulled together. "What was that?"

Criston hesitated. "Nothing, Ser Harwin."

Harwin stared for a moment, eyes looking Criston up and down. He hummed in a low tone, going on with the Princess.

Criston, with a muster of confidence suddenly. "Spoiled."

Harwin Breakbones Strong was already turning around to put the man in his place. "Say it again."

"I dare to trust your honor, Ser Harwin," Criston challenges. "You seem to be closer to the Princess than you should."

"Meaning what, Cole? Say it."

The Dorne hesitates for only a moment before deciding to go through with his aggression. "There are rumors of the bed you warm at night, Strong."

But there was no hesitation from Harwin. He swung immediately, landing a harsh hit to Criston's face. He stumbled onto the ground, trying to get himself back up as blood poured from his nose.

Harwin was quick, kneeling on the man's chest to keep him down. "I'd watch yourself, Cole. We all know the beds you've warmed. Perhaps you should not worry about mine."

The guards and soldiers around pulled the two apart. Harwin shrugged off their hands, forcing himself to calm down and move back to the Princess. "Are you harmed?"

She stared down at her skirt with a frown. 

"Princess," he softened. "Are you harmed?"

"Hm?" Her voice saddened. "No. My dress."

A few drops of Cole's blood had landed on her dress. 

He knelt down to inspect it, pulling her skirt slightly like it was his highest priority. His hand brushed her calf, causing her breath to catch. 

"'S alright, Harwin."

"Sorry, Princess."

His eyes catch hers. Green eyes looking up through his lashes. Utterly handsome.

But the soldiers that had been whispering before grabbed Harwin again. Ser Westerling collected the Princess and guided her back to the doors. "Come on, Princess. Let us get you cleaned up."

"W-" she peered over her shoulder, catching Harwin's eyes one more time as he's dragged off. "W- no. Where are they taking him?"

Westerling sighed. "That is up to your uncle, the King."

"He was only defending his honor. My honor!"

"I like Ser Strong as much as you, Princess. But it does not stop what has happened."

…

Three days.

Three days until she saw Harwin again.

She was assigned a new guard. He hated fun and adventure. She felt trapped.

So when she finally saw Lord Lyonel Strong, she ran to him. "It was my fault. Harwin had no fault in this. He was defending my honor, and his own. Please, believe me."

Lyonel's eyes widened as she continued. "I do. But what is done is done. My son has become reckless. You could have been injured. I am sending him back to Harrenhall."

Her eyes widened. "You've stripped him of his title? For this?"

His lips tightened. "I am afraid so."

"Where is he?"

Lyonel was reluctant to tell her. She was the Princess after all. He had to tell her. "He is with Ser Westerling, packing his things. He will be here ton- Princess?"

She didn't wave before taking off down the corridor.

…

"It hurts her more than you, I think, lad," Westerling sighed. "The Kingsguard will miss you as well." He leaned back against the wall. "Was it worth it, Harwin?"

Harwin rubbed his arm. "I do not regret defending the Princess's honor. I was only doing my duty."

"Duty? Seemed selfish to me."

Harwin gawked for a moment. 

Westerling laughed for a moment. "For duty? Is that your belief, Harwin? Speaking of."

He heard the Princess in question enter. She paused. "Oh. How rude of me."

"No, Princess. I was just leaving," Westerling grinned. He shot Harwin a last look before stepping out.

They could only stare at one another. Unsure of what to say. 

Finally, Harwin broke the silence. "I leave tomorrow."

"Must you? You have done no wrong."

"I have. My father is right to send me home. I could have harmed you. All because I was angry."

She sighed, stepping around his room. It was fairly bare, and smelled of pine and sweat. Like Harwin. "You get to be Heir to Harrenhall now?"

He paused. "I suppose so."

"Do Lords get to have silly dreams? Hopefully more than a Princess's guard can."

He immediately answered. "I believe I will have more dreams, yes. But all of those dreams will be of what I left behind."

Stepping next to him, she began folding the clothing laying on his bed. She wasn't very good at it, but Harwin found that endearing. "Spars and riots and… a knight's duty?"

"No." He brushed his hand against hers to grab his clothes. "Spoiled princesses."

She hummed. "You no longer have to hold your oath?"

He shrugged, rummaging in his bag.

"Harwin," she whispered, pulling on his sleeve until she got his full attention. "You no longer hold your oath?"

"Not anymore."

She pulled on his hands, creating room for herself to press her chest against his. She takes her time, admiring the strongest man in the Realm. How she'd miss him. 

"Kiss me?"

His eyes widened. "I could never, Pr-"

"Kiss me, Harwin. Please."

"No, I c-"

"Harwin!"

He paused, considering her plea. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it. But after so many years holding back, could he truly let himself give in now?

He reached up, brushing the hair from her face and cupping her cheeks. His thumb brushed the skin lightly. The same hand that had broken Criston's nose only days before now caressed the gentle princess. "You want me to kiss you?"

Without saying more, Harwin bent down, cupping her face with both hands and kissing her. It was soft at first, waiting for her to reject him. But when no rejection never came, he tested the waters. His hand moved to the back of her head, the other going to her waist to pull her in. His tongue tested the limit, and she squeaked when he began to explore her mouth. 

Her hands clutched at his surcoat, the Strong sigil under her finger tips.

She barely moves, but Harwin pulls away. The two pant, eyes connected. 

"W-Will you go?"

He cupped her cheek. "I must." He brushes her cheeks a few more times, savoring each moment. Then he smiles and moves back to his bag. 

"Harwin?"

"Yes," he answered without looking up.

"I am in love with you."

Silence. His hands pause.

"Please don't say that."

"Why?" She pushes. Her hands clamp on his forearm. "It's true."

"Princess, please stop."

"Harwi-"

He grips her chin harshly, tugging her head up and meeting her lips again. This one is shorter, rougher. Then he pulls away. "You'll marry a rich lord and you will forget about me."

"I could marry you… Lord Strong."

That makes him pause.

Up until now, he was only a guard. But now… now, he's Lord Strong, heir to Harrenhall. His family was rich and close to the King. She'd want for nothing with him. He'd make sure of it.

"You don't want to marry me, Princess. I do not know what I am doing."

"Neither do I. Seems to be what the two have us have done for years. Why stop?"

He grins. Then smiles. Widely. It's blinding and happy. And a laugh spills out. "You spoiled thing." He shakes his head then picks her up, spinning her around. His lips meet hers again. "Your father may kill me."

…

Only a few months later, Daemon Targaryen glares from the courtyard at Larys Strong. There are flowers in the silver-haired man's hand. He was in his mourning black.

He's not sure how Larys started the fire that killed his daughter and her husband, but he's sure he's to blame.

It would be a long time before he changed out of his mourning black. 

It made him want to start a war.

You had only been in the capital for three days when you first crossed paths with him.

The training yard rang with the crash of steel. Knights shouted. Wooden practice swords splintered and sweat gleamed beneath the afternoon sun.

You leaned against the stone balustrade overlooking the yard, your chin resting upon folded arms.

“A touch high!” Ser Criston barked.

Two young squires hurried to obey.

You watched with idle amusement until another voice drifted upwards.

“Again.” It was deep and calm with an air of certainty.

Your eyes found its owner almost at once.

He stood taller than nearly every other man in the yard, large enough to make the younger knights seem like boys besides him. His dark curls clung damply to his brow after training, and there was something effortless in the way he moved.

Strength without showing off. Confidence without arrogance. He carried a practice sword as though it weighed nothing.

One of the squires rushed forward with water.

“Thank you.” Even his thanks came easily.

You smiled faintly to yourself. A pleasant face, you thought. That was all.

Then one of the pages darted around the corner far too quickly. “My lady!”

The boy collided squarely into you.

“Oh!”

The force knocked the basket of embroidery thread from your hands. Spools scattered down the stairs like brightly colored coins.

“Oh, Seven save me. I am so sorry!” the boy squeaked, immediately dropping to his knees.

You laughed before he could burst into tears. “Tis alright. It is only thread.”

Several spools continued bouncing down into the training yard below. Straight toward the enormous knight. The spools struck his boots, he blinked and looked down.

He bent down to retrieve one. Then another and then looked up to where you stood. Your eyes met and for a heartbeat neither of you moved. His expression was one of complete confusion. Then something shifted, as though the world had quietly forgotten to turn.

You offered an apologetic smile. “I fear my embroidery has declared war upon you, ser.” You yelled down to him.

His mouth twitched like it wanted to smile. “It has surrendered quickly enough I must say.”

His voice carried upward far easier than it should have. He gathered every spool with surprising care before climbing the stone stairs two at a time up to you.

The page beside you had gone positively pale. “I shall collect them, ser.” He squeaked out.

“I already have.” He replied to the boy. He reached the landing now.

Gods. He was even bigger up close. Not merely tall but built like the towers of the Red Keep themselves. His hand dwarfed the delicate silk. He stopped before you and bowed. “My lady.”

You dipped your head politely. “My thanks.”

He held out the basket with the recovered threads. “I believe these are yours.”

“They were.” You accepted it carefully. “Though I confess they looked happier rolling down the stairs.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. It was fake or forced, but honest. “I have seen stranger things happen in this castle.” He spoke.

“So have I,” you replied. “And I have scarcely been here three days.”

That won another smile from him. One that transformed his entire face to warmth. Which made him dangerously handsome.

He cleared his throat. “I do not believe we’ve met.”

“No. You are correct ser.” You spoke.

“But as you say you are newly arrived.” He pronounced.

“I am.”

A small pause then he spoke again. “I am Ser Harwin Strong.”

Strong. Of Harrenhal. The Son of Ser Lyonel Strong who is apart of the King’s small council. You inclined your head. “I know who you are.”

Something almost bashful crossed his feature. “And yet my lady I do not know your name.”

You smirked. “I wondered how long that would trouble you.”

His ears turned ever so slightly pink. You nearly laughed then. “I am Lady Y/N of House Arryn.”

Recognition flashed immediately. “Princess Rhaenyra’s cousin.”

“The very same.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you favor your aunt Lady Aemma.”

Your smile softened then. “I have heard that since I was old enough to walk.”

“I meant no offense my lady.”

“I took none ser. It just a normal occurrence for me is all.”

After that another silence settled. It was almost a comfortable silence which is rather odd for two strangers.

A horn sounded below, calling the men back to training. Harwin did not move. One of the younger knights shouted from the yard. “Strong!”

He didn’t answer. Instead, his attention remained fixed entirely upon you. “I ought to return.” He finally said.

“So, you ought. There are more men down there I would say need a proper fight.”

He smiled then and then nodded, but yet he still did not move.

You raised an eyebrow, “Ser Harwin?”

He blinked as though waking from a dream. “Forgive me.”

He bowed again, “My lady.”

You watched him descending back to the training yard. Halfway down he glanced back and caught you watching him. He smiled at you and then continued back to his training.

“You’ve been staring.”

You nearly jumped. Rhaenyra leaned against the opposite pillar, an apple already half eaten.

“I was not!” you proclaimed.

“You were. I do not see how you can deny it.”

You rolled your eyes at your cousin. “I was merely observing.”

“You mean observing Harwin Breakbones.”

“So that is what they call him?” you asked.

She only grinned. “They do.”

You looked back toward the yard where Harwin was already sparring again, sword moving with astonishing speed for such a large man.

“I can see why.” You admitted.

Rhaenyra followed your gaze. “He is a good man.”

“So, he seems.”

You caught from the corner of your eye your cousin studying you. “What is it?”

“Tis nothing.” She tried to say.

“You are lying. What is it.”

She bit into her apple to hide another smile. “It is only…”

“Rhaenyra…What is it?”

“I do not think Ser Harwin has heard Ser Criston call his name once since you arrived.”

Sure enough—

“Strong!”

No answer. Again. “Strong!”

Harwin was still looking toward the gallery. Towards where you and Rhaenyra occupied.

Ser Criston finally sighed loud enough for half the yard to hear. “Seven hells, Strong!”

The practice sword struck Harwin squarely across the shoulder. The yard erupted in laughter. Harwin scarcely seemed to notice. Because he was still smiling. At you.

Rhaenyra burst into delighted laughter beside you. “Oh, cousin.”

You looked at her innocently. “Now what?”

and, yeah. he knows he should send you away. should tell his guards to take you elsewhere, should give you a golden dragon for your troubles and tell you to buy yourself a nice gown or a good meal.

he should do the right thing. the godly thing. but then you come near him smelling of honeysuckle and ambrosia and every godforsaken tempting thing in all the seven kingdoms, and ormund is done for.

at first, you only sit in his lap and kiss his cheeks. and he tells himself it's fine, you know? it's not like you're really doing anything wrong. just worshipping a man you'd been paid to make feel good. and it does make him feel good, your soft lips against his skin.

but then he lets himself touch you.

slow at first. a hand on your thigh—over your dress. albeit a thin barrier of lace and silk, but a barrier still. and then he drags his knuckles down the back of your smooth neck, stroking the sweat-slick hair that clings to your nape.

you thread your own fingers through his curls, mouth drifting lower to lay kisses over his pulse. you're good at what you do, he realizes quickly. because before he can even register what's happening, you're turning fully to staddle his hips and hiking your dress up your legs.

he can feel you, even through his trousers. the heat that emits from between your thighs, the wetness, the desire. it makes him feel dizzy. drunk, even.

you give a tentative roll of your hips over his bulge and his head falls back, knocking lightly against the top of the mahogany chair. it's too much, and he knows it, and there's a thought in the back of his head as you create a delicious rhythm that he might be damned for this.

but he's too far gone now, that iron grip on his control slipping through his fingers like smoke. he can only feel the remnants of it like a thick humidity, can hardly remember those life-long teachings of the faith.

when your fingers unbuckle the iron buttons of his doublet, he lets you. doesn't push you away like he should when you push it over his shoulders and down his strong biceps, either.

you're so soft. tracing his scars with eager hands, still humping his clothed cock like you're the most desperate girl he's ever seen. he tugs roughly at the tie at the back of your dress, the fabric over your chest falling away with little resistance.

his big hands come to cup your breasts, massaging the supple flesh, calloused thumbs stroking over the peaks of your nipples. his mouth waters at the sight of you, bare and free and open, all for him.

his for the taking.

his for the feasting.

ormund leans forward and suckles your tit into his mouth, tongue demanding as it flicks across your nipple. he kisses his way across your sternum to the other, sucking and biting, unable to stop himself from making some sort of claim on you despite being fully away you're not his to claim.

he's not an indulgent man, no. but greedy? well...that's another matter.

your breath is warm against the shell of his ear as you say, "i want you inside me."

he should say no. he knows that.

but then you say, "please, ser."

and gods. what's a man to do? deny a pretty woman? deny the prettiest woman?

ormund doesn't have the strength. not when you beg so beautifully.

"get up," he says.

you do without a moment's hesitation. perfect girl. obedient girl.

ormund stands to his feet and crowds your space until you have to take a step back. one, and then another, and another. he tilts his head and smiles with a wolfish grin until your back hits the edge of the desk.

he sees it there, for a fleeting moment—the fear in your eyes. but you don't have to be afraid, not of him. he's a godly man, don't you know? he would never hurt a woman, let alone one like you.

gently, he lifts his hand to your face and strokes the back of his knuckles over the curve of your cheek. "do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"

the fear subsides, and ormund traces the shape of your sweet mouth with the pad of his thumb.

"if it weren't for coin, would you still want this? and don't lie, girl."

he watches as your pupils dilate. you nod, slowly at first, but then again with more certainty. "yes."

"good." he presses his thumb past your lips, feeling the soft wetness of your tongue and she sharpness of your teeth. you hollow out your cheeks, staring up at him through your lashes the whole time.

a moan escapes him at the sight of you. pretty and sinful and irresistible all the same. he lets you suck his thumb for a few precious moments, committing the feeling of your warm mouth to memory.

but the moment his desire for you grows impossibly more suffocating, he brackets an arm around you and lifts you onto the desk. ormund pushes your shoulders back and pulls your dress up right over the ravens he'd been writing moments before you'd stepped foot into his space, ink likely still drying.

you lift your legs; the heels of your feet hooked right at the edge. ormund gorges himself on the sight of you; bare and spread wide for him, beautiful and womanly and so very wet.

with one hand, the knight undoes his belt. and with the other, he strokes a finger through the seam of your cunt. finds your clit and circles it carefully, delighting in the way your eyes flutter closed and a hum leaves your lips.

his cock is aching now. throbbing in his hand as he pulls it from his breeches and strokes it desperately.

this would be enough to finish him, he knows. a firm grip around the base of his cock and the most mouth-watering sight before him. an interactive display of indulgence.

it should be enough.

and yet it is not.

ormund brings his hand, wet now with your arousal, to his lips. he inhales deeply, taking the scent of you deep into his lungs, before he brings his finger to his mouth and sucks the taste of you off of it.

he makes space for himself between your spread thighs and watches curiously as you prop yourself up on your elbows. "i want to watch it go in," you admit sheepishly.

there's a tone of innocence in your voice that has him trembling with need. it makes him feel...powerful, almost. like you're at his mercy.

and maybe you are.

ormund knows he shouldn't like the feeling, but he does. and he's already gone this far, and so he grips the back of your neck hard and pulls you forward, abdomen curling to get a better view.

he lines himself up at your entrance, coating the tip of his cock in your slick, and then slides in deep.

the thought crosses his mind that you feel like heaven.

tight and wet, a kind of worship in it's own right.

ormund fucks you hard. tugs at your hair and slams his hips against yours with reckless abandon. kisses your cervix with the tip of his big cock, stretching you wide.

he doesn't kiss you, because it's too intimate.

but his lips hover over yours, breathing in your moans, swallowing up your exhalation. ormund thinks you're beautiful as you are, but when your eyes are wide and you're all filled up with him?

gods.

it's something else entirely. makes him throb inside of you, the muscles in his arms flexing as he holds you upright. "you're perfect," he says, and means it. doesn't throw the word around lightly.

but it's true.

ormund circles your clit with his free hand after gathering spit from his own mouth for ease of friction. he smears his saliva over your cunt, slapping his fingers against you slit, twice gently, and then once sharp.

but he soothes the ache quickly, shushing your whining with a steady pressure against your swollen clit.

he spreads his fingers and slides them down, two on each side of his cock that still pistons into your opening. sweat begins to bead along his hairline. "tell me you want me," he murmurs, voice low and thready.

"i want you," you say.

and it satisfies him, but then you keep going and his knees grow weak.

"want you to—to defile me. feels so good. so—so good inside of me, please. don't stop. please don't stop. i want to be your woman. i'll do anything, my lord. anything, please."

there's a part of him that doesn't believe it. ormund tells himself you're being paid to say these things. that it's about the gold and not about him.

but you beg so beautifully and he thinks that yeah, he might want that, too.

might want to keep you at his bedside for his own twisted pleasure. for his own relief. his pet. his plaything.

his woman.

your cunt squeezes tight around him, and your knuckles around the edge of the desk blanch as you hold tight. "oh, gods."

he groans, the sound reverberating deep in his chest, and then empties himself deep inside of you. fills you up and doesn't stop his thrusts. his cock twitches and becomes coated with your release and his.

he doesn't slow his pace until your muscles go slack, until the oversensitivity becomes borderline painful.

carefully, he releases his hold on you and lays you back against the desk, a small smile forming on your pretty face. a look of pure bliss, provided by his touch alone.

ormund gently pulls himself back, and watches as the sticky white mess of his cum spills out of you. he gathers it with his fingers and pushes it back in, thumb stroking lightly over your clit.

it's wrong, and he knows it, but he hopes that it sticks. hopes that one day your belly will be rounded with his baby, and he'll have no choice but to marry you. to raise you up from a girl in a brothel to a lady of his house. a hightower.

ormund hopes he'll get to keep you.

ormund also hopes the gods might forgive him.

Mirrax silently descends through the night sky towards Harrenhall. The wind stings in my eyes and my hands turned numb a while ago. I hope that my mother or my siblings won't find out about my disappearance from Dragonstone. 

The trees move underneath Mirrax's wings, the sound softly breaking through the night. I land her at the edge of the forest, urging her to be quiet as she waits for me to return. As I turn toward the Hightower camp my throat closes up.

When Gwayne and I had wed, he vowed to dedicate his life, his love and his loyalty to me. But those vows turned to be void the moment my grandfather passed away. He did nothing as his father and cousin locked me away in my chambers in Old town. He did nothing as the greens denied my mother her right to the throne. He wouldn't even let me send a letter to my family to share in the mourning of the death of my grandfather.

So when he told me that he would travel ahead of the Hightower army to support the usurper in the battle against my mother, I lost it. I still remember the look in his eyes as I screamed at him. Never before had I seen genuine fear in his eyes.

My boots barely make a sound on the forest ground as I make my way to the camp. I scan the clusters of tents, but don't even have to force someone to tell me which one is his, because I know my husband. I know that he always wants to be on the edge of the camp, raised above the other tents so he can look over them, and I know that he needs a higher tent because he hates bending down in the lower ones.

The few soldiers outside of their tents all seem to be passed out, flasks of wine dangling from their fingers. I scoff and roll my eyes. The mighty soldiers of house Hightower. My fingers curl around the fabric that covers the entrance to the tent and I carefully pull it aside to peek in.

My eyes lock onto the sleeping figure of my husband as he lays on the bed. I let the tent fall close behind me and carefully approach the bed to study the man I once loved. His eyebrows are pulled into a frown and one of his arms is stretched out beside him, as if it waits for my body to curl up beside him. His bare chest slowly rises and falls with each breath he takes.

My heart clenches in my chest as I watch him. He looks tired and stressed even in his sleep. I softly brush a finger over his forehead, brushing away a stray lock of hair. He stirs and leans into my touch, but doesn’t wake. A heavy sigh leaves my lips and I close my eyes, cursing my heart for drawing me into him once again, but I know what I have to do. I kneel onto the bed, straddling his thighs. A deep sigh leaves him, but he still doesn’t wake. So I lean down, close enough that I can feel his breath on my face. 

His eyes fly open as I press a dagger, the one he gifted me on our wedding day, to his throat. His hand flies out to grab his sword, but I pin his wrists to the mattress.

“Wife,” he greets me, voice sounding as smooth as always. “Husband,” I reply, feeling annoyed. “Well this is new, have you come to kill me?” “I will,” I promise him, but the bastard arches an eyebrow. “No,” he muses, “I don’t think you will.”

“I hate you,” I snarl, moving on top of his body, pressing the dagger harder against his skin, drawing blood. He grunts as he feels the dagger pierce his skin, a drop of blood sliding down his neck. “Liar,” he groans. My vision blurs and I clench my jaw. “I do hate you, you would rather have a drunk on the throne who would lead this kingdom into ruin than a woman.”

He moves to shake his head but stills as the dagger cuts further along his skin. “That is not true.” “It is!” I accuse. “You would deny my mother her birthright, you would deny me my birthright.” “Then what would you have me do, wife,” Gwayne narrows his eyes, “I swore my sword to my house, to Aegon.” “You also swore your life to me,” I respond quietly, watching as drops of blood slide down his skin, ignoring the way he moves beneath me.

“I know,” he whispers, “I know I did.” “Does that vow mean so little to you that you would betray me without a second thought?” Gwayne doesn’t answer, dropping his head onto the pillow and closing his eyes instead. I grab his jaw and force his head up. “Look at me!” I snarl at him, surprise in his eyes as he does what I command. “Did you truly love me that little?”

He immediately shakes his head, this time not caring about the blade. “No, that is not true, I love you and I know that you love me as well-” “Loved” I interrupt him. His eyes widen and he swallows heavily. “You love me,” he states and I scoff. “How could I ever love someone who would betray me, betray my family that easily?” The protest on his lips dies down, the fire in his eyes with it. “I know I have made mistakes,” he admits and I hesitate.

Then he moves suddenly, swatting the dagger away from his throat and flipping us so that he hovers above me. I move to swipe the dagger at his throat again, but his fingers curl around the hilt and he pulls it from my hand. His other hand grabs both my wrists and he pins them between our chests just as his legs tangle with mine to hold them down.

He looks at me with a triumphant glint in his eyes and twirls the dagger between his fingers. “You would kill me with the dagger I gifted you on our wedding day?” he questions, bringing the dagger down to slide lightly over my own throat. “Ironic, isn’t it?” I scoff, “That the gift you gave me to symbolise the start of our lives together will be the one to end it.” Goosebumps erupt on my throat at the feeling of the steel warmed by his skin and a shiver works down my spine. I struggle against his grip, raising my hips in an attempt to throw him off me, but I halt when a groan escapes his lips. Then I feel the evidence of his arousal against my thigh and I look up at him.

“Seriously,” I raise an eyebrow, rolling my eyes as he simply laughs. “I wake up with the woman I love more than anything on top of me, holding a dagger against my throat, how can I not.” He lowers his head to press light kisses on my neck. “That doesn’t change anything,” I tell him, drawing him back into reality. His kisses pause and he raises his head to look back up to me with a sigh. “I know.”

He looks back at the dagger in his hand and carefully hands it back to me. My eyes fly to his as he curls his hand over mine and presses the blade harshly against his own throat. “What are you doing,” I choke. “Do it,” he just whispers. “Kill me, that way I can’t hurt you anymore with my actions.” “No, I won’t,” I shake my head. “I thought you came here to kill me?” he asks with a soft smile, his hand pressing the dagger deeper into his skin. Blood starts dripping faster. Down the blade, over my hand.

“Not like this,” I hiss at him angrily. “Why not? Either one of us must die at the end of this. Aegon won’t let you live should he be victorious and your mother won’t let me live if she sits the Iron Throne. And while a part of me believes that Aegon should be king, another part of me believes we will not win this war. At least this way I die on my own terms. At the hands of my greatest love.” A drop of his blood splatters on my throat. “I am tired and do not want this war,” he smiles sadly at me. “I want to run away with you and Daeron and build a life far away from this mess.”

and, yeah. he knows he should send you away. should tell his guards to take you elsewhere, should give you a golden dragon for your troubles and tell you to buy yourself a nice gown or a good meal.

he should do the right thing. the godly thing. but then you come near him smelling of honeysuckle and ambrosia and every godforsaken tempting thing in all the seven kingdoms, and ormund is done for.

at first, you only sit in his lap and kiss his cheeks. and he tells himself it's fine, you know? it's not like you're really doing anything wrong. just worshipping a man you'd been paid to make feel good. and it does make him feel good, your soft lips against his skin.

but then he lets himself touch you.

slow at first. a hand on your thigh—over your dress. albeit a thin barrier of lace and silk, but a barrier still. and then he drags his knuckles down the back of your smooth neck, stroking the sweat-slick hair that clings to your nape.

you thread your own fingers through his curls, mouth drifting lower to lay kisses over his pulse. you're good at what you do, he realizes quickly. because before he can even register what's happening, you're turning fully to staddle his hips and hiking your dress up your legs.

he can feel you, even through his trousers. the heat that emits from between your thighs, the wetness, the desire. it makes him feel dizzy. drunk, even.

you give a tentative roll of your hips over his bulge and his head falls back, knocking lightly against the top of the mahogany chair. it's too much, and he knows it, and there's a thought in the back of his head as you create a delicious rhythm that he might be damned for this.

but he's too far gone now, that iron grip on his control slipping through his fingers like smoke. he can only feel the remnants of it like a thick humidity, can hardly remember those life-long teachings of the faith.

when your fingers unbuckle the iron buttons of his doublet, he lets you. doesn't push you away like he should when you push it over his shoulders and down his strong biceps, either.

you're so soft. tracing his scars with eager hands, still humping his clothed cock like you're the most desperate girl he's ever seen. he tugs roughly at the tie at the back of your dress, the fabric over your chest falling away with little resistance.

his big hands come to cup your breasts, massaging the supple flesh, calloused thumbs stroking over the peaks of your nipples. his mouth waters at the sight of you, bare and free and open, all for him.

his for the taking.

his for the feasting.

ormund leans forward and suckles your tit into his mouth, tongue demanding as it flicks across your nipple. he kisses his way across your sternum to the other, sucking and biting, unable to stop himself from making some sort of claim on you despite being fully away you're not his to claim.

he's not an indulgent man, no. but greedy? well...that's another matter.

your breath is warm against the shell of his ear as you say, "i want you inside me."

he should say no. he knows that.

but then you say, "please, ser."

and gods. what's a man to do? deny a pretty woman? deny the prettiest woman?

ormund doesn't have the strength. not when you beg so beautifully.

"get up," he says.

you do without a moment's hesitation. perfect girl. obedient girl.

ormund stands to his feet and crowds your space until you have to take a step back. one, and then another, and another. he tilts his head and smiles with a wolfish grin until your back hits the edge of the desk.

he sees it there, for a fleeting moment—the fear in your eyes. but you don't have to be afraid, not of him. he's a godly man, don't you know? he would never hurt a woman, let alone one like you.

gently, he lifts his hand to your face and strokes the back of his knuckles over the curve of your cheek. "do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"

the fear subsides, and ormund traces the shape of your sweet mouth with the pad of his thumb.

"if it weren't for coin, would you still want this? and don't lie, girl."

he watches as your pupils dilate. you nod, slowly at first, but then again with more certainty. "yes."

"good." he presses his thumb past your lips, feeling the soft wetness of your tongue and she sharpness of your teeth. you hollow out your cheeks, staring up at him through your lashes the whole time.

a moan escapes him at the sight of you. pretty and sinful and irresistible all the same. he lets you suck his thumb for a few precious moments, committing the feeling of your warm mouth to memory.

but the moment his desire for you grows impossibly more suffocating, he brackets an arm around you and lifts you onto the desk. ormund pushes your shoulders back and pulls your dress up right over the ravens he'd been writing moments before you'd stepped foot into his space, ink likely still drying.

you lift your legs; the heels of your feet hooked right at the edge. ormund gorges himself on the sight of you; bare and spread wide for him, beautiful and womanly and so very wet.

with one hand, the knight undoes his belt. and with the other, he strokes a finger through the seam of your cunt. finds your clit and circles it carefully, delighting in the way your eyes flutter closed and a hum leaves your lips.

his cock is aching now. throbbing in his hand as he pulls it from his breeches and strokes it desperately.

this would be enough to finish him, he knows. a firm grip around the base of his cock and the most mouth-watering sight before him. an interactive display of indulgence.

it should be enough.

and yet it is not.

ormund brings his hand, wet now with your arousal, to his lips. he inhales deeply, taking the scent of you deep into his lungs, before he brings his finger to his mouth and sucks the taste of you off of it.

he makes space for himself between your spread thighs and watches curiously as you prop yourself up on your elbows. "i want to watch it go in," you admit sheepishly.

there's a tone of innocence in your voice that has him trembling with need. it makes him feel...powerful, almost. like you're at his mercy.

and maybe you are.

ormund knows he shouldn't like the feeling, but he does. and he's already gone this far, and so he grips the back of your neck hard and pulls you forward, abdomen curling to get a better view.

he lines himself up at your entrance, coating the tip of his cock in your slick, and then slides in deep.

the thought crosses his mind that you feel like heaven.

tight and wet, a kind of worship in it's own right.

ormund fucks you hard. tugs at your hair and slams his hips against yours with reckless abandon. kisses your cervix with the tip of his big cock, stretching you wide.

he doesn't kiss you, because it's too intimate.

but his lips hover over yours, breathing in your moans, swallowing up your exhalation. ormund thinks you're beautiful as you are, but when your eyes are wide and you're all filled up with him?

gods.

it's something else entirely. makes him throb inside of you, the muscles in his arms flexing as he holds you upright. "you're perfect," he says, and means it. doesn't throw the word around lightly.

but it's true.

ormund circles your clit with his free hand after gathering spit from his own mouth for ease of friction. he smears his saliva over your cunt, slapping his fingers against you slit, twice gently, and then once sharp.

but he soothes the ache quickly, shushing your whining with a steady pressure against your swollen clit.

he spreads his fingers and slides them down, two on each side of his cock that still pistons into your opening. sweat begins to bead along his hairline. "tell me you want me," he murmurs, voice low and thready.

"i want you," you say.

and it satisfies him, but then you keep going and his knees grow weak.

"want you to—to defile me. feels so good. so—so good inside of me, please. don't stop. please don't stop. i want to be your woman. i'll do anything, my lord. anything, please."

there's a part of him that doesn't believe it. ormund tells himself you're being paid to say these things. that it's about the gold and not about him.

but you beg so beautifully and he thinks that yeah, he might want that, too.

might want to keep you at his bedside for his own twisted pleasure. for his own relief. his pet. his plaything.

his woman.

your cunt squeezes tight around him, and your knuckles around the edge of the desk blanch as you hold tight. "oh, gods."

he groans, the sound reverberating deep in his chest, and then empties himself deep inside of you. fills you up and doesn't stop his thrusts. his cock twitches and becomes coated with your release and his.

he doesn't slow his pace until your muscles go slack, until the oversensitivity becomes borderline painful.

carefully, he releases his hold on you and lays you back against the desk, a small smile forming on your pretty face. a look of pure bliss, provided by his touch alone.

ormund gently pulls himself out of you, and watches as the sticky white mess of his cum spills out of you. he gathers it with his fingers and pushes it back in, thumb stroking lightly over your clit.

it's wrong, and he knows it, but he hopes that it sticks. hopes that one day your belly will be rounded with his baby, and he'll have no choice but to marry you. to raise you up from a girl in a brothel to a lady of his house. a hightower.

ormund hopes he'll get to keep you.

ormund also hopes the gods might forgive him.