scarletrobins

Daeron shoved some hair out of his face as he sat nervously at your bedside. He chewed on his lip, tapped his little foot, but his anxious eyes never strayed from you. You were tired, he could see it painted around your eyes and mouth, the way you groaned if you shifted and how your breaths were often heavier than not. He could see it in the way you attempted to smile but could never reach it fully, the way your eyes fluttered every once in a while and you threatened to fall back into sleep. He could even see it in the way you caressed your own belly, round and protruding from under the sheets, ready to release the babe at any moment. 

“I can almost see the thoughts running around in your head like little people, my little owl,” you called to him, smiling a bit brighter than before when he glanced up to your face. You held out your hand to him and he abandoned the stool he had been sitting on to slip in beside you on the bed, tucking his legs under the sheet and turning to snuggle heavily into you. He wrapped his arm over you, in the lower space between your belly and chest, and then pressed his face to your neck, sighing long and low. He was practically trembling in your arms and you frowned as you began caressing his back, soft little motions of your fingertips up and down the lenght of his spine. 

“What is it, my little owl?” You asked quietly, tilting your head to press a kiss to the top of his head. You loved his bronzey curls, soft and so different to your Aerion and Aemon’s pale white hair, to your little Daella’s hair so perfectly matching your own. He did not say anything at first, just lay there and breathed you in before slowly lifting his head up and asking, 

“Why do you call me a little owl?” He looked sad asking it, pouting, but you just huffed a tired laugh and reached out to press your index finger to his nose. Your boy was ten namedays old now, and he was smarter by the minute. 

“Owls are creatures of the night, you know. They stay up all the evening long, live their lives in the evening, and they fly silently, barely noticeable, but they are intelligent, known to be wise. You are like my own little owl,” at this you smiled and caressed his soft face, his forehead and plump cheeks, tickling him under the chin. “When you were a babe, you would stay up all night, even when you were not crying, you would simply stay awake and blink up at the ceiling. Even now, though you attempt to pretend otherwise, I know you are awake most nights. And though you are quiet, my little one, I know how clever and how wise you are, right up here,” you tapped his forehead again. 

Daeron nodded then sat up and leaned against your belly, resting his head there on top of his folded hands. He blinked slowly at you, then began tracing the embroidery on the bedsheets, circling flowers and leaves. You could sense his worry, could sense that he wished to speak but did not know how, so you simply reached out and continued to caress his hair as you spoke. 

“It is the same way Aerion is my little dragon. He is fierce, he has the temper of one. He used to scream and cry like a dragon roars. He would go so red I once thought perhaps he would breathe fire.” At this Daeron huffed a small giggle, pressing his face to your stomach to hide it. 

“And Aemon is my little fawn, because though he is timid, he loves being around his family. And Daella is a little mouse, because she is still very small, and sometimes when she scrunches her nose it reminds me of a mouse,” you giggled at yourself, at the nicknames you came up with for your children, random but fun. Daeron nodded, as if it was all very serious and important. 

“What will the new babe be?” He asked then, his voice going quieter, more grave, and you hummed in thought. 

“Hm, our Aegon,” you pondered aloud, and then you furrowed your brows and looked down at Daeron. “I am not sure yet. What do you think he will be, little owl?” 

Daeron too hummed in thought, still tracing the patterns on the sheets. He did not answer for a while. 

“I think,” he began mumbling, “he will be like a dragon too. But not in the way Aerion is.” He frowned a little, pinching and releasing the fabric now instead of simply tracing it. “I think he will be like those large old dragons, like Balerion and Vhagar. Regal and majestic, not- not angry.” 

You smiled at that, pinching his cheek and humming in delight. 

“That makes me very happy,” you told him softly. 

Daeron did not say anything for a little while, just lay against you and listened to you hum, but then he opened his mouth once more and mumbled, “I have been having dreams again.” You paused, going very still, and looked down at him. You shifted, sitting up a little, then returned your attention fully to your son. You caressed his head once more, nodding at him to go on. “They scare me.” You could feel his lips moving against your stomach with the way he pressed himself down to you, and your heart panged in your chest. “I cannot understand what they are trying to tell me. I just…” he murmured something you could not understand this time, but you prompted him to repeat it with a little ‘hm?’ of your own. “I hear the babe crying. It is screaming and crying and cannot be soothed. And… And I hear you. I can hear you screaming. I see you in the bed,” and he began to cry, soft little whimpers, tears rushing to his eyes as his breaths began to shake. “I can see you, mother, and you are all bloody, all over. And-and-” his hands clenched into the bedsheets, into your dress underneath them. “You are crying first, mother, you are crying and shaking your head and begging, and then you just stop. And sometimes you are just laying there, eyes closed, and sometimes you are all clean again and holding the babe and smiling at it and-” 

“Shh, shh,” you quickly reached out and waited until Daeron had crawled back up, had thrown himself over you and wrapped his arms tight around your neck. You hushed him, softly and gently, kissing the side of his little head as your throat filled with a lump you could not swallow. “Hush now, little one, hush now,” you soothed, clenching your own eyes shut as you hugged him tight. He was still bony the way some children were at this age, all gangly limbs that he would slowly grow into, and you simply clutched him as tight as you could, attempting to breathe slowly as the images he had conjured filled your mind. But no, no, you could not focus on that either. 

“Mother, please, do not- do not-” he began blubbering too much before he could say anything else and your own face crumpled, eyes filling with tears as you shook your head and shushed your boy again. 

“No, no, do not even think such thoughts dearest,” you whispered to him, rubbing your hand up and down his back, kissing his hair, his forehead. “It is only a dream. Sometimes dreams can be very scary. Sometimes they scare us even when we are awake. But it is alright. Mother’s here.” 

You clutched your boy tighter and silently cried against the top of his head. You felt like a liar. You knew the realities of the birthing bed. Though your past pregnancies had done well enough, you could never be promised true safety. You could not make any promises to your son. And it made you feel sick. It made you feel like a sick, sick, liar. 

“Mother’s here,” you whispered to him once more, and he nodded, though he continued crying for a while longer. 

By the time Maekar returned to your chambers, both Aerion and Aemon had come to join you and Daeron as well. Daella had already been put to sleep by the nursemaid, but Aerion and Aemon refused to leave your side, just as their brother. Daeron curled up under one of your arms, Aerion took the other, and little Aemon, still a chubby toddler to you, clambered all over your pregnant belly (sometimes making you huff when he knocked the wind out of you). 

Though Maekar let out a long groan at the sight of his bed full of children, he was secretly pleased to see his brood all smiling and laughing, curled up with their mother. It filled his heart right to the brim. 

You smiled brightly at him as walked over, reaching your hand out to him. He rounded the bed and first leaned down to press a tender kiss to your lips before he began tickling and ruffling up all the boys on the bed. He paused in his mission to check on you, reaching up and cupping your cheek to tilt your head up to him. He frowned at what he saw, noting the tiredness in your eyes, the darker tint underneath, and he was instantly all business once more. 

“All of you, to your own beds now,” he ordered, picking Aemon up and waving his hand at Aerion and Daeron. Aerion pouted, brows furrowing with anger as he began to argue, but Daeron just curled up further and pressed to your arm. “I said now,” Maekar repeated firmly, glaring at Aerion until the boy huffed, pressed an angry kiss to your cheek, murmured a ‘goodnight, muña’, and then stomped off. “You as well, Daeron,” Maekar ordered, now turning his gaze to his eldest son, but the boy had his eyes closed and pressed his face to your arm. 

You frowned a little at him. Your boy had always been clingy, had always preferred to stick to you more than anyone else, but he had not been like this, not for a long time anyway. You caressed his head once more, noted how fragile he still looked, but sighed and nudged his nose with the tip of your finger. 

“It is alright, little owl,” you whispered, coaxing him to look at you. “Father will put you to bed, he will tuck you up tight, give you enough kisses from the both of us, and when tomorrow comes, you and I will find ourselves something fun to do together, just us.” 

Daeron pulled away from you finally, blinking his big eyes up at you with a spark of hope. You wanted to cry, wanted to gather him up and keep him secure with you forever. 

“Promise, mother? Just us?” He asked, voice small, and you nodded, leaning forward and pressing a firm kiss to his forehead. 

“Promise, just us.” 

Daeron nodded then, kissed your cheek one last time, and hauled himself off the bed, reaching up to hold Maekar’s hand as he walked both boys out of your room. Your husband turned to offer you one last look, murmuring how he would return shortly, and you only blew him a kiss in return. 

It was late that evening, when all the candles had been blown out and the hearths had dimmed down to embers, when the owls hooted and all the princes and princesses slept, that the birth began. 

+++

Daeron was not meant to be awake. He should have been asleep. He knew both mother and father would be cross at him for being awake. But he had heard footsteps rushing outside of his door, and sleep never came easy in the evenings, so he could do nothing but leave and follow. 

He caught a maid just turning the corner at the end of the hall, running quickly and disappearing, her plain gown just a flutter. He frowned, rubbing the residual tiredness from his eyes, and followed. He could hear more commotion around the corner, and he found all the flurry of activity outside his mother and father’s bedchambers. 

“We need more water, hot and cold both. And cloths, Minara, more cloths!” 

“Someone have the fire stoked-” 

“Where is Septa Cyren-” 

“Has the maester been-” 

Daeron shoved himself close to the wall and stayed there, his heart pounding. His eyes flitted this way and that, following all the people who came rushing in or out of the chambers. He caught snippets of conversation, words that trailed off when the doors opened, and then screaming. 

It was loud. A curdling scream, pure pain. Daeron had never heard anything like that. It was a howl, really, something a dying animal might make, he guessed. His hands trembled further as the scream began to die off. He could only see the wood of the chamber doors, the barest peak in when they opened, but nothing past the wall, nothing actually within the chambers themselves. 

“...she has been asking for you, over and over, and though we usually would not call, she seems very distressed this time. We do not want her wasting energy on this.” His father appeared around the corner as well, dressed simply the way he would be in the evenings, eyes puffy and hair more mussed than usual. He was frowning, though it was not his usual scowl but more one of worry. Daeron watched his body go rigid at the words of the Septa, watched his eyes dart to the door to the chambers. 

Just as Maekar reached them, he looked down the hall and noticed Daeron cowering by one of the end tables, pressed to the wall as if to hide. His frown deepened and he sighed, half frustrated and half tired. He marched over to his son, beckoning him to stand and glaring down at him. 

“Why are you awake? You should be in bed.” 

Daeron just blinked up at him at first, chewing on his lip, then he glanced in the direction of the chamber doors. Maekar’s face softened, just a tad, and he gently ran his hand over Daeron’s head, pressing the boy to his leg in a pseudo-hug before letting him go. He opened his mouth to speak when the screaming began again. 

It was far too loud even from behind closed doors, and Maekar’s head snapped in its direction. He let go of Daeron and rushed into the doors, slamming them shut behind him. Daeron retreated to his spot against the wall, his entire body trembling. He blinked his eyes, quickly then slowly but hard, but nothing made the world change. Nothing made the screaming stop or magically found him back in his bed. 

“What is the meaning of this…” He heard his father’s growl behind the door, the sound of sobbing, loud and pained. He knew it was his mother. He knew it. Daeron clenched his hands into his tunic and simply stared at the chamber doors. 

“What the fuck do you mean complications, speak it plainly…” 

“...breach, my prince…. The wrong way…” 

“How the fuck do you fix it then? Do not blather…” 

The screaming began again and Daeron clenched his eyes shut, pressed himself harder to the wall, until it hurt, until dust stuck to his shirt and trousers and his skin throbbed with pain. He pressed his hands to his ears and whimpered, but the screaming dissolved into sobbing and he cried too. He could hear his mother crying, he knew it was her. He wanted to be with her. He did not want to her mother crying, he wanted her crying to stop. 

“Daeron?” A small mumble, he turned around to find Aerion come pattering up the hall, cheeks and lips puffed out as he rubbed sleepily at his eyes. “Who is screaming?” He asked, blinking blearily up at his big brother. 

Daeron could not find words to say to him. He did not know what to say. He finally managed to break out, “the babe is coming.” 

“Oh,” Aerion nodded, then frowned at the doors to the chambers where now there was scuffling and thuds and their father’s voice but unintelligible. “Does it hurt to have a babe?”

Daeron only nodded. He was overcome with fear, overcome with the images of his dreams. He could hear it so clearly, see it so clearly, his mother on the bed, writhing in pain, begging for something he could not give, did not know how to give. 

“...fucking save her damnit!” 

Daeron’s breath stuttered in his chest when something banged loudly from inside the room. Aerion too jumped at the noise, his face falling now, his lower lip trembling and a fearful little pout coming onto his lips. The younger boy stepped closer to Daeron, clutching at his loose shirt, and Daeron simply stood there beside his brother, trembling as they listened to the loud sobbing through the door. 

“Is that muña?” Aerion asked, his voice gaining a higher pitch. The boy trembled more than Daeron now, both his fists coming to hold onto Daeron’s shirt. Soft sniffles started to shake him, his lower lip gaining a tremor. 

“...what can be done? Please, tell me what can be done, I will…”

Daeron pressed harder to the wall once more, blinking harshly as the fear burned in him, as his eyes stung with it. He had never heard his father like that. Had never heard his father so… begging. Maekar was always firm, the warrior. Maekar never wavered. Why did Maekar sound like that? 

Daeron saw it again, his mother on the bed, covered in blood, twitching then still. Twitching then still. Twitching then still. Twitching then- 

“I do not fucking care! Save her fucking life you-” 

Aerion whimpered then, pressing his face to Daeron’s back, and Daeron could only reach and touch his head softly. He stared at the hallway, empty now of the rushing maids and septas. He saw the sconces, the fire flickering in them, the dark sky outside the window at the end of the hall, crystal clear with stars blinking. 

The screaming began again, long and even more pained than before, mixing with Aerion’s whimpering as he hugged his brother tight. But this time when the screaming faded, there was another sound, wailing, long and high pitched, crackling from fresh lungs. Aerion hugged Daeron even tighter, but tilted his head up at that, frowning as he blinked through tears. 

“That is the babe,” Daeron muttered, a spark of hope inside him, no bigger than a kernel of fire. The babe was out then. The babe was out and mother could rest, and tomorrow, tomorrow it would be just them. She would wipe the nightmares away, would tell him that the dreams had simply scared him while he was awake, but Mother was there. Mother was there. 

Daeron held tight to Aerion, let his eyes flutter shut, leaned into the wall, but amidst the babe’s crying, other voices rose, high and hurried, not yelling but loud and panicked. 

“...too much blood, stop the bleeding…” 

This time the crying was quieter, not the babe’s, but yours. Daeron closed his eyes and shook his head, tried to shake the sound right out of it, but it would not go. You were crying, pained and tired, and he could hear it over the babe’s quieted whimpering. 

“...it is alright…” that was his father, quieter than he had been all evening. 

“...my boys… all my beautiful boys…” Daeron shuddered, lurched forward toward the door. He stumbled, Aerion yelping, still clutching tight to the shirt on his back, almost bringing him down. Daeron shoved him off and continued forward, breath ragged. He reached the door, gripped the handle and shoved, stepping in. He could hear mother, surely she was calling for them, Aerion stumbling into his back. 

There you lay, closer to the left side of the bed where you always lay in the evenings. Father was at your side, clutching your hand tightly between both of his and staring at your face, saying something, anguished. Your hair was splayed around you, stuck to you with your sweat. You were red, or, no, your dress was red, drenched really. Down your legs, up to your waist and stomach. Your face was pained, clenched into some expression Daeron had never seen on you before. He could only see the red, a bright wash. Then a Septa was gasping, pressing her hands to his shoulders and shoving him back out of the door and slamming it shut. 

But Daeron could still see it, the red blood seeping through your clothes. He could see you twitching and going still. Was it the dream still, or had he just seen it? He blinked his eyes, once, then twice, then hurriedly a few times. But the image stayed, the image stayed pressed there as if someone held it there. 

Aerion cried profusely now, clinging to Daeron, shaking and sobbing and yelling for muña. He pressed his face to Daeron’s stomach, clenched his hands into Daeron’s shirt, and sobbed. Daeron held tight to Aerion in return. Or maybe he did not. He could not quite tell what his limbs did. He too only wanted Mother. You had promised tomorrow would be just you two. You had promised. 

Then there was a loud long moan of pain. It was like an animal dying. It was like the last sound a stag made before the hunt slaughtered it. It was like the lone wolf, crying out for it’s mate. It was the last dragon’s dying breath. Daeron stared at the door through which the sound came, through which his Father made that sound. 

Daeron fell back against the wall, taking Aerion with him. His little brother curled up against him, sobbing in fear and confusion, begging for his mother. Daeron curled up around Aerion, pressing his face to the back of the boy’s head the way you always did when they snuggled into you. He clenched his eyes shut. You promised. You had promised.

He puts his hand up as if to silence you.

You look into the fire and swallow audibly. You know that you should be grateful—grateful to be alive after the gracious Queen Rhaenyra sent you to the slaughter.

You can close your eyes and still smell the blood, feel the fire curling over your shoulder blades, and see Hugh's face—the man who didn't even know you, yet was all too willing to sacrifice himself to let you live another day. You, a simple washmaid, hardly worth the live of a blacksmith. Yet there he stood screaming into the face of the beast while you ran. That has to be why that beast chose him. No fear. Unlike you, who cowered behind a rock, more than happy to let Hugh die for you.

The queen had been too cheap to provide the surviving dragonseeds with passage back to King's Landing. So, of course, with all her grace, she added you to the staff, while Hugh and that idiot Ulf got dragons and plush rooms. You shared a room with four other maids and spent your days scrubbing linens.

But not for long. There were wild dragons on this godforsaken island, and Hugh had promised to help you find one.

“I brought you some wine from dinner. I was unable to sneak food away; I apologize.” He hands you the half-full cask of wine, and you take it.

You mimic his earlier gesture, raising your hand with a smirk. “No apologies. You have done more than enough for someone like me.”

He huffs at this. “Someone like you? A fellow Targaryen bastard? We are not so different, you and I.”

You scoff and look up at the ceiling, your fingers digging into the fabric of your ashen-covered dress, frustration rippling through you. “Except you are a dragon rider, and I am a maid. The gods have chosen you for greatness, and me… they have forgotten.” You sip the lukewarm wine and grimace. The traces of cinnamon and clove tingle across your tongue, but you know, at this point, the wine doesn't taste half as good as it did for them—the dragon riders. The ones who matter.

“A dragon chose Ulf. Clearly, this has nothing to do with the gods and everything to do with luck.” He chuckles and gazes at you with a boyish grin.

“How much of this have you already had?” you chuckle and take another swig. “One day mine will still be warm when I drink it.”

“It will. We will find you a dragon, little one.” He tosses some more kindling in the fire. “Perhaps the most wild of them all; it would suit you.”

You scoff playfully, the wine beginning to have its intended effects. “Have you heard… from your wife?” You nervously play with your fingers in your lap. It's probably not proper for you to ask him about his wife—not after what happened between you when he brought you to meet his beast.

His face grows stern, and he looks ahead. “I have not.” You can see his large, calloused hands curl around the arms of the chair in which he sits. You have watched him send raven after raven to his wife, only to be met with silence.

“Maybe your messages are being intercepted.” An awkward silence fills the space, interrupted only by the crackling fire and your not-so-subtle gulp of wine.

“You drink like a Braavosi sailor,” he says, keeping a completely straight face.

You burst out laughing, spraying wine from your mouth to dribble down your chin. “You would as well if you were a downtrodden maid with nothing to look forward to but leftover wine!”

He laughs—a big, boisterous laugh that sends tingles through your body from your toes to your center. “Your laugh… it is so handsome, if it is not too bold of me to say.”

He turns his head to look at you, his eyes soft but sad. “I cannot lay my hands on you again. Not until I hear from my wife. It is improper. I need to know she has left me.”

“You are a good man, Hugh. Much too good for the likes of me.”

The room falls silent again, and you nervously sip on your wine.

“That is not true,” he finally says, his voice quiet. “You are not the issue here. The issue is me. I am married.”

You nod in understanding and tap on your knee. “So you mustn't lay hands on me.”

He nods, a solemn expression on his face “ As well as I must not allow you to lay hands on me.” He takes the wine and gulps a generous mouthful. “As much as it may pain me to decline your company.”

You get up from your chair and make your way to his bed behind you.

“Little one… do not tempt me. I ask for your kindness,” he says without turning around, his desperation evident in his tone.

“I wish not to tempt you. Only to follow your rules. I may not touch you… but I may of course touch myself?” You crawl onto your back and lay on his bed, parting your thighs and rucking up your dress. “If you choose to watch… well…”

You slide your hand into your underclothes, finding the wet warmth that already awaits you there.

Hugh's fingers claw into the arms of his chair as he fights to stay put, but with your first breathy moan, he is immediately up from his chair and sauntering over.

“What am I to watch if your small clothes stay in place?” he growls, standing at the edge of the bed, his eyes locked on the tantalizing view between your thighs.

“Oh, pardon my rudeness, dear dragon rider. Let me correct this most egregious of sins post haste.” You quickly slide the small clothes down your legs and cast them from the bed before spreading your legs wide and bringing your hand back to its rightful place, swirling your engorged nub.

Hugh grunts, his own hand rubbing the front of his breeches. “You seem to be experienced in this… particular sin.” His breathing picks up as he slowly starts to undo the laces of his breeches.

“I may not know how to claim a dragon…” you moan loudly, sliding your hand down to your entrance to collect more of your delicious wetness before resuming your hasty circular motions. “But this… this I know how to do.”

Hugh pants with wide eyes as he finally gets his laces free, pulling out his hardened cock, which he squeezes.

“Come closer,” you plead as you arch off the bed, your moans becoming more needy, your thighs parting impossibly wide.

“No. I cannot—” he grunts again, his hand now making quick strokes along his girth, a faint slapping sound filling the air like a beautiful carnal melody. “If I do, I fear I will lose control.” While he says this, he steps closer to the foot of the bed. “I have a spectacular view from here.”

You raise your head enough to see Hugh, his lustful gaze locked onto your heat, the vision of him panting and the sound of his slapping skin pushing you right to the edge. Your hand moves in wild, wide circles as you gasp before falling pliantly back on the bed.

You again lift your head to see Hugh gripping the bedpost, the evidence of his enjoyment scattered atop the linens.

You lay back and pant. “Why did I do such a thing?” you chuckle between labored breaths.

Hugh's head snaps up. “I did not wish for you to do something you would regret.” He hastily starts to fix his pants.

“No, it…” You sigh and chuckle, forcing yourself to sit up. “I wash the linens.”

With that, Hugh breaks out into a great big smile. “Then I think it best we make quick work of finding you a dragon hmm?”

“Ormund,” you sighed as soon as the door to your shared chambers was closed. The feast had been uncomfortable for basically the entirety of it. Ormund shifting in his seat, eyes glaring your direction. He made conversation with anybody but you but the moment you attempted to stand to go join some of the dancing he had laid his palm across your lap. The messaging was clear. He wanted you to remain sat beside him. “I bathed this morning, my skin will grow dry.”

Lord Ormund Hightower, the man you’ve been wed to for close to four namedays now paid little mind to your concerns about skin irritation. Much larger concernes plagued his mind.

“I see now that I’ve been far too lenient.” He stood before the bath and tipped in a few vials of oil.

“lenient?” You almost laughed at that word choice. It felt like a scolding. That word hadn’t been directed at you since you were ten and two and your septa had been disappointed in some mostly innocent quest you’d gone on.

“I must be a better husband to you.” He continued and that made you frown, he was a fine husband. A entertaining and thoughtful one infact. Your hand touched his back and your brows furrowed.

“you’ve not done anything incorrectly husband-“ you began to assure him but he turned swiftly and his eyes sealed to your shoulder, collar and chest.

“I was not clear enough with you, nor firm enough.” You swallowed and your hands rose up to hold to your shoulders crossing over your chest as well, blocking where he was looking. Unease trickling down your spine.

“galavanting though my halls in something fit for a courtesan? I’ve let your humiliate yourself infront of the entire court!” His voice raised and you startled a bit.

“it’s a gown Ormund! It’s not anything proactive-“

“you do not see how they look upon you. What filthy thoughts they have about lady Hightower while you sit beside me, while you assure people they will be in your prayers on the morrow!?” You attempt to pull back from this entire confrontation but Ormund grabs your hip pulling you easily until your legs are flush to the large soaking tub. “Do you know what they think?” He growls into your ear from behind.

“I liked the color…the lace.” You reason.

“they imagine you knelt in that sacred space, bare in nothing but your veil while their name rolls off your lips.” It felt like a very specific depravity to be imagined.

“That is what you think of husband-even my collarbone startles you so?” You challenge looking over your shoulder at him. He clearly had been effected by the gown, by you specifically within in. Perhaps the dress was a bit less modest than normal but you did not think it was so shocking that lords were gawking at you?!

“I have already admitted my fault.” His hands were undoing your gowns laces, watching as it slipped down inch by inch until you had nothing but smallclothes on.

“which is?” You shive because his hand had wrapped around your waist and is currently drawing up towards your neck from your midsection.

“not controlling your beastly tendencies, letting you run about my city putting things on your body for you desire and allowing it because of mine.” His voice was deep and you felt warm in your stomach. Back leaning against him slightly. “I will cleanse you…so we might severe the gods and realm as intended.” His hands steadied over your shoulder once you were bare. He was notably still completely dressed. You assumed because whatever he was going to do if he became undressed at the same time as you would not serve the realm.

“I’m not a whore.” You sigh, slightly offended still by these dramatics. His seamstresses made the gown, it wasn’t as if you went to the markets and found some unwarranted style.

“And it is my duty to see to it that you never become one, never are perceived as one.” He nodded down to the water and waited for you to step into the tub and sink down before he went about rolling up both his sleeves. “Now,” he knelt beside the warm water and his hand touched your cheek first. “Allow me to look after you as a husband should…” he ticked on and he took up the soap and a cloth scrubbing them together and then moving it across your shoulders.

“they are too enticing to be seen by all.”

Your eyes lifted to look at his focused ones. “The gods warn against selfishness to Ormund.” You remind him knowing the next thing that was going to fall out of his mouth was going to be that only he shall see them moving forward.

You eased back until your back was against the edge of the tub and your legs were stretched out in the water, a hand holding the side so you wouldn’t drift about as Ormund made all your exposed skin sudsy.

“did you like my gown?” You ask softly when his hand dragged the cloth down the valley between your breasts. Which were bobbing in the water a bit, the occasional exposure to the cold air making your nipples bud.

“I’ve made my passion clear, have I not?”

“Yes, on others seeing me in it. But did your eyes enjoy it?” Your fingers let go of the tubs lip and your damp fingers wrap around his upper arm.

Ormund Hand lost focused and somewhere near your hips he dropped the drag. His eyes closed and brow struggled to remain stern. He had truly meant to be strict about this matter.

“you minx.” He huffed while leaned over some to meet his lips with yours. You kissed him back, small little pecks and giggled when his tongue probed for more. He was bold for alluding to your wanton-ness when he was now persuading you physically.

“Mm-I thought I needed c-cleansing?!” You gasped because his large hand settled over your mound and his fingers expertly found your clit between kisses.

“hush wife,” he growled into your neck sucking a mark roughly into the flesh there. One you’d need to cover, it was in a spot that would ensure your necklines were more than modest! “This is what you wanted?” His thumb took up position over your clit and two of his long fingers pushed down into your core. The water sloshed some, wetting his sleeve and you arched your hips up nodding.

“yes, gods yes.” You agree voice already fluttery. He knew just how to please you. “Ugh-“ your knees drew up and an arm shifted to hand around his head. He wasn’t kissing your neck any longer, he was simply just savoring feeling your pulse against his lips and inhaling the warm scent of you.

“I feel that…” he grinned and his fingers curled more. “Let go for me,” he urged and you nodded nails digging into the back of his neck. “Go on wife, get your fix so we might behave like civilized people for the rest of the night.”

You came with a gasp and when he saw you were about a give out a shout he pressed his mouth over yours.

“Will you wear that gown again?” He asked as you started to settle, limp and floaty in the tub.

Your head shook softly. “No…not if you keep making me feel like that.” You smiled softly blinking up at him.