shh… don’t cry.

A stocky, lump of a man runs at you with a growl and a sword held high, which you whirl around to block. The metal clashes a time or two before you adjust your stance to land a forceful knee to his side, making him lose his focus for a moment to lean over in pain. The split second is enough time for you to to twist your sword over and out of the weight of his, gaining the upper hand, and making quick work of slicing his throat. 

Another guard storms your path immediately after, but your blade finds his throat all the same. You finally reach the stairs, slowing down to a quieter pace as to not alert any men that are lurking on the second floor. A wisp of bloodstained silver hair falls into your face, the already loosened braids becoming further undone from exertion, but you barely pay it any mind. You had always had the genes for battle, brought to fruition in your youth due to the few extra freedoms of being second-born, and if there was one thing you remembered being drilled into you- it was to always pay attention.

What would've been a quick ambush by a guard lying in wait just past the top of the stairs was caught by you, and after taking on the few more who were stationed upstairs, a silence filled the air. No more came. You had killed all that were guarding your path up to the main corridor and room. Your gaze turns from the bloodstained ground to the large wooden door ahead, where you felt Ormund and young Daeron must be biding their time. Surely the occupants of the room had heard at least the tail end of that scrummage, which means you must act in haste. This was the task your sister, the rightful queen, had given you- capture Daeron and smite down Ormund, as well as any who stand in your way. 

The deeply colored wooden door makes little sound as you push it open, thankfully finding no one there to jump you, and you sheath your sword to appear more... comely. With a step around the corner, however... eight men various lengths away face you, all with fingers wrapped in waiting around the grip of their swords, all eyes turned to you in alarm.

A silver-haired, sharp eyed woman, blood smeared over her face like battle paint, wrist resting casually over over the pommel of her sword like she didn't just slaughter upwards of twenty Hightower guards. 

You.

"I have come for the head of Ormund Hightower." 

Spoken confidently, stentorian, and quite clear enough to get the point across that you were not announcing it lightly. Your eyes roam over the bewildered men one by one in the tense silence that followed- two guards upfront, one further down the room, a young boy- Daeron, your half-brother- another, burly looking guard, a man dressed in green looking absolutely beside himself- presumably Ormund- yet another guard, and finally... your eyes landed on the man furthest from the others. 

A familiar head of auburn hair, bright blue eyes that used to gaze into yours with reverence now locked in pure shock and something akin to fear. 

It was Gwayne. Your Gwayne. The knight who stole your heart within a single moon and later broke it by siding with Aegon when the war rose.

You knew you couldn't blame him for staying loyal to his own family, but a naïve part of you always felt burned by how quickly his delicate loyalty to you had dissolved. It was an absolute, final thing when he told you he would fight for the Hightowers; in an unquiet corridor of the castle of all places. You assumed Gwayne had planned it so you'd be in a public space, with you unable to argue, cry out, or cause a scene at the revelation- which you certainly would have. His confident yet sorrowful tone mixed with the guilt in his eyes would've surely broke you on the spot if you were isolated. That was the last time you saw him.

A deep, grating voice cuts through your thoughts- your name is spoken, by who you assume to be Ormund. So they know of you. Your gaze breaks back to the man who is speaking.

"Sent by that bitch of a sister of yours to kill me."

"Sent by the rightful queen of the seven kingdoms." you retort quickly without batting an eye. 

Ormund scoffs, a deeply sardonic smile taking over his face, "Rightful queen-" he repeats sarcastically, "Heed my words now- Rhaenyra will not sit the throne for much longer, whether I am dead or alive. That will be made sure of." 

Your fingers wrap around your sword before he's even finished speaking, unsheathing it with a sharp scrape. 

"Shall we put those words to the test?" 

You look formidable even without sword in hand, but clutching the grip- you look deadly. Ready for a fight that will surely end in stained red floors and cries of battle turned to cries of pain. Each guard stands at the ready, prepared to give their lives to the two Hightowers and Targaryen prince.

Your eyes find Gwayne's once more, almost subconsciously- he's already staring back in you, the fear in his expression now loose and unhindered. If you didn't know any better, it'd appear as though he was fearful for you, not of you. As if a sliver of love still remained. But how could he feel anything but rage against the woman who came for bloodshed? 

The glittery armored guard closest to you makes the first move, fast approaching with boots clunking heavy over the floor. Your eyes are forced to peel from Gwayne's, though the image of his face remains like a photograph in your head as the sound of two swords clanging breaks through the air.

And you're sent back.

To King's Landing, well over a decade ago. A tourney, hosted in honor of your name-day since you enjoyed them so. A beautifully white steed trotted to you in the stands, it's rider donned in silver armor with deep green embellishments; too nicely crafted for a knight of a lesser house. The man lifted his green-plumed helmet and met your eyes with a kind smile.

"I'd like to graciously ask for the princess's favor." 

Gwayne Hightower, the queen's brother. A memory struck you then, at the tourney for your deceased brother Baelon's birth a few years prior- Ser Gwayne was the knight Daemon had quite eagerly dismounted from his horse. You were very pleased to see the fall hadn't left any lingering imperfections on his handsome face. 

With a grin, you grab the ring of woven daisies and ferns and lean over the rail to drop it gracefully over his lance.

"I wish great luck to you Ser, you have my favor." You hold his gaze, watching the way his eyes lit up with a sort of relief, almost as if he was nervous. You find it adorable.

"Thank you, princess." 

His horse gallops away, leaving you stuck with a stupid smile that Rhaenyra instantly teases about. You risk a glance at Alicent, considering Gwayne is her brother, and she send you an approving smile back. 

He won his joust, causing you to stand and applaud with a wide grin on your face- needless to say, you were already smitten. 

Alicent had formally introduced you after, though displeasure racked you once it was known Gwayne wasn't staying and had to return to Oldtown. He left you with a gentle, respectful kiss to your knuckles, holding your gaze all the while which practically melted you into a puddle- which also heightened your displeasure at his leave even more.

You blink, blocking his swing once more with your sword, clattering until it's driven through the man's side. You stalk towards the next one, dodging a swing- 

It would be years until you saw him again. You had grown into a beautiful young woman, highly desired by many lords of young and old and yet remaining unwed. You had no taste for marriage, especially when the choice would not be yours. Being second born had it's perks, even more so since your father and the court were far more focused on your little brother Aegon- meaning your marriage was no one's priority, and you quite enjoyed it. 

You were one of the firsts to the courtyard for Gwayne's reception at the castle. You had been counting down the days since you heard wind of him coming to visit his sister. And it was beautiful, seeing his face again, the knight who charmed you so, after so long. He placed a kiss to your knuckles just as he had before, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a simper.  

From that point on, you were practically inseparable. One always trailed beside the other, talking of everything under the sun from your reasons for not marrying to which animal would be most desirable to be trapped in the body of. Anything worked, really, between the two of you. He'd stroll with you through the gardens as you picked flowers, and you'd sit in as he trained with other knights residing in the castle. He refused to train with you however, despite knowing you were very well capable with a sword, he didn't want to risk hurting you. 

You loved how knightly and honorable Gwayne was... until it became a hinderance. Naturally, your affection and attraction towards him grew. Your eyes lingered on his and would trail to his lips, wanting nothing more than to lean in an kiss them, but he'd always pull away before you got the chance. He'd allow you to loop your arms together and lace your fingers, but kept you just unable to press your side against his. Gwayne even let you play with his hair, smooth your hand through it as you were seated together away from prying eyes, but turned away every time you leaned closer. Always sporting a knowing smirk, aware of exactly what you were doing- his eyes held a sort of reluctance, like he wanted to give in just as much as you but wouldn't allow himself. Gwayne was honorable, respectful through and through almost to a fault. He was the best of them, is what you truly believed. 

Your sword easily slashed across the man's neck, spraying your cheek with blood. The movements are almost mindless now, lost in your head as your body moves fluidly as though it were made for this. The next guard manages a kick to your side as you're distracted with the other piece of armor raising his sword to you, and in the zone of battle, your mind drifts again.

Late one starry night in your chambers, Gwayne's spent body draped over yours like a shield.

With much persistence and a few more 'almost' moments, he had finally followed you into your bed.

Your arms rested around his damp back and smoothed over the expanse of nearly pristine skin. Head tucked under your chin with auburn strands of hair tickling your neck pleasantly. It was perfect. Peaceful, buzzing, you felt utterly complete. 

You'd learn the next morning of his guilt over taking your maidenhood unmarried- he quieted immediately however at your assurance and comfort. That began, in the final month of his stay, a whirlwind of passion and loyal dalliance to your sweet knight. 

He'd hold your wrists to the bed and drive into you with lewd moans and whines during the night, and hand-pick a bouquet of flowers for you in the morning. He'd leave dark love-bites and bruises over your chest mid-fuck only to worry greatly if he hurt you once noticing their remains as the sun rose. The man would spend an hour between your legs worshipping your cunt and carry on worshipping your whole existence the following day. Gwayne was enthralled with you, and you with him. 

Many kisses were stolen in private corridors, many bites driven into his skin, many times he had to cover your mouth in the dead of night with a large hand in fear of the remaining guards outside overhearing your sounds. 

One night, lying in his chambers with your head upon his chest and his fingers trailing up and down your waist, Gwayne spoke up of Daeron. Your half brother, the only one of your siblings you'd only spent very little time with. He'd been living with Gwayne in Oldtown for a few years then, doing his little kid duties and just beginning to learn how to use a play sword. Gwayne spoke so highly of him that night, and you found yourself curious about the boy... and plotting a plan. 

On the day that your sweet knight finally took his leave back to Oldtown, you went along with him. You claimed it was for Daeron, a desire to spend time with the brother you virtually know nothing of. The request wasn't too strange, Alicent and the council were aware of your relative closeness with her children- why bat an eye at you wanting to visit the youngest? So off you went, for Daeron, but mostly because you simply couldn't be parted from Gwayne. 

Steel drives through the hip of the man that kicked you, quickly slipping it out to swing into the face of the other. More blood drains onto the floor. Past the final remaining guard charging in your direction, your brother's face becomes visible to you- appalled and plain scared in a way that tugs on your heart. He looks utterly helpless, like a child again.

He was thrilled to see you. In all his five year old glory, Daeron was so excited to have another member of his family with him. The boy was more mellow than his brothers for sure, but spirited in his own right. You took to eachother immediately. 

Gwayne used to joke about how Daeron was stealing you from him, to which you'd always giggle and place a kiss to his cheek. It was wonderful, having him unabashedly without needing to sneak off to show affection or strive so hard to be discreet. You were far from the Red Keep, with absolutely no one to tell on you both, especially not a five year old. 

Your days were spent with your boys, teaching Daeron all about dragons and his own, Tessarion, as well as teaching him how to hold a wooden sword- while trying your best not to wince when he gleefully hit your knee point plank with it. Gwayne would 'spar' would him, pretending they were rival knights from faraway kingdoms, always letting the little boy win. He'd make a big show of it, collapsing to the ground- 

"Ugh, Ser Daeron, you have struck me!"

"I GOT you!" he would cheer.

Gwayne rolled dramatically over the ground, grass and twigs getting caught in his hair. He put a hand up- 

"I yield! I yield, great knight!" 

At which point the boy would hear your stifled laughter and bound over to you, striking you as well. Of course, you had to continue to show.

"Oh, you've wounded me so! I was unarmed!" you'd fall to the ground, feigning great pain, making Daeron double over in laughter. 

Rolling yourself over to Gwayne, you groan in false agony and throw an arm over him playfully. 

"Why have you struck the maiden, Ser? Whatever had she done to you?" he gasps, playing along. 

Daeron circles around the pile of you two on the ground-

"Because... she was an assassin! Working for you!" he mispronounces assassin, making you laugh and turning your face into Gwayne for a moment. 

"What?! How'd you know?" Gwayne exclaims, reaching out to playfully grab at the boy, much to his delight, making him squirm away and run off giggling. 

You remained on the ground together, Gwayne shifting to drape an arm behind your shoulders and pulling you into him. You realized in that moment that it was the happiest you'd ever been. Lying on the dirt, a blue sky with drifting clouds overhead, tucked into the man you've been gradually falling in love with. It was perfect. 

And your nights were spent exclusively with Gwayne, wide awake in his chambers into the wee hours. Neither of you had to sneak out before the morn, neither had to worry about a sudden royal matter that would interrupt and risk your secrecy- it was pure freedom, something you'd known very little of your whole life. God, you could kiss this man forever for what he'd given you. True happiness, and above all, himself. He gave you himself, despite his apprehension and desire to stay as honorable as possible. He remained with the utmost respectability, and had gained you in the process. 

Your gaze shifts back to the guard suddenly right in the center of your sight, easily blocking and on defense to allow you to slip back into memory-

The trips to Oldtown carried on for years, and with them a quiet domesticity that racked you almost violently. You were able to taste family life, true family life, not the royal, political nonsense you'd been brought up in. Of course you always had to travel back to the Red Keep eventually, which only meant it would be Gwayne's turn to travel to you in the coming months. His arrival was always under the guise of visiting his sister, and you departure was under the guise of visiting your brother. Sometimes, you'd all travel together to King's Landing for a name day, or galas your presence was requested at. All occasions were met with great enjoyment, secret affections kept between you and Gwayne, and a certain warmth you felt every time Daeron was able to reunite with his mother. It all worked, really.

However, your importance to your family lied mainly from military tours, having rejected the dull womanly lifestyle that was originally expected of you in favor of battle- they labeled you Visenya reborn, which you certainly didn't mind, but it gave you notoriety and responsibility to leave when called. Your returns to Oldtown were always graced by the wide smile of your ever-growing brother and a relieved sigh from Gwayne. Your sweet knight worried himself sick during your long absences, always taking your face gently in his hands and looking you over for any fresh injuries. He'd look a bit more thoroughly later in the night after Daeron and the servants were fast asleep, and kiss every single inch of your skin that was even slightly marred.     

A few years into this arrangement, you learned Daeron was being sent to the lord of Oldtown, Gwayne's cousin Ormund, to act as his ward. The bubble of a peaceful family life that surrounded you three had finally burst. You worried endlessly for the boy, having heard rather unsavory stories about this cousin, but Gwayne assured you he'd take care of your brother. 

Then it remained the two of you. Your reason given to the council on visiting Oldtown for months on end had quite literally left, meaning it was more often in the hands of Gwayne now to exercise his desire to see 'Alicent' and visit the Red Keep. It mattered not that shuffling around in secret was what your relationship had come to almost permanently, you were still able to be together with the man you loved. All between your absences to fare with the army, his own knightly leaves, and just barely enough time passing betwixt visits to 'Alicent' to not be considered strange, your love never creased. A strong yet weightless love that felt as if the gods had entwined your very souls. But it couldn't last forever. 

A sharp sting of pain envelops your arm, thrusting you back into the present- you must have been slipping too far and lost focus. Your forearm is sliced through the sleeve, the first of your blood that has been spilt. It couldn't last forever. With renewed fervor, you go at the man, easily taking the upper hand.

"Gwayne, what are you doing? " Ormund seethes, looking to his cousin who's been frozen solid since your arrival.

Not that you could see, but Gwayne had flinched hard as you were cut, the only stiff movement he's been able to muster. Now he looks to Ormund, a wildly reluctant gleam in his eyes that he tries desperately to blink it away.

Ormund motions to you, then turns to Daeron and snaps his fingers in your direction as well. He'll use everyone he can, even a sixteen year old, before he steps into a fight himself. Anyone can see it's a move that screams cowardice. 

Gwayne and Daeron glance at eachother, a silent conversation passing between them. This was you- neither had forgotten. But neither can resist, not to Ormund. Fighting was their only option.

Just as the final guard falls to a heap on the ground, Gwayne draws his sword; enough obvious hesitation in his posture that would make one think he was about to drop it. But he doesn't, and takes a cautious step towards you. Every nerve and cell are screaming at him to lay down his weapon and adamantly refuse this- he can't fight you. Not the woman he spent so many years looking at like she hung the stars. His eyes stay locked on yours.

And you hold his gaze. A dull, hopeless feeling claws its way into you, that this is what it's come to. A moment away before fighting the man who wouldn't even spar with you out of reverence. You're well aware that you won't be able to kill him. Never, no matter what awful situation it was would you be able to kill Gwayne. You only hope that the remaining love still resides in him too, as he takes another step and deals the first unwilling swing, meeting your steel. And as your eyes keep hold of his glassy blue ones, you think back on your final trip to Oldtown- nearly a year before the war. 

Your reflection stared back at you in the vanity mirror, brushing through the silvery-white strands of hair mindlessly as Gwayne sat on the edge of the bed behind. Your gaze flits to him- seemingly lost in thought, one foot propped on the bed frame with an elbow over that knee, resting his chin in his hand. His drifty gaze finds yours through the mirror, strands of red hair falling over into his sight. Gwayne pushed them away and sat up straighter as you fixed him with a curious look.

"Are you alright, darling?" the sound of your soft voice visibly relaxes him, yet he still appeared to be grappling with an unknown thought. 

His eyes narrow just the slightest, a small, unsure smile appearing on his pretty face.

"...have you given any further thought to... marriage, in these last couple years?"

Your hand falters mid-brush, a subtle look of surprise crossing your features. The last time marriage was discussed was... well, years ago, the first time he arrived in King's Landing after that fateful tourney. You learned of eachother's feelings on the matter and from then on another discussion had never developed.

The brush lowers slowly from your hair, "Well... not especially." you reply slowly. 

Gwayne pauses with his gaze fixed to yours, before a quiet chuckle escapes him. A noise you would've claimed sounded vaguely disappointed if you didn't know any better. At least, you believed you knew better.

"Please, do not stop on my account, Princess." he must've noticed the neglect of your half-brushed hair, and motioned for you to come to him. 

Your lips curl into a bashful smile. He always called you princess when he wished to tease. 

You meander over, handing him the gilded brush before turning and taking a seat atop his thighs. Gwayne rests a hand over your hip to balance your position before sinking both into your hair, one running the brush lightly through the strands and the other raking through it's trail to ensure no tangles remain. His hands... calloused from swordplay but somehow so incredibly soft against you. You often found yourself unknowingly reaching for one, or drawing lingering barely-there patterns over it after he drifted off to sleep with you tucked against him. They never failed to feel incredible in your hair. 

"Well, I have thought about marriage since we last conversed about it," he admits quietly, his breath fanning against the back of your neck, "quite a few times."

Your heart stutters, hearing him speak so plainly. It's easy enough to guess what he's implying, and you'd be lying to yourself greatly if you said it had no effect. 

You consider for a few moments, letting a slow, honest smile grow on your face, "I have not pondered marriage itself, however... a life with you has certainly crossed my mind." 

"Has it?" he replied with a knowing, satisfied expression.

"Indeed." 

Gwayne didn't say anything more, continuing to brush through your hair as a comfortable silence ensued. Occasionally, you could catch glimpses of his face in the mirror across, a look of wholly content upon it. Your thumbs twiddle in the same content. 

Once your hair is thoroughly brushed, he sets it aside and leans into your neck, breath warm against your smooth skin, "We already have a life together, do you not think?" 

"I suppose we do..." 

You tilt your neck to bare more of it to him as he plants his lips there, peppering little kisses over its plane, slow and gentle as if only to get a taste of you. One of his hands brush your hair aside, the other trailing down your side and further down the hip to rest against the side of your thigh- holding you there with him.

Bathed in candlelight with the whole of Gwayne surrounding you, disregarding your deep-set feelings on marriage seemed like the most splendid idea in the world.   

He lifts his mouth off, voice nearly a whisper by your ear, "Then what's the harm in... making that life true?"

There it is- splendid. The feeling of everything being right within the world. You turn slightly, enough to see his clear blue eyes shimmering in a certain hope. 

"Are you asking me to wed you?" a grin is forcing its way onto your face, unable to help it. 

Gwayne only smiles back with a closed mouth, knowing exactly what he asked without confirming it. 

You shift over him the rest of the way, swinging your leg over to straddle him, with less of an effort wearing only a shift now. Your hands rest between your bodies, thumbs continuing to twiddle. Your expression is expectant. 

His smile subtly grows, and you swear you noticed his breath hitch just slightly as his eyes move between your own. He gazes with such reverence in the softly shared silence encompassing the moment. 

"Gwayne?" you question, voice quiet and hopeful. 

His eyes shift to your hair, hands lifting in turn to sift through the framing locks and push them back. He repeats the motion gently a few times, smile widening even more so all the while. He's always admired your hair, the pale, ethereal strands only added to Gwayne's idea that the gods took great care in creating you. 

"My pretty girl..."  he coos as his hands move to rest upon the sides of your neck, thumbs making little circles just above your jaw. 

"Breathtaking." he breaths, absolutely devout.

You blush. Even after years, you still weren't immune to his charms. Especially when they were as sincere as this.

"Gwayne... my love..." the words come out quiet and bashful, gazing back at him from under your lashes. 

Finally, his smile breaks into an open one.

"I suppose I am." he decides, using your phrasing from a minute ago, "Asking to wed you, that is. I'd very much like to."

Your heart skips a beat. This was really happening. A question you had once dreaded hearing, knowing the words betrothal, political, and uniting would follow. But now, in this moment, nothing followed but... love. A real love, a true match, not one made for political gain. One made between lovers. Your heart soared in a way it never had before.

"How could I refuse?" 

With a mile-wide grin, you lean forward and capture his lips with yours. 

And after you pulled away, foreheads resting together in awe, you said yes. Securing it.

However... the next morning gave you an utter punch to the gut. A raven had arrived, carrying news of your father's rapidly failing health- you were to return to the castle at once. The wedding would have to wait.

And with that, the gods were no longer on your side. A month into your stay for the foreseeable future at the Red Keep, you received a letter from Gwayne reading that he was to be shipped around Westeros for 'knightly duties'- a tour of sorts, if you will. But with Gwayne away for gods know how long, and yourself stuck in King's Landing until your father kicked the bucket, all plans of marriage slowly began to dissipate.

The better half of a year passed in a whirlwind, with little communication passed between you both, and the normalcy of your life ceased with your father's passing. Everything descended into chaos, and yet your thoughts continued to be occupied by your knight.

The day you finally received your great wish of seeing his face was the same day you realized you may never get the privilege again. It was over, a short, un-intimate end to what was once a flourishing love. It hadn't faded in the time apart... not at all. And now you had to throw it up out of your system. An impossible feat. 

You don't notice the tears pricking your eyes as your swords clash, or maybe you just refuse to acknowledge them. The memories feel suffocating, but being in this moment, fighting the person whom you loved dearly, brings a feeling you imagine is akin to being flayed alive. Facing dragon fire would be more forgiving than this.

Your bodies move in tandem, a dance of blades. You can sense the subtle hesitance in his swings, even as he uses full force, his eyes focused on the movements of the swords. A constant clang and clang, over and over as neither you gained the upper hand; on purpose. Just swings, pushes, and steps disguised as a fight to the death.

Gwayne trips backwards as you fight against his drive, just as a new pristine, very much unused steel collides with yours- Daeron joining the fray. Your chest tightens, unable to bring yourself to truly fight the boy, so instead you block and shift before he has time to react- shoving your shoulder into his just barely rough enough to send him to the ground. 

He grunts softly, eyes meeting yours briefly in surprise- you can only hope he understands the gist of your expression, which is stay out of this, please. Gwayne surges forward, having regained his balance, continuing this cruel cat and mouse game. Shouts of 'get up, get up!' echo distantly about the room, but you pay no attention, slipping into a rhythm. Body betraying mind, your movements shift into sharp offense- the shouts dissipating as you pummel your blade into his. 

He loses his footing once more at the onslaught, stumbling straight to the floor with his weapon clattering away somewhere nearby. Your movements are automatic. Towering over him, your sword hovers just above the delicate skin of his neck.

Gwayne's eyes are wide, pure shock written deep within his gaze as his chest heaves from exertion. He searches your expression, noticing something that nearly undoes him- it's not anger, not the smug satisfaction of having him at your mercy, no... cold realization. Fear. So much fear. 

Your breath trembles. Time seems to stand still, both of you staring down your sword into the other's eyes. What are your choices? Lift the blade and let him go? Drop it completely? The only truly reasonable action to take is to end it. He's at your mercy, yet showing such mercy at a moment like this is simply unheard of. 

In his eyes flash before you the entirety of your relationship- the sweet beginning, the bitter end. The only moment he can see in yours is the last, sickening image of your face after he hastily informed you of his position in the war. And the reason, the true reason he did as such- yes, Gwayne knew you would cry if his admission was spoken in private. But he also knew that if you broke down in front of him, he couldn't possibly carry through on what was expected of him. He'd have sunk to his knees right there, apologizing for being the cause of your tears, and vow to fight for whoever you wished him to. Or to simply run away, become nameless and wedded and never part again.

And to the destruction of his very soul, he knew he couldn't do that. At his core, above all, he was an honorable, respectable, and loyal Hightower knight. Always. 

But even still, it didn't prevent your devastated, tear-stained face from penetrating his thoughts and dreams. 

Now here you are once more, pale strands stuck to your skin wild and ruined with blood. Fearful in the purest way. An image just as haunting as the last.

Then, a shadow. Gwayne's blood runs cold as he looks just past your head, the shadow being his fucking cousin; sword held tight, not bothering to mask the quiet rage in his expression, taking careful steps to loom behind you.

Shit. 

Ormund's decided to take matters into his own hands. 

Shit.

Gwayne makes a split second decision. He holds his breath and lands a fast kick to your calf, forcing you knees to buckle and wobble down just enough for him to grab your arms. You have zero time to escape his hold, being pulled down and rolled over roughly to where his body rests over yours. 

"Stay down, stay down-"  he whispers sharply, yet not unkindly.

That's when you notice the block of a man that is Ormund shifting a few feet behind where you lie- sword hanging loosely in his grip, an audible sigh of annoyance drifting through the stale air. 

He was going to end you right there, behind your back... and Gwayne hadn't let him. 

Your gaze flits back to the man hovering over you, stuck still and not attempting to make any move at all. You're safe here under him. It almost reminds you of the past. He lets out the breath he forgot was being held upon realizing you weren't going to struggle, fingers loosening but remaining tense around your arms. You wonder if the digits are as soft as they once were.

What was to happen now? Has Ormund realized Gwayne's move was one of protection, or has he assumed his cousin simply hadn't seen him? 

Your eyes continued to hold eachother's, the air shifting; still fearful, but... clearing. Lips parted, quick breaths escaping from you both, and yet... clarity. Knowing. An unsaid understanding that you weren't swinging another blade at eachother, not today and not ever. 

You blink away tears that attempt to prick at your eyes again. Another silent pass of understanding that the love you shared absolutely remains, and it was in no way a love that was to be escapable. No, this was it. You were it for eachother.

It doesn't matter that Ormund is fuming in frustration mere feet away, doesn't matter that you have no idea whatsoever of how to get out of this situation, and it certainly doesn't matter that you know the consequences your next actions will have- whatever those actions may be. Abandoning your respective missions, at the very, very least. But hells, you may take Daeron with you anyway, a family reunited.

All you know is that you're right where you're supposed to be, surrounded by Gwayne, your sweet knight, together again through war and fire. That's all that matters.

The dust clears in your head, the clearest you've felt in many moons. Rightness settled. Gwayne's eyes flicked over your face, your beautiful, bloody face. His lips quirk into a smile.

"Run with me." 

By morning, there was scarcely a soul in the castle who had not heard some version of the tale.

The Lord of Oldtown was gone by the time you awoke, disoriented by the vast and unfamiliar weight of the room around you. Responsibilities had called him from his chambers as faithfully as the rising sun; its light seeping through heavy curtains in pale, reluctant streams, and gilding the bed where you lay. The air still held the hearth's dying smoke, and beneath it, the faint, unmistakable scent of him.

You dressed without haste, smoothing your hair, arranging your robe and settling your composure as carefully as if you were about to step into a throne room.

There was no sense in skulking through corridors like a guilty child. Whatever had passed between these walls was not something you would carry with shame - not because it was innocent, but because you understood perfectly well the power of refusing to act as though it was a sin.

The guards stationed outside did not speak when you emerged. They did not need to.

One brief, flickered glance told you everything you needed to know -

A castle might be built of stone, you knew, but it survived on whispers.

On the walk back to your apartments, you felt it; the unsettling, quiet certainty that the story of your absence had already travelled through the bowels of the Hightower, slipping from tongue to tongue like smoke, seeping through cracks and under doors until it clung to every corridor.

Your maid confirmed it the moment you stepped inside.

Her eyes swept over you once; not rudely, not accusingly, but with the unmistakable shock of someone who had spent the better part of the morning wondering where you had gone. Her gaze lingered on your hair, your robe, the way you moved, as if searching for proof.

The room grew strangely still.

Another maid, folding linens, suddenly found the fabric fascinating. She smoothed and refolded, smoothed and refolded, as if her life depended on its creases. You realised, with a faint and cold amusement that she was dutifully making a bed she knew had not been slept in the night before.

The third girl - the one whose voice had carried loud enough to reach the door - fell abruptly silent. She did not speak again, but her face said everything she dared not utter.

By midday, the whispers had reached even the maester.

It was the expression on his face - the careful, sorrowful gentleness etched into his brow - that gave him away.

"Lady Y/N." He bowed.

The Hightower's maester was an old, tired man. He possessed no sharp edge, no gleam of malice; only the fatherly softness one expects of a healer. Today, however, he bore a weight in his posture that had nothing to do with age. He glanced toward the door as he stepped forward, ensuring it had shut firmly behind him.

You were alone. The book you had been reading was slowly set open on the windowsill.

You marked his approach, the stiffness in his shoulders, the restraint in his step. He looked at you as though you were something fragile, something wounded that might startle if he approached too quickly.

His demeanour alone told you this was no routine visit.

"I hope you will forgive my presumption, my lady," he began, his voice gentle but heavy, freighted with pity. "I thought it prudent that you should have this."

Your gaze shifted from his lined face to his hands. Slowly, he drew back his grey sleeve to reveal a covered clay pot; a quiet little remedy for a scandal the castle had already decided was not yours to control.

The maester would not meet your eyes.

Your own narrowed on his face.

"And why, precisely, do you believe I require moon tea, Maester?"

The question hung between you, thick and unmoving.

"My lady..."

His expression tightened. He was not a liar. He was a good man; a man who understood that kindness could sometimes be more cutting than cruelty.

You waited.

At last, he drew a breath so deep it shook his chest, as if the words were difficult to pry loose.

"I fear Lord Ormund may have taken advantage of his position."

The room went still.

For a long while, the only sounds were your own steady breathing and the faint, muffled murmur of guards beyond your door.

Then, perhaps mistaking your silence for fear, the maester hurried on.

"His lordship is much respected, I know. But I also know his temper, and I am old enough to have seen what anger can make of a man."

It did not take long to understand what he implied.

Without invitation or ceremony, he stepped forward and set the pot upon the table between you. The soft clack of clay on wood seemed to echo. His smile was sad, sympathetic, utterly certain he was saving you.

"Lord Ormund has many virtues, but he is a man accustomed to obedience..." He paused, gravely.

He did not need to finish. You already understood.

Your voice was quiet, level when you finally spoke.

"You believe he took me against my will?"

The old man looked stricken that you would speak the word aloud. He paled, glanced once more at the door and wrung his hands, nervously. He exhaled a shaky breath and lowered his voice until it was barely more than a whisper, a secret shared between shadows.

"I believe," he said, weighing each word with deliberate care, "that you may not have felt able to refuse him."

There it was.

It had not once occurred to him that you might have chosen Lord Ormund of your own will. That you had sought him out. That your every ambition was to make him yours.

He could not fathom the notion that a young, sweet, highborn lady such as yourself might desire a man like him.

He simply thought you had survived him.

Your face remained calm, giving nothing away. You would not let the insult sting.

You had spent weeks learning the shape of Lord Hightower's pride, the rhythm of his temper, the way his mind turned and turned in the dark. And yet, to everyone beyond his chamber doors, you were merely a girl unfortunate enough to catch the attention of a dangerous, unpredictable man.

The maester pushed the pot toward you across the wood. His gaze kind, sorrowful.

"You need not explain anything to me, my lady."

A strange kindness; a strange cruelty.

"I only wished to ensure you are not left to bear the consequences of something done against your will."

You held your silence a moment longer, weighing the choice with the same cold calculation Lord Ormund himself might have used.

Drink the tea - and you confirm the rumour. It would not matter that you had gone to him willingly; the story would harden into fact. The meaning of that night would be judged, twisted, carried onward until it reached ears you could not afford to offend.

Refuse it - and the path forward was harder to foresee.

And so you made your choice, smiling up at the maester, untroubled and serene. You covered his hand with yours with affection, and spoke the plain, unvarnished truth.

"The tea is not necessary, Maester." Your gaze held his, steady and clear. "You assume I was wronged. I have not been, and I promise you I am quite well."

The news did not spread loudly.

Oldtown was too old, too careful, too well-acquainted with secrets to indulge in anything so vulgar as open gossip.

The information moved instead through lowered voices in the corridors, through glances exchanged between servants the moment you turned your back, through sudden pauses in conversation whenever you or Lord Ormund stepped into a room.

By day's end, you understood exactly what the castle believed:

You had spent the night in Lord Ormund's chambers.

You had not returned until morning.

You had refused the moon tea.

And whatever else they might have whispered, one conclusion had begun to settle above all others, slow and inevitable as the tides -

Whatever had passed between you behind those doors was no fleeting indiscretion.

Whether spoke aloud or not, the castle had quietly begun to regard you not as Ser Gwayne’s betrothed, but as the woman at Lord Hightower’s side.

Over the days that followed, you watched in silence as the castle began to shift and change around you.

There were no proclamations. No formal decrees. No words spoken aloud that might be called presumption. Yet you saw it everywhere, in the small unguarded things - conversations softening the moment you stepped into a room; servants pausing, waiting, seeking your approval before they so much as poured wine; lords who had once looked straight through you as if you were glass now turning to you first, waiting for your opinion as though it carried weight equal to law. Fresh flowers appeared in your chambers each dawn. Your favourite dishes appeared at table without instruction. Men bowed lower, deeper, as if you already stood beneath a higher roof.

It was as though Oldtown itself had quietly reached a conclusion - had rearranged itself around you - before anyone had thought to speak any announcement.

And beneath all that silent speculation, something quieter still was taking root.

You found yourself in Lord Ormund's study by day, seated near him while he worked, reading or stitching or simply watching him weigh words and men with that same cool, unhurried calculation. He did not ask you to leave. He did not explain. He simply spoke to you as he worked - of law, of treaties, of plans - as if your opinion mattered.

When he received his lords or held audience, he gestured for you to stand beside him, not behind, and no one dared question it. You said little. You watched. And you began to learn the shape of his mind as thoroughly as you had already learned the shape of his pride.

Had you marched into your chamber that first morning and declared your place beside him, had you demanded honour or title of deference, the castle would have stiffened. Prideful people always resist being told what to think. They would have called you ambitious. Presumptuous.

But no one resisted a mere assumption.

No one fought a fact they believed they had discovered for themselves.

They simply shifted around it - adjusted their lives, their manners, their expectations - as if it had always been this way. As if you had always belonged there.

When the head housekeeper found you in the gardens a week later, you almost laughed outright.

You sat in the sun, embroidery in your lap, when she approached and curtsied low - lower than she had ever curtsied before.

"My lady."

You looked up, brows drawing together. In all the weeks before, she had never once sought you out. You were a guest then. A visitor. A noblewoman passing through, with no hand upon the running of the Hightower.

But now? If rumours were true - if you were indeed the one who held his eye, his bed, his favour - then learning your wishes was not just a courtesy. It was preparation.

She hesitated, hands folded tight before her.

"Forgive the intrusion, my lady. I came to ask... with regard to Lord Hightower's chambers."

Something flickered in your chest, sharp and warm. "His chambers?"

"Yes, my lady." She kept her gaze respectfully lowered. "I wished to know whether fresh linens should be laid more frequently, and whether more blankets ought to be added to the bed? The nights turn chill, and..." She paused, then finished softly. "I wanted to make sure everything is to your liking as much as his."

You could only blink.

The question was simple. The weight of it was heavy.

Your gaze drifted toward the distant walls of the keep, buying some time. A guest would have deferred this. A guest would have said that is not my concern. But you were no longer merely a guest to them. And if you denied it now... You gave up everything they were already yielding to you.

"That sounds sensible," you said at last, a quiet, knowing smile touching your lips. "The nights have grown colder. See that it is done."

The housekeeper bowed, curtsied again and departed. You remained seated long after she had gone, the needle resting idle in your hand.

In that moment, you finally understood the true nature of influence.

It was not seized, you realised, nor was it demanded.

Influence was simply assumed.

Later that evening, you returned to your chambers to find something new hanging above your bed.

It was a new tapestry, woven with exquisite skill: the Maiden, pure and unblemished, her hands folded gently before her, stars caught in the weave of her gown. She was the very symbol of virtue, of innocence, of a woman kept whole and sacred until the altar.

There was no note. No explanation. But you knew his hand in it - the quiet, deliberate choice, the gift that said everything while admitting nothing.

He knew what the castle whispered. He knew what the maester had implied. And so he gave you the Maiden; a public declaration, silent and unmistakable, that whatever they thought had passed between you, you remained virtuous. You remained pure.

It was a lie. A beautiful, deliberate, gloriously hypocritical lie - and you understood, with a quiet, heated thrill, that he revelled in it. He had stood, breathless and undone before you; he had shattered in your hands, surrendered to your mouth, whispered your name like a prayer while you gorged yourself on him and stripped him of every last scrap of control. He knew exactly what you were, and yet he hung the symbol of innocence above your bed for all the world to see - as if he took a dark and twisted pleasure in the contradiction.

The whole castle would bow before you as a saint, while he alone would know exactly how utterly, sinfully his you were. He gave you purity publicly so he might better possess your corruption privately; and the hypocrisy of it, the arrogance, the sheer, masterful control of both stories at once, made your blood burn.

He wove his truths with exquisite care, but the greatest irony of all needed no weaving at all -

You had not lied. You had not claimed his name. You had not spoken a word of what had passed behind his door, nor made a single claim to his favour. Every deference, every bowed head, every soft-spoken courtesy had been born freely from whispers, glances and silence.

You had asked for nothing. You had simply allowed the castle to believe what it chose to believe.

Within the week, the shift had spread further. Ladies who had once regarded you as an outsider now sought your company, eager for a word, a smile, a look that might grant them favour. Knights and lords who had offered nothing more than distant courtesy now found reasons to speak with you, lingering by your side, watching your face. Servants who would not dare approach Lord Ormund with their own grievances began bringing them to you; small requests, quiet pleas, knowing that a word from you might soften his answer.

The castle had reached a dangerous conclusion.

They believed you held power over the Lord of Oldtown. Not the power of rank, but something far more difficult to control, something no title could bestow - the power to move him, to sway him. To soften his temper and turn his will.

And the most extraordinary thing - something you had not yet dared to speak aloud even to yourself - was this: little by little, their assumption was becoming truth.

At first, your presence in the council chamber was treated as an inconvenience; an oddity, a curiosity of sorts. You were there to speak on your father's behalf while his army marched toward Oldtown. You knew their numbers, where their strengths lay, and where their weaknesses frayed. To offer that information was your only stated duty.

The lords did not yet know what to make of you. Some assumed you sat there only because Lord Ormund allowed it. Others whispered that your father was a proud, foolish man; one who placed far too much weight upon the shoulders of a daughter.

You sat at the great table, quiet and watchful, while men twice your age shouted over maps and ink-stained fingers prodded at routes and supply lines. Parchment carpeted the wood of the table; carved markers stood in place of armies that had not yet stirred, territories that would soon decide the fate of the realm.

The problem hung over them, plain and heavy. The army could not linger in Oldtown long after the wedding, yet marching blind could prove far more dangerous. Especially with dragons patrolling the skies.

"We cannot afford to remain here for long," one lord insisted. "Every day we wait gives them time to fortify."

"And every day we rush forward without certainty risks walking straight into a trap," another snapped back, his patience already worn thin.

Lord Ormund said nothing. He merely reclined in the carved oak chair at the table's head, lifting his pomander slowly to his nose, inhaling, watching them bicker - calculating.

Just like him, you remained silent. But your eyes did not linger on the largest armies or the strongest castles. Instead, they drifted to a narrow, winding route marked near the parchment's edge; a road most men had already dismissed, simply because it was inconvenient.

But inconvenient did not mean useless.

You did not speak. You did not point.

You only looked.

Once.

Then again.

It was a long while before Lord Ormund noticed. His gaze shifted, followed yours, locked upon that thin, unpromising line.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then you saw it; recognition glimmering in his eyes, sharp and sudden, as if he had finally fitted the last piece into place. He understood.

"The southern road."

The room stilled.

You watched them bend to him. One word, and argument died. One glance, and grown men lowered their eyes. There was something dangerously, breathtakingly alluring about power so absolute; and you realised, with quiet, undeniable satisfaction, that you had begun craving the feeling of standing beside it.

One lord frowned, confused. "My lord?"

Lord Ormund pushed his chair back and stood. He leaned over the map, broad-shouldered and towering, casting a shadow over the table and every man seated around it.

"They have prepared for the obvious approach," he said, low and certain. "They expect us to move through the wider passes, where our numbers are our strength."

His finger came down, touched exactly the route your eyes had chosen.

"But this road allows us to divide their attention before they understand where our true strength lies."

Silence stretched, then broke; not in disagreement, but in the sudden, shifting weight of realisation.

Questions turned to possibilities. Possibilities turned to agreement. Within moments, the lords were debating the plan as though it had been Lord Ormund's brilliant idea from the very start.

You said nothing. You did not need to.

But across the table, the briefest glance passed between you. Not a word. Not a smile. Just a flicker - acknowledgement and something deeper - before he looked away again.

It was over supper that evening when Lord Ormund finally allowed himself to openly praise what you had done.

Only three places had been laid out in his private solar. The servants came and went with little more than the soft clink of silver against porcelain before retreating to the kitchens.

Young Daeron cleared his throat and reached for his goblet.

"I heard today's council ended rather abruptly."

Lord Ormund looked up from his plate, his gaze shifting to his ward. A faint, satisfied smile touched his lips, pleased the boy took such interest in the campaign.

"It did."

"And was a course of action decided?" The prince's voice held a nervous quiver when he spoke, each word carefully measured before leaving his lips.

"It was." Lord Ormund paused, deliberate and clear. "Lady Y/N decided it."

You offered only a modest smile, your attention fixed upon him. "It was merely an observation, my lord."

"A valuable one," Lord Ormund corrected at once. "One every man in that chamber was too slow or too foolish to see."

There was quiet disdain in the mention of his councillors. His blue eyes rested upon you, heavy and warm, before turning back to Daeron.

"The council spent the better half of an hour arguing over troop movements. Lady Y/N glanced at the map for scarcely a minute before seeing the flaw in the approach."

Daeron's gaze moved between you.

"I had not realised," his uncle continued, cutting his meat with slow, precise strokes, "that Lady Y/N possessed such a mind for war." He took a sip of wine, a faint, almost amused smile playing about his mouth. "She continues to impress me. I confess... I did not expect it."

You lowered your gaze, concealing your satisfaction; though you could not quite check the warmth rising in your cheeks.

Lord Ormund was not finished. He seemed entirely unaware of how much he was speaking.

"She listens more than she speaks, and when she does speak, it is only after everyone else has exhausted themselves shouting over one another." He nodded, as if confirming a truth to himself. "There is discipline in that. Rare in one so young."

"High praise," Daeron remarked, his voice lighter than his eyes.

Lord Ormund answered at once, with a quiet, absolute certainty.

"The Lady Y/N possesses uncommon judgement. I have commanded men twice her age who have contributed half as much."

You laughed softly, sitting back and tracing the rim of your goblet with one finger. "I simply knew none of them would listen until they had finished disagreeing with one another."

Lord Ormund laughed, low and genuine.

Daeron could only stare.

He had known the Lord of Oldtown almost all his life. He knew his habits, his moods, the way his temper could turn without warning. He knew him as well as any son might know his father. His uncle admired competence; he respected intelligence; he rewarded loyalty.

This was something else entirely.

Lord Ormund did not praise people. Certainly not like this; not with this warmth, this unmistakable pride in his voice. Not with that look softening his face every time you spoke. It was not weakness; weakness disgusted him. It was something far more unsettling.

Daeron knew his uncle better than he knew his own reflection. He recognised the shift instantly; the way his attention fixed upon you, the way he leaned slightly forward whenever you spoke, as if he did not wish to miss a single breath.

Something had changed. Daeron could not say precisely what or when; only that the Lord of Oldtown seated before him bore little resemblance to the man who had reluctantly welcomed you at his gates. Daeron had heard the whispers and dismissed them. Yet now, watching the way his uncle looked at you, Daeron felt his certainty begin to fray. A cold unease settled in his chest. The whispers no longer seemed so preposterous.

A sharp knock struck the door.

"Enter," Lord Ormund called. The fondness had not yet left his face.

The door opened just enough for the steward to slip inside. He carried a ledger beneath one arm and looked as composed as ever.

He bowed low. "My prince, my lord, my lady. Forgive the intrusion."

Lord Ormund sighed. "What is it?"

"The household seeks your instruction, my lord." The steward glanced briefly toward you, then lowered his eyes. "There has been... some uncertainty regarding Lady Y/N's accommodations."

Silence stretched.

Lord Ormund's expression did not change, but something in the room had shifted.

"Uncertainty?"

"The Lady's Hall, my lord."

Your heart gave a single, hard beat.

The steward continued carefully. "The kitchens wished to know... whether Lady Y/N should begin taking her meals there?"

Lord Ormund's eyes narrowed. The warmth in his face did not fade. It simply hardened.

"Where does this question come from?"

The man hesitated. For the first time, he looked uncertain. "It has been assumed that... given recent circumstances... Lady Y/N may soon take her place as the lady of this castle."

Lord Ormund's brow lifted.

His voice was very quiet. "Recent circumstances."

It was not a question.

"The maids speak of it, my lord. The guards... they confirm it. And-" The steward stopped, swallowing hard. "The servants have drawn certain conclusions."

The room went still as death.

Lord Ormund laid his cutlery down beside his plate; slow, precise, each piece aligned perfectly. He did not look away from the steward.

Daeron had paled. He knew that look. He knew the dreadful, waiting stillness that fell before the rage.

He glanced at you - wide-eyed, warning - and mouthed, silent and urgent: Leave. Now.

You only frowned.

You watched Lord Ormund take a slow drink of his wine, eyes still fixed upon his steward. It was a long moment before the goblet was returned to the table, set down so hard the wine sloshed over the rim and ran across the wood.

In a heartbeat, you understood exactly what had enraged him. He was not offended by the thought of you standing as lady of this castle; not by half. It was what they had implied beneath those words; the assumption that you had already fallen into his bed, that you had compromised yourself, that your place beside him was earned by surrender rather than by right and by name.

They had whispered you were ruined. They had treated your honour as a thing already spent. That - that insult to your virtue - was what he could not abide.

"My lord-" The steward held up his hands, panic rising in his face. "I meant no-"

Lord Ormund stood. His chair scraped loud and terrible against the flagstones. He moved slowly, calmly, with the weight of a blade being drawn.

Daeron rose from his seat and silently retreated to a far corner, as if he had done this a thousand times before, as if he knew exactly what came next.

"Lady Y/N," Lord Ormund said, his voice carrying through the room, low and terrible, "is a noblewoman of impeccable conduct. She is the daughter of a Great House and an honoured guest beneath my roof."

He rounded the table.

Every step brought him closer.

"My lord, I only thought-"

"Do you know what you have done?"

Lord Ormund's voice had dropped. It was not loud. It was not wild. It was cold and measured, infinitely more terrifying than shouting.

"You have stood in my chambers and repeated a rumour that questions the virtue of a lady under my protection."

"My lord, I meant no harm."

"No harm?" Lord Ormund took another step. "Do you understand what such talk implies? What it does to her name?"

His voice sharpened, cutting like a whip.

"I will not have her virtue questioned beneath my roof. Not by them. Not by you."

Daeron watched, silent. There was no hesitation, no doubt. His uncle spoke as one declaring a truth before the Gods themselves.

The steward bowed his head. "Forgive me, my lord."

But Lord Ormund did not seem to hear him. His anger had outgrown the man before him. It filled the solar, thick and suffocating, like something alive, something feeding on the insult done to you.

"Find every person who has repeated this," he said. Each word was distinct, unyielding.

"My lord?"

"Every person." His gaze did not waver. "They will learn the consequences of questioning her name beneath this roof."

Silence - absolute and breathless.

Then your voice cut through it. Soft, calm, and entirely unafraid.

"My lord."

Daeron looked to you as though you had lost your mind.

Slowly, you rose from your seat and stepped up to his side, skirts drifting across stone. You did not hurry. You did not flinch. You stepped into the space between him and his anger, placing yourself close enough to feel his heat.

You did so with quiet confidence, as though you already knew he would allow you, as though his anger was not something to cower away from. It was impossible not to notice the quiet reverence in your gaze as you neared him, like you found yourself drawn to the very thing everyone else had come to fear.

When your hand rested upon his arm, he did not calm. He did not soften. He did not yield.

He merely paused.

You could feel the rage in him - hot, wild, barely leashed - trembling beneath his skin like a caged beast. Every muscle was drawn tight, every line of him coiled and ready to strike. He did not turn to you. He did not look at you. But he held himself back. He clamped down on the fury that wanted to tear the room apart, locked it away, contained it.

He stood there, rigid and burning, swallowing up his wrath because you had spoken.

Lord Ormund could spend his life denying what happened behind closed doors, but there was an intimacy in the silence between you that no words, no lies could possibly disguise.

A man did not defend a woman's virtue like that unless she mattered; unless there was something to hide.

"You cannot punish a rumour into silence, my sweet lord," you said quietly, stroking his wrist with the most delicate of touches. "And my virtue is not so fragile that it requires the blood of servants to defend it."

He did not answer. He did not look at you. His jaw remained tense, his eyes still fixed on the steward. But the hand at his side slowly unclenched. He breathed - once, deep and jagged - fighting for control, fighting to master himself.

You pressed yourself closer, raised yourself onto your toes and pressed your lips to his jaw. A chaste, innocent kiss. Nothing more. Your next words were barely more than a breath, destined for no one's ears but his own -

"Let them whisper."

For a long, terrible moment he said nothing at all. Then slowly, as though forcing himself to move, he turned his head toward you. His eyes were still sharp with fury. The rage had not yet passed. It had only been diverted, held back, for you.

He did not yield. He did not calm. He simply... restrained himself.

You smiled at him softly, diffusing the situation with a serene, almost loving look. Your hand slipped from his wrist and affectionately touched his chest.

You turned to the steward. He was pale, trembling, looking between you and his lord. You could almost see the endless questions he dared not voice.

You offered him a small, polite smile.

"That will be all," you told him, calm and clear. "You may go."

The steward hesitated, glancing at his master, uncertain whether he had truly been dismissed; but Lord Ormund said nothing. He did not correct you, did not rebuke you for dismissing the man. He simply stood there, his eyes fixed upon your face, still burning, still holding himself in check.

"Y-yes, my lady." The steward bowed low and backed away. He left the room so swiftly that the door had barely closed before the sound of his stumbling footsteps disappeared down the corridor beyond.

Then, it was quiet once more, only the two of you, and Daeron watching from the shadows. Lord Ormund was still angry. You could feel it thrumming beneath your hand, hot and restless, but he no longer burned with it. He contained it, held it back.

His hand came up, closing over yours where it rested upon his chest. He did not speak. He did not need to.

Your palm remained pressed to him. The gesture would have been unthinkable from anyone else - a familiarity no one else would dare presume - but Lord Ormund did not recoil. After a moment, his gaze began to soften; not by much, not enough to be certain, but enough that Daeron - watching closely - saw the iron in him yield just a fraction.

You turned to the young Targaryen ward.

"My prince, I shall like to speak with your uncle in private. Would you leave us?"

The boy hesitated. It was not that he questioned your authority. It was that the idea of leaving you alone with Lord Ormund - in the aftermath of such fury; fury that had not yet spent itself - clearly troubled him.

Your eyes met his across Lord Ormund's shoulder. There was no plea in them. No fear. Only quiet, unshakable assurance.

I have this.

So simple a look; and yet, had he not been watching so closely, he might have missed it entirely.

Daeron hesitated a moment longer, then inclined his head.

"Very well, my lady."

But as he walked to the door, his gaze lingered. He saw the soft smile you offered his uncle; not the smile of someone soothing a temper, but the smile of someone who already knew she would be heard, would be obeyed. He saw your hand resting upon his uncle's chest, and the way he leaned into it, as if it were the only thing holding him to earth.

Daeron had never seen anyone stand before Lord Ormund's rage and make it yield without force. You did not cower. You did not flatter him. You simply reached for him as though you already knew exactly where his sharp edges were; as though his anger belonged to you more than it had ever belonged to him.

That was what unsettled him most. And as the door clicked shut behind him, Daeron could no longer deny the truth standing before his uncle -

You suited him.

The silence that followed was different now. No longer heavy with suppressed violence. No longer brittle with things left unsaid. This was something else entirely; something intimate, something shared.

You watched him in the quiet. Lord Ormund's expression was slowly settling back into its usual composure, but you knew him well enough now to see what still lay beneath it: the tension coiled tight in his shoulders; the faint, hard line between his brows; the restlessness of a man denied the quiet that always came after fury had spent itself.

You stepped impossibly close, your chest pressed up against him, and kissed his jaw again, your lips lingering this time for much longer than you had previously allowed yourself.

"I must confess, my lord," you whispered, "I have never seen anyone look so offended by a rumour."

He did not smile back.

"Is that what you believe this was?" His voice remained firm. "It was an insult."

"Ah." You nodded thoughtfully. "Of course."

Something in your tone made him narrow his eyes.

"You were very convincing, you know?" You bit back your smile. "About my virtue."

The words hung between you; not heavy, not strained, almost playful.

Lord Ormund's mouth tightened. "It is none of their concern."

"No," you agreed softly. You leaned in and kissed him again, lower this time, right where his jaw met his neck. "But for a man who claims to be guided only by faith and duty, you are remarkably easy to provoke when it concerns me."

You tilted your head back to examine his expression. His gaze held yours. You simply peered up at him, all innocence, your hand sliding slowly from his chest to rest just above the hilt of his sword. Your smile did not falter.

"...And I find I am rather grateful for it."

That caught his attention.

"Grateful?"

You nodded. "Yes."

He lifted a brow, though he did not smile.

"You just threatened to butcher half your household in defence of my reputation." Your voice was a whisper. "Most women must settle for poetry and pretty words. It seems I have received terror, a trembling steward, and the promise of slaughter." Your lips brushed him as you fought back a quiet giggle. "I must admit, this pleases me more than poetry ever could."

A long breath left him, and with it, the last of his rigidity. A faint, reluctant smile touched his lips.

"You are the only woman I have ever met who could turn a threat into a compliment."

"Perhaps."

You took a small step forward so that you could face him fully, your chest pressed flush against his, his sword belt pressing firm and unyielding into your belly. His heat wrapped around you like something tangible.

"You find this amusing?" The corner of his mouth lifted, fighting to stay serious.

"A little," you admitted. "But I also meant every word."

You lifted your arms and curled them around his waist, pulling him to you. He did not pull away. His own arms came around you instinctively, holding you close, as if he had no intention of ever letting you go. You had to tilt your chin high just to meet his eyes.

"You are very bold," he observed, to which you only grinned.

"So I've been told. By you, mostly."

Your fingers drifted to the collar of his doublet, toying with the button there.

For a heartbeat, he looked as though he might actually laugh.

"Tell me, my lord - what are we going to do about this rumour?"

Lord Ormund released a weary breath, as if the very thought of it weighed him down. He pulled you tighter still.

"It will not be easily silenced." His voice was low, resigned. "My household has already decided you are Lady of Oldtown in all but name."

You lifted a brow. "And here I was thinking the steward's words came as a surprise to you."

He rolled his eyes, but there was no true heat behind it.

"It has been difficult to miss." His hand stroked your back. "A second chair has been placed beside the hearth in my chambers. My bed has been piled high with more blankets I did not request, and my servants have ceased asking for my opinions or instruction. I trust they have been pestering you instead?"

You pressed your cheek to his chest and looked up at him through your lashes. "Guilty."

A low, warm laugh rumbled beneath your ear.

You hesitated before speaking, quiet and sure.

"So you have known all this time, and yet you have not objected to it. Why?"

His hand came to rest upon your head, stroking your hair with a tenderness that belonged only here, in this quiet space.

"I asked the Seven the same question yesterday morning." His voice was deep, steady, certain. "And I have come to believe that, in their wisdom, they removed Gwayne from this castle so that I might know you without distraction."

Your heart gave a wild, sudden beat.

"I do not believe," he continued, looking down at you as if seeing something sacred written in your face, "that the Seven would place a woman like you in my path, only to have me give her to another man."

You saw it clearly; not mere longing, but conviction. The absolutely unshakable certainty of a man who believes himself to be walking in the service of something greater than himself.

He looked at you as though he had discovered not merely a woman, but an instrument of providence. The Gods had not sent him a distraction, he thought; they had sent him someone capable of standing beside him, strengthening his House, advancing his purpose, and completing the work he believed he had been chosen to do.

You should have been afraid. To hear a man speak of longing as destiny, of desire as divine will; it should have sounded like a warning. Instead, something far darker and sweeter stirred and unfurled within you.

This was no longer a man tempted by something he felt he ought to resist. This was Lord Ormund Hightower - a man who had spent his life believing himself ruled by control, duty, and the will of the Seven - looking at you as though you were not a temptation to be cast out, but a truth he had been ordained to discover. You were not a test of his Faith. You were his birth right.

You realised, with a faint stirring of greed, that he did not merely want you. He had begun to justify you. To sanctify you. To weave you so deeply into the very fabric of his faith that to reject you would be to reject the Gods themselves.

He had wrapped you in faith, in purpose, in divine intention, until losing you to someone else would feel like blasphemy.

A man might be persuaded to set aside sin. But a man who believes the Gods themselves have given him something? Such a man would burn the world down before he let anyone take it away from him.

The thought raced through you, hot and bright. The thrill of the realisation brought a wave of desire impossible to resist.

"You believe the Gods brought me here, to you." It was barely a whisper. "Then let me be what they intended."

Curiosity flickered in his eyes, dark and intense.

Your next words were a prayer.

"I will not be a burden you must carry, my lord."

A faint smile touched your lips, your hand reaching to trace slowly along his jaw and the column of his throat.

"I will be your greatest ally, the woman who understands the thoughts you do not speak aloud. I will give you loyalty without hesitation. Devotion without end."

You felt his breathing change; deeper, heavier, quickening beneath your palm as you spoke.

"I will give you a House strengthened by my hand."

Your voice dropped, thick and sweet and ruinous. Every syllable was slow. Every word intentional.

"I will give you sons who bear your name."

Your fingers curled tight into the fabric of his doublet as heat coiled low and sharp within you, empty and aching.

"I will be a wife who does not merely share your bed, but who fucks you like she knows no God but you."

You held his gaze, and realised, with undeniable certainty, that your words were no longer a calculated game. They had ceased being one long ago. This was real. The truest version of you and your desires.

"The Seven have shown you the purpose they have chosen for you, my sweet lord, and you have followed it faithfully. Allow me now to exist as they have intended me to."

Something in him broke.

The composure he wore like armour shattered into a thousand pieces. What stood in its place was wild, unchained and entirely yours.

It was a collision more than an embrace; his mouth seizing yours in a bruising, demanding frenzy as he swept you clean off your feet. One hand locked beneath your jaw, the other clamped firm around your waist, iron-strong and unyielding. He tasted of wine and mint and the sharp, hot tang of anger not yet spent.

You surrendered to him instantly, meeting his fire with your own, breathless and burning.

For one brief moment you thought he might drop you - your long skirts tangling, impossible to hitch up and around him - but Lord Ormund had no intention of letting you fall. He held you so tight it was almost hard to breathe, the pommel of his sword digging sharp and impossible to ignore into your hip, a constant reminder of exactly who held you.

"You do not get to turn away from this now, from me." His words were a threat against your open mouth, rough as stone.

You did not want to. You arched into him and moaned; loud, unashamed, trembling at the sheer overwhelming need coursing through your veins.

Your eyes fluttered shut as he carried you across the room. Hard wood met the backs of your thighs when he set you down atop the table, sweeping platters and candles aside with a clatter. He spread your knees wide and stepped firmly between them, mouth never once leaving yours. Candles guttered and flared, wax spilling forgotten.

Nothing existed but him; the heat of him, the colossal weight of him between your parted thighs, the way he claimed you as if he had every right.

A low, guttural sound tore from deep within him, his hands dragging your skirts upwards, bunching them high at your hips, greedy and trembling. His mouth moved down the column of your throat - tongue and teeth, hot and claiming - sucking hard enough to leave marks that would last for days. It was worship and hunger and violence all tangled together; he kissed you as if he meant to consume you, as if he could never, ever get enough.

He reached the neckline of your gown and cursed; low and sharp, frustrated by the barrier. Instead of fumbling with the laces of your corset, he drew his dagger.

Steel flashed once in the candlelight - cold, bright, deadly - and slid clean beneath the ribbons at your chest.

One sure, decisive stroke.

Fabric and lace fell away.

Your breasts spilled free, bared entirely to him, and you arched, chest heaving, breath caught in your throat as you stared up at him.

He did not speak, only bowed his head and continued as if he had never stopped.

His mouth closed over you; hot, wet and relentless. He sucked deep and hard, pleasure and pain tangled together in one searing, sweet rush. You cried out, fingers fisting his hair, holding him exactly where you needed him.

Lord Ormund groaned when you pulled - a rough and broken sound - and sucked harder, as if he meant to drink you down, as if your body were his sacrament and he would perish without it.

You kicked off your slippers and wrapped your legs tight around his waist, reaching frantically for his sword belt, fumbling with the buckles; desperate to get him out of his clothes and to feel his skin on yours.

Steel and leather clattered to the stones, forgotten. He paid it no mind. He only pressed closer, heavy and hot, his weight pinning you exactly where he wanted you, and roughly bit at the swell of your breast before lifting his head to look at you.

His eyes were crazed, pupils blown wide.

Reverence and ruin in equal measure.

"The Seven made you for me." His voice was low, hard, unshakable. "And what is mine does not get given away. Not to kin. Not to anyone."

You were breathless. "I do not want to be given away."

He pressed his forehead to yours and locked your gaze, unflinching and deadly.

"You think I would let you go to him now?" The way he said those words made it sound as though the idea was preposterous, offensive. His lips hovered over yours, breath hot against your skin. He trembled above you as if containing himself bordered on impossible. "If anyone - even my own blood - dares think they can take you away from me... I don't care if it's my cousin, your father or the High Septon himself. I will smile as I kill them."

His hand came up to grip your jaw, firm and resolute.

"And if I cannot have you... I promise I will put a knife in your heart myself before I let anyone else touch you. You will die mine. Do you hear me? Mine."

"I am yours," you gasped, gripping the back of his neck and pulling him down to you. "Everything I am, it belongs to you."

He lifted you then, without warning, without a single fumble. Your legs wrapped tight around his waist, your breasts still bared to the candlelight, and he turned for the door without a single glance back at the wreckage of the table.

"Hold on to me," he commanded, rough and demanding against your mouth, his arm locked firmly beneath your thighs, supporting every inch of you. He strode toward the door, carrying you like a prize, like a relic, like something holy he had come to claim.

You were wild in his arms; fevered, unravelling, entirely unashamed. You arched into him, pressing every inch of your bare skin to his body, your mouth fastened to his jaw, his throat, kissing him with wanton, open-mouthed desperation; teeth grazing, tongue tasting, as if you meant to devour him whole.

You clung to him, hands tangled in his hair, body straining toward him, reckless and eager, as desperate to claim him as he was to carry you away.

The door flew open under his hand. He carried you from the solar and into his adjoining bedchamber like a man possessed; striding forward, unhurried in his purpose, your bare skin exposed to the cool air, your gown hanging in ribbons.

He did not attempt to cover you. He did not care.

He burst into the bedchamber and the room went still as death -

Three servants - scrubbing tables, changing flowers, tending the hearth - froze.

Their eyes went wide. They saw the Lord of Oldtown, face dark as storm clouds, carrying you half-naked in his arms; your dress torn, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, your tongue on his neck, his mouth still damp and red from yours.

You were feral.

Lord Ormund did not pause. He did not set you down. He stood there, holding you high against him, his voice dropping into something low, lethal and absolute.

"Out!"

The sound cracked through the room like a whip.

"...And if a single one of you dare speak a word of what you've seen - I will hang you myself."

They scrambled, bowing, tripping over themselves, snatching up armfuls of cloth, fleeing for the door.

Lord Ormund did not move until the last one had vanished and the door slammed shut behind them, the latch clicking loud in the sudden quiet.

Only then did he adjust his grip - still holding you, still never letting your feet touch the ground - and carried you straight to the great bed. He knelt slowly, lowering you onto the furs and linens. He did not step away. Instead, he settled himself between your knees, his gaze sweeping over you like he was memorising every inch, like he meant to own it all.

You instinctively arched toward him, breathless as you reached behind you to unclasp the remnants of your dress. The fabric pooled on the floor just a moment later, leaving you completely bare before him.

He knelt there, at the edge of the bed, and dragged your hips to the very edge. One arm locked around your thigh, coming to rest - heavy - across your waist. Your legs parted for him as if possessing a will of their own, knees bending and rising almost to your shoulders, exposing you to him completely.

He only stared, as if he had been waiting his whole life for this, as if he had never seen anything more perfect, more worthy of falling to his knees for. Nothing else existed - no Seven, no duty, no world beyond this bed and this moment and you.

It was as if this were the holiest sight he would ever know.

He closed his eyes and leaned in - slow and reverent - the tip of his nose nudging that sensitive little bud between your thighs. He breathed you in; deep, dragging, filling his lungs with the scent of your skin and your readiness. A shaky breath fell from his lips, as if he meant to carry that scent inside him forever; as if the smell of your arousal were sweeter than incense, more sacred than any prayer. He breathed you in again, and a low, broken sound rumbled in his chest - half worship, half rapture - before he pressed his mouth to the soft skin of your inner thigh - wet and needy - and looked up at you through drunk, heavy-lidded eyes.

His words were a caress. "The Seven could not have made anything more perfect."

He touched his lips to you then, no hesitation or gentleness. He pressed his tongue flat against you, tasting you, humming in satisfaction.

Heat and a desperate, unyielding pressure swept through you like fire, like flood, like something meant to decimate. His arms locked around your hips, holding you open, holding you still; possessive, devout and unrelenting. It was devastation and worship all at once; tongue and teeth, greedy and ruthless.

His arm pinned you down when you arched off the bed, trembling and crying out, your hands tangling in his hair, clutching, pulling, desperate to ground yourself.

Your head fell back, breath hitching in gasps.

He only groaned - low and deep and vibrating through you - and doubled his efforts, fiercer now, as if your pleasure and his were one and the same.

He drank down every shiver, every cry. He did not ease, did not pause. He only built the heat higher, stroke by stroke, as if he meant to pull your soul free and keep it for his own.

“The Seven gave me to you,” you gasped, hips rising to meet him, pleasure coiling tight and burning, bright and unbearable. “All of me - to use, to worship, to ruin. This is their will. Take what is yours.”

He answered with a stroke that made your back bow - sharp and perfect - and then again, faster, surer, as if your words had broken the last of his restraint. He devoured you, greedy and faithful all at once, driving you higher, heat spilling through your veins, your body trembling, straining toward something blinding.

“This is their will,” you cried out, tears spilling down your cheeks at the intensity of it, voice breaking as your pleasure crested, wild and overwhelming. “Don’t you dare stop. Don’t you dare-”

Your hands fisted in the linens, in his hair. Your back arched off the mattress and you cried out his name - loud, clear, like a vow spoken to the heavens.

Wave after wave of heat broke over you, all-consuming, shaking you to your bones, leaving you gasping, trembling, every nerve singing.

He did not pull away. He held you through it - gentler now, steadying you, drinking down every sound as you fell apart and drifted slowly back together.

It was a long while before you regained enough control to open your eyes.

You lay still, chest heaving, skin thrumming and oversensitive, as he lifted his head slowly. His eyes burned molten; stripped of every last veil of control, dark and devouring.

Lord Ormund rose to his feet by the bed, towering over you as you attempted to compose yourself, calm your ragged breathing, your core still throbbing with powerful, lingering aftershocks, every nerve raw.

His hands went to the fastenings of his doublet; rough, impatient, eager to be rid of the barrier between him and you.

“Let me,” you whispered, your throat raw as you pushed yourself up on trembling arms.

He paused at once, chest rising and falling hard, his gaze dropping to you as you sat before him, naked.

Your fingers brushed his as you took over, undoing clasp after clasp - slow and deliberate - drawing out the moment, peeling the heavy leather away to reveal him.

Your breath caught at the sight: broad chest, hard, sculpted lines, skin kissed bronze by sun, bared fully to the warm, golden glow of firelight. You set the doublet aside, your palms sliding over him slowly, reverently - mapping every ridge, every beat of his heart beneath his ribs - claiming him as fiercely as he had claimed you.

He hissed sharply when your hand drifted lower, toying with the buttons of his breeches, your gaze lifting to his from beneath your lashes, heavy-lidded and knowing. You palmed him through the dark fabric, slow and firm, enjoying the sight of his head bowing, his eyes fluttering shut, a ragged curse torn raw from his throat.

“Cruel,” he murmured, his hips jerking once, shallow and helpless, into your hand. “You play with a man already tortured past endurance.”

“Worship deserves worship in return,” you replied, your voice soft but unyielding. You freed him then - heavy, hot, and throbbing - and your fingers curled loosely around him, stroking once, slow and sure, feeling him pulse against your skin, watching him unravel breath by breath before your eyes.

He could bear it only a moment longer. His patience snapped thin. He caught your wrist - gentle but firm, stilling your hand - and sat down upon the bed beside you. One by one, he pulled off his boots, then dragged his breeches down and cast them aside, leaving him completely, gloriously naked: powerful, broad, all hard muscle and warm skin. Yours to look upon. Yours to touch.

The fabric had barely touched the floor before you were hooking a leg over his thighs and climbing eagerly into his lap. He welcomed you with a low, guttural sound, his hands settling at once on your hips, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

You did not wait for permission. Your lips found the column of his throat, kissing him there with open-mouthed heat - tongue and teeth, claiming the pulse that hammered beneath your mouth - while your hips began to rock slowly, deliberately against him. You felt him then, hard and heavy and hot, pressing right where you ached most, slipping through your slick folds, velvet over fire.

You were so wet it was impossible to keep him still; he glided easily, slipping over your sensitive bud, back and forth, drawing breathless gasps from you both.

Finally you reached down, curling your fingers around him to hold him steady, and pressed yourself against him, rocking slow and firm, again and again, letting every stroke pull the heat tighter.

“Perfect girl,” he praised, his face buried in your hair, his voice thick and breathless. His eyes were half-lidded, dark with pleasure, and his hands guided your hips, setting the rhythm. “Look at you. Taking exactly what you want.”

After a long, sweet while, he let go of your hips and leaned back, planting his palms flat against the mattress behind him and shifting you both further up the bed. He lowered himself to his back, folding one powerful arm beneath his head, and simply watched you. Dark eyes roamed over you slowly, over every curve, every line of you, needy and reverent all at once.

From this angle he had the perfect view. He watched the hard, heavy length of him glide wet and shining between your lips, slick and dark and beautiful against your skin, watched the slow, mesmerising roll of your hips; how you took him, how you moved, how you yielded and took and claimed all at once. He watched your breasts rise and fall with every ragged gasp, soft and full and moving sweetly with every rock of your body, and his breath caught in his throat each time you brushed over that sensitive, swollen place, each movement a torture he seemed to enjoy as much as you.

You placed your hands upon his hard stomach to steady yourself, feeling the taut, warm muscle shift and tense beneath your palms, and his free hand lifted to brush stray hair from your face; his touch so gentle, so tender, even as his eyes burned dark and molten with a need so fierce it nearly swallowed the room.

“I cannot get enough of watching you,” he admitted, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It is the holiest thing I have ever seen.”

Your movements never faltered. Pleasure was building in you once more - bright, tight, unbearable - your lips parted, breath coming in soft, broken cries that spilled freely from your throat.

“So beautiful,” he murmured again, thick with desire, his jaw tightening. “And mine. All of you.”

You could not help it. The sounds spilling from your throat were too loud, too reckless — if you did not muffle them, the whole household would hear exactly what their lord had reduced you to. And so you leaned forward and captured his mouth with yours, kissing him hard and hungry, messy and desperate, swallowing each other’s moans, tasting your own sweetness on his lips, protesting softly when the need for air forced you apart, if only for a heartbeat.

Your hands slid down, trembling, over warm skin, over the ridge of muscle beneath his ribs, lower still until your fingers found him; heavy, hot, throbbing wildly, pressing hard and proud against the hard muscle of his stomach, veins pulsing beneath your touch. He hissed sharply when your fingers curled around him, his hips jerking once beneath you.

He did not push. He did not demand. He only watched, blue eyes fixed intently on where you held him, where you glided over him; wet and slick and perfect, never quite taking him, never quite giving either of you what you burned for.

"Like this," he commanded, voice ragged, one hand coming to rest over yours, his large, warm fingers guiding you, positioning him to rest heavy right where you ached most - but not inside. Never inside. "Glide over me. Just like this. Let me feel you. Let me watch you take your pleasure from what is mine."

And you did. You lifted your hips and sank again, slow and agonisingly sweet, the hard throbbing length of him dragging through your folds, pressing firm and perfect against your most sensitive place - but never breaching; never giving you what you burned for.

You gasped, head falling back, every nerve coiling tight and burning, and did it again; slower, harder, trembling as he slid over you, right there where you needed him most, maddeningly close and still so far away.

"Just like that," he groaned, his hands gripping your hips, guiding you, setting that maddening, relentless rhythm. "Look at you. Using me. So wet. So eager. And all for me."

You gasped, fingers digging into his chest, your movements growing faster, sharper, need coiling tight and blinding in your belly. "My lord-"

"I know." His voice was low, unrelenting, his eyes fixed on where you rubbed yourself frantically over him, glistening and swollen and desperate. "Take it. Take all you need, my sweet girl."

You cried out, broken and pleading, and rocked harder, chasing that all-consuming peak; every stroke dragged fire through your veins, your body shaking, straining, teetering right on the edge.

He watched every gasp, every shiver, every desperate roll of your hips; his face flushed, eyes black with need, worship and hunger warring in his gaze.

"That's it," he praised, voice thick and breathless, rough with his own fraying control. "Come for me. Let me watch you fall apart."

The coil snapped. You cried out his name, body arching sharply, hips stuttering and seizing as pleasure tore through you - blinding, white-hot, overwhelming. You rode the wave, trembling and sobbing his name, gliding frantically over him as the ecstasy shattered you and left you gasping, shuddering, every nerve raw and oversensitive, thrumming and entirely spent.

He let you; watched you come undone completely on top of him, his hands never leaving your hips, his gaze drinking in every moment, every sound, every beautiful broken thing you were. His chest heaved, his own restraint stretching thinner by the heartbeat, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps.

He groaned, low and guttural, his hands gripping you so hard his knuckles blanched against your skin. His control was fraying, fast, unravelling thread by thread, and he could no longer look at you without his body screaming for release.

You leaned down then, lips brushing his, your voice soft and knowing, devastatingly sweet against his mouth.

"Did you enjoy watching me, my lord?"

That was what broke him. The arrogant, knowing tone of your voice; calm certainty, entirely aware of exactly what you had done to him.

Every last thread of restraint snapped. He arched up, gripping you bruisingly hard, his fingers digging into your skin, his hips surging forward, wild and desperate, straining to push inside, to bury himself deep and end the torment.

He went to pull you down, to drive himself home, his face flushed dark, eyes wild and fever-bright, nothing left of his calm composure - only need, raw and unyielding.

And you smiled.

You stayed exactly where you were; hovering, gliding, maddeningly close, pressing right against him and still refusing to give him what he ached for.

“No,” you whispered, rolling your hips, slow and deliberate, watching him unravel, watching the desperation war with the command in his face.

His eyes narrowed on you, the cool, calculating expression of the Lord of Oldtown reappearing across his handsome face like a mask slipping back into place, sharp and commanding even through the haze of his need. He raised himself up to sit, straining upward, every muscle coiled tight and trembling, corded and hard beneath warm skin, fighting to close the distance, desperate to bury himself inside you.

His voice was a deep and rumbling threat when he spoke - low, imperious, used to being obeyed.

"Surely you do not wish to disappoint me."

You released a small, breathy laugh, soft, light and utterly unafraid.

"Never, my love." Your voice was a whisper, sweet and smooth. Your brows furrowed into a sly, theatrically empathetic expression, as if you truly felt sorry for denying him - your smile told otherwise; you revelled in this. You brought your lips to his ear and breathed -

"...But I will not be your whore."

A sharp knock came at the door.

Neither of you moved to answer it. Neither even glanced in its direction. He did not care who came. He did not care for anything but you, right now, this moment, and the torment of your withholding.

“I am yours,” you said, soft and clear and unyielding, your hand wrapping firm and tight around him once more. “But I will not have you inside me. Not until I bear your name.”

You gripped him then - firm, deliberate, hard - and he shuddered, his lips parting on a ragged gasp, his forehead falling to rest against your chest, heavy and hot and desperate, proud and powerful Lord Ormund reduced to something soft and wanting and entirely at your mercy.

Another knock - louder, more insistent.

He lifted his head, eyes flashing dark and furious toward the door, his patience worn thin, his body still straining toward you, throbbing in your hand. He shouted, voice sharp and rough with impatience.

"What is it?"

A voice came from behind the wood, clear and steady.

"My lord, a ship has entered the harbour. Ser Gwayne has returned from King's Landing."

He screwed his eyes shut and groaned, a long, low sound torn from his throat, his wet mouth hovering over your skin as you squeezed him harder, slow and deliberate, feeling him pulse and throb in your palm, completely undone by your touch.

Your smile did not falter - soft, knowing, victorious - for you knew, with absolute certainty, that he was completely at your mercy. His hips bucked helplessly, sharp and uncontrolled, and he gasped your name, broken and quiet, against your skin.

“You will learn what it is to burn for me, my lord,” you murmured, leaning in to brush your lips against his ear, your voice soft and sweet and final. “To ache for me.”

You squeezed him once - slow, firm, unrelenting - and then stilled completely.

You placed a finger beneath his chin and lifted his head, forcing him to look at you. You leaned in, lips brushing his, your gaze locking with his - bright, steady, unshakable - and spoke slow and deliberate, every word dropping like a crown set upon his ruin -

“The patient hunter gets the kill.”

It hit him harder than any touch ever could.

His eyes fluttered closed, his jaw fell open, and a sound tore from his throat - half-gasp, half-sob, raw and broken and utterly animal. His whole body arched off the bed, spine bowing, every muscle seizing up taut and trembling. He spilled himself instantly, violently, pouring over your hand and his stomach in thick, shuddering waves, completely undone by nothing but your voice and those six words.

He heaved and gasped, his hands clutching at your wrists, his grip weakening as the pleasure shattered through him; blinding, overwhelming, stripping him of every last shred of control and pride.

His head fell back, throat bared, body quaking in endless, ragged aftershocks, and he cried out your name - once, broken and breathless - before collapsing back against your breasts, spent, heaving, and entirely yours.

He could not speak. He could not breathe. He sat there, trembling and burning, knowing with absolute certainty you had hunted him down, and you had killed him with nothing but a whisper.

___________

TAG LIST

It was your church’s annual gathering, for such a small town, this was the most extravagant event every year. Christmas and Easter were a close second. 

“Sweet lamb, you look great today.”

You felt your mouth dry up, his auburn hair falling so perfectly into the frame of his face, a soft smile on his pink lips, and gosh, his eyes. Sensations overwhelmed you, especially by the lack of provocation you have been feeling after being a stick-in-the-mud your entire life. It felt like the air in your lungs had been stolen in broad daylight.

Like the sweet little lamb you were, you only smiled, your parents gushed, like he was one person away from Jesus, only if they knew who was wearing his skin, what was underneath all of the falsities he wore. Everyone at the church greeted him, small place, yes, but it seemed smaller when he loomed over you. Your father had been going on and on about how his stallions escaped from your ranch and how he hoped that God would be of great help if they found their way back home—as if one desires to go back. Ormund’s gaze was unnerving, which made you stare at your hands and the floor, the usual. 

You couldn’t bear to look at another person your age, or else he would have found a way to banish them from your life. Your first boyfriend left because of family reasons, the second friend was somewhere along the lines of losing faith in the religion, the other one … you could not remember. One way or the other, Ormund made it his imperative to make your life a living hell, he had you wrapped around his fingers. Like a serpent squeezing the life out of its prey before devouring it whole. 

The people around you turned quiet. 

That was new. 

Your gaze snaps back from the floor as you hear the murmurs of the other churchgoers, your father went silent, your mother’s overt curiosity had gotten the best of her, Ormund looked at the entrance—the sole reason all of them went quiet, it was a man, a little under Ormund’s height, hair a little longer than usual and the same colour as the pastor, and striking blue eyes. 

The sight of the newcomer breaks the very hymen of your guiltlessness, your very introduction to why you repented for sins. Something horrifying reared its head inside you, your flesh realising it has needs, needs that must be met. 

“Ah, cousin,” Ormund dryly says, the man weaving through the crowd, going closer to your small group.

You felt your mouth dry up. Sensations overwhelmed you, especially by the lack of provocation you have been feeling after being a stick-in-the-mud your entire life. 

“Sweet lamb, this is … Gwayne, my cousin, he was off to be a climate missionary elsewhere … whatever young people like you do nowadays.”

Gwayne. 

You repeated his name on your lips, the one syllable rolled smoothly on your tongue and almost … attuned to the mere utterance. 

“You are the sweet girl my cousin has been praising for weeks now,” he beams at you, placing his hand on your shoulder to give it a loving squeeze, “I heard about your community gardens, usually the others opt for the soup kitchens and donation drives, God bless them—but never climate- or plant-related ones. I’m impressed.”

“Why, thank you kindly, all in God’s grace, He guided me through it all,” you softly replied, a big smile on your face as the latter grins at you in response. 

You utter small apologies in your head in advance but … God, you were rendered weak. You were enthralled by him, your legs involuntarily squeezed themselves with the ache that was set deep within you. 

Ormund saw right through you and silently seethed, solely planning and picking his battles and quickly before his sweet lamb was taken away from him. 

Your parents started to prattle about your achievements in the Church and in your academics, you were such a good and loving kid. They were blessed to have such a wonderful daughter like you. Ormund’s ears started to ring when Gwayne kept asking, as if their every reply had evoked more of his cousin’s curiosity. 

“Lamb … you have other guests to tend to, do you not?” Ormund asked casually, Gwayne’s gaze was on yours, and you could have melted on the spot, but your body started heating up when your eyes met. 

Guests, the anger in his tone was not hard to ignore, that was code for ‘meet me in my office in five minutes’, and in some twisted way, you obeyed, like the lamb you were.

Everyone was absorbed in their busy conversations, friends catching up, families bickering, and friends sneakily gossiping—it was always the same, the same day every year. 

You were already on your knees by his desk chair when he arrived, there was a condescending smile on his face as he locked the door and approached you.

“Lamb, you’ve been awfully mean to me today,” he cooed, taking a seat right in front of you, his legs wide open, prompting you to kneel between them. 

“‘M sorry, Pastor, I didn’t mean—”

He tutted, a finger on your lips to silence you. “Didn’t I tell you not to look at men like that? That is how sin is created: you taunt the demon out of them, and it will bite you back, sweet lamb.” 

He undoes his belt and zipper, his hips shifting upwards to push down his pants and briefs down a few inches, his angry cock slapping against his clothes stomach. 

Ormund grabs the back of your head while the other holds the base of his hard length, the reddened tip of it touching your lips before it was separated by only a string of your saliva and his precum. 

“Spit on it, lamb, baptise the gift of God.” 

You collected a glob of spit in your mouth before drooling it all over the tip, his hand held his cockhead before smearing it down the base, groaning in relief as he jerked himself off in front of you. 

Ormund never touches you, he found you too fragile, too meek, too … weak. One time, you asked for it, to let him have you, but he gave you a speech as to why his sweet lamb wasn’t ready to be sacrificed to Jesus. He only looks at your face, and it seems that it does the job for him. 

Ormund talks about sin full of hatred but reeks of it. 

You could see his thighs twitch, which indicates that he’s close. He always finished in your mouth, so the gift of God would give you the chance to speak the word of God.

“No, not today, sweet lamb, sit on the table,” he gritted out, slowing the strokes of his hand on his cock.

You did what you’re told, Ormund’s hand on both of your thighs as he opened you up to him—your heart pounded, you could feel your wetness run down your panties as you eagerly watched his next move. He pushed the lace aside, sliding the tip of his cock in your folds, gathering your slick with it—he groaned inwardly as he attempted to control himself, he teased you with up and down motions before he entered you with just the tip. Your walls fluttered around nothing as you mewled, you were throbbing in need as Ormund gave you a taste of what you cannot have, yet. 

He left you empty, spitting in your cunt to lubricate his movements as he held your underwear as he only fucked you through your folds, barely giving you any attention as he was finally near his orgasm.

“Please,” you whispered, “please, Pastor, I need you.” 

“Soon, my lamb, you will have your salvation soon. Now be grateful, or God would be displeased with your actions,” he moaned. The slick sounds of his cock using your puffy mound filling his office only made the aching need move from your cunt up to your chest. 

Ormund twitches in his fingers, his hot cum spurting onto your shiny cunt, baptising all of your woes and doubt, in hopes that he makes you feel special. He needed to own his sweet lamb, to let the others know that you are his and no one else’s, and under the eyes of God: he was indelibly swooning for you. 

He pants over you as he slowly glides his cock, making a mess on you and your underwear, through the stickiness, he puts the slick fabric to its original place, making you decent, almost. 

He fixes himself, zipping himself up as he admires you, giving your figure a once-over before he fixes his black slacks. 

“You can go now, sweet lamb, you did good for me.” 

His words made you blush. 

But that doesn’t do much to the frustrations coiling up in your stomach and so you suppress them, like you always did, you were his sweet lamb, no one else’s to choose and love. 

A sense of shame had made a home in your heart as you walked the empty halls, you worshipped Ormund, yes, but he only worshipped himself. Never his sweet lamb, never you. You were too sweet to be angry at your Pastor, so you stayed quiet, but you couldn’t help shake off the feeling of being watched so you walked a little faster.

Before the sermon started, you were by the last pew, guiding the elderly to their seats, sitting at the very end, alone. It was always your spot, some peace and quiet, the fans were less noisy, and the sunlight hit your skin in the best way possible. 

Ormund made his way to the very front, taking all of the attention in, like a wolf in a herd of lambs. You liked this spot because he couldn’t see far back, too busy revelling in his long speeches and toothy grins at God and His word, you were alone here, with God looking over you. He placed the bible and his stack of papers on the lectern and smiled, feeling the choir and the piano, singing along, almost as if he was God himself. 

Someone takes a seat beside you. It was Gwayne.

The ache came back, and you squeezed your thighs to quell the growing heat, which only lasted a couple of seconds before you felt the mix of your wetness and Ormund’s cum in the laces of your underwear. You stayed very still, trying not to faint—or lose sight of Ormund—as Gwayne smiled at you. 

“Took you long enough, you were gone for a while,” he whispered. 

“I had to gather some things out in the back before the mass … but I’m here now.”

Gwayne looked at you, this was the first time being in one’s gaze without scrutiny and it was unsettling for a change. You only held his gaze with a soft smile as the seconds passed between you. 

“You know, there’s a saying in the book of Psalms ‘… If I go up to the heavens, you are there, if I make my bed in the depths, you are there,’ … if I am here in this Church, are you still there?”

You giggled at his words, the meaning of it met deaf ears and a closed mind, “is that how people flirt nowadays?”

“Maybe. Problem, sweet lamb?” 

That interaction of yours was the planted seeds of your growing orchard, going straight back to the tree where the snake had tempted Eve. 

Only until then, you’d soon realise that one of the wolves was underneath sheepskin—soon enough, you’d realise that it had shown you its teeth under false smiles and grins. 

By the time the autumn chill bled into the bones of the town, the deceit had already poisoned everything you held holy. The sacred had rotted into something dark and hungry, creeping so quietly into your life that by the time you noticed the venom—you were already drinking it willingly, too willingly.

It was the night before the first Sunday of November. The church was empty. Gwayne had joined you guys for over a year now, and the depravity inside you had taken over the baseness of your spirit. 

Your virtue was fucked the moment he stepped through those doors, and you, sweet little lamb, had been praying for this itch to leave, for this ache to subside, for this craving to fade. 

Gwayne took over the sermons most Sundays; you had long forgotten about the spot in the back. Now, you always sat in front, to see him closer, to wear your prettiest dresses in hopes he’d hike the skirts up to ravish you like an animal, just like how God intended, like how repentance was made for acts just like this. 

Jesus died for your sins … what’s one more sin?

Gwayne constantly reminded you why Eve was Adam’s missing rib—you were Gwayne’s and he was yours; you completed each other in ways that no one else could. There comes the noticing, the dancing around, how you’d squeeze your thighs whenever he holds his gaze on yours, how his pretty lamb watches him like he is the only one there. 

Unfortunately, Ormund felt that shift, the magnitude of the change in your attentions and desires, whenever you were in the room with him, he would feel so alone. 

Ormund’s lonely eyes were a slow, drowning weight, but Gwayne was a sudden storm you could not pray your way out of. You were supposed to be the good girl, the soft and pious thing raised to sit still and keep quiet, the smartest daughter and an advocate for the needy, but the church walls couldn’t save you from the way he looked at you now. 

The shame of what you’d done together under the quiet gaze of holy things should have dragged you to your knees in repentance. Instead, the heat of his presence swept Ormund’s quiet grief right out of your head, leaving you helpless to the dark, heavy thing you’d let into your chest.

Gwayne’s grip on your hips tightens for a moment, his eyes darkening as he looks at you. He can’t help but remember the day you both met, the shy and sweet little lamb. He fondly recalls the time you gave yourself to him, how you surrendered so sweetly to your preacher, to your inner depravity. 

You were such a pure joy to be with, but the way you are pressed against the altar, your dress hiked up around your waist while Gwayne fucked into you with reckless abandon … it changed him.

“Such a good lamb,” he growls, leaning in closer so his lips brush against yours when he speaks, the clothed hardened peaks of your tits brushing along his clothes, eliciting scandalous moans between you both. His cock stretched your pussy open, he was too far gone to even care about how your arousals transferred to his pants. 

“I followed you in. You invited me in. It’s already been done, sweet lamb.”

Gwayne’s voice is rough with desire, his hand slides from your hip, down between yours, pressing firmly. 

You shouldn’t be touched like this. Not here. Not this close to where God could see you. But you both cross that line anyway, neither of you had the willpower left to care. Being alone tonight ruined any remaining self-control you had, by normal standards, you were already far too gone for each other—far too unacceptable for unadulterated standards, let alone holy ones.

Gwayne kisses you as he devours you, like a man at the end of his rope, a man starving. Like you were his holy sacrament and that you are the bread and the flesh that he solely needed—you made him insatiable for the sins of the damned. His hands move from your hips to your waist, then further up, his palms sliding up along the outside of your dress, over your ribs, pushing the material of your dress up, up, up. He wants to feel your skin against his, and he won’t wait a second longer for it, he needs it, needs it so badly that it makes his chest ache.

He starts to tug at the neckline of your dress, his kisses trailing down to your neck, biting and nipping at the sensitive skin, making you shiver against him. The way you sound, the sounds that escape your mouth as he tastes your skin, made him feral. He had long forgotten that you were doing the forbidden act in the house of God—he craved you so badly that he was willing to worship you right here if you would let him. 

He kisses you again, deep and filthy, while his fingers work at whatever remains of that innocent dress between you both ... because if he is going to sin? Then help him God, will you burn right beside Gwayne tonight?

He pushes you back against the marble floor of the altar, pinning you beneath him. His body covers yours as his mouth finds your neck, his kisses growing more urgent with every second that passes. 

“I swear, sometimes I think I worship you more than I do God …” he confesses breathily. You drunkenly grin at his words, but only spur him on. He groans at the sight of your smile, his control snapping entirely, his hands grip your thighs as he pushes them further apart, just like how he kneels before God to utter his prayers. 

His hips were mean to yours as he fucked you, every thrust was an emphasis of his ownership of you and your power over him.

“Do not smile like that,” Gwayne warns half-heartedly before biting down on your collarbone, hard enough to leave a mark but not hard enough for you to actually pull away from him—you accepted him, the feral part of him that only the depths of his mind knew, you chose him, willingly. The bliss tore through you both yet again, another blinding peak in an endless, feverish blur of a night.

There was no rest for either of you, only the slick, brutal friction of two souls trying to tear through flesh to get closer. He stayed buried deep inside you, his heavy chest heaving against yours as he set a new, relentless pace—taking and taking until the sweat on your skin felt like holy water and every gasp was a confession.

You find a home inside of his body, remind him that you are his long-lost rib the believers had spoken so badly about, how the poetry of the flesh became a sin, a blasphemous act of man. And yet, you find yourself desiring Gwayne beyond the body and the tangible.

On the other side of the church, Ormund hid by the confessionals, staring at your figures as Gwayne fucked you into oblivion. 

He had thought he would be alone here tonight. 

Except for the two panting figures right by the centre of the church, by the altar that had the cross right above it, his sweet lamb being sullied by the damned devil. 

It stung, it stung Ormund deeply. He was supposed to be your salvation, the purity you should have sought so amorously and yet, it was all in vain when Gwayne poisoned you with his sin. He stained you with Christ’s gift of procreation and the sin that must be baptised to make you receive the Holy Spirit again, but this time, Gwayne is your idol, your real god, your religion. 

Gwayne’s teeth grazed across your collarbone, his fingertips trailing over your hipbones, his touch featherlight but leaving fire in its wake. His voice against your skin when he speaks again is ragged and rough and desperate as it is edged with need. 

“You cannot hide from me forever, sweet lamb,” his words were low and raw, almost like a moan.

Gwayne’s hips met yours, in slow strokes, it sedated your body into pleasure, grounding you and freeing you all at once.

“Fuck,” he rasped against your skin, hips jerking forward involuntarily at how perfectly you fit beneath him. 

“Gwayne,” you mewled. Your body began to give into him, to sin, to desire, to blasphemy. You were baptised, entered his house as the Lamb of a Hightower, and that Hightower was Gwayne, not Ormund. His body covered yours completely, pressing you down into the altar, his weight almost like a comfortable blanket. Almost.  

His lips found your neck again, and with a slow, languid movement he started a trail of kisses down the column of it to your shoulder. He nipped and sucked at the skin there, marking you as his own, a reminder of who you belonged to tonight and for the rest of your life moving forward. You cried out, holding onto Gwayne as his hips drove into your wet cunt—you didn’t know how to act, so you held onto him, nails scratching his milky white skin. 

In the confessionals, Ormund only watched you both as Gwayne guided you through your third orgasm of the night. 

You were beyond repair, you were overstimulated and throbbing from all directions. You pulled Gwayne into a kiss. 

And when you lean in to kiss him, his essence in your mouth, you think you could worship him. You could let him build a temple in your heart, empty as it is. You could let him strike bells and set them ringing as he did in your heart. 

Sweet, mourning lamb, there is nothing you can do. 

You never planned to put yourself back together. You do not need to heal, and you do not need time to soothe yourself when you have his gaze and his hands and the way he prays for you.

The curtain opens. 

A set of footsteps approaches.

You were caught.

© 2026 𝙂𝙒𝘼𝙔𝙉𝙀𝙎-𝙎𝙒𝙀𝙀𝙏𝙇𝙄𝙉𝙂! i condemn plagiarism of any kind and feeding my work to ai, NO AI here! my writing may be shit but it is my shit.

But you knew the truth.

The first time it was a mistake. Carelessness of youth that ended with Lyonel. Ormund did not suspect anything though. Over the moon that he had a son, an Heir. A sturdy boy, with a quick mind as he grew.

Then less than a year later he wanted another, a spare, but moons and moons followed, and no swollen belly occurred. His impatience grew as did his anger, and finally you could not take anymore, and went back to the very place you craved more than anything. Nine moons later you bore Martayn.

You always tried to allow Ormund to produce his own child, but every time he was unable. After the third child, you stopped even staying away, allowing yourself the small pleasure that it brought you, despite the stain it could leave on your reputation.

Four children. Four children that would be told as Ormund's, but none of them were. An Heir that would inherit Old Town, and despite him now being your husband's seed, he was a Hightower nonetheless. Though you think that was something you only told yourself to ease the guilt of it all.

Lyonel resembled his father, his real father if you looked close enough, but no one ever did, except you.

You stood above watching, your hand pressed to your mouth as you watched your eldest son and Daeron interact with Gwayne. Though it always brought a warmth to you, in the same manner it made you sick to your stomach.

That your life could have been this way. You always wondered what your life could have been like if you had been married to Gwayne instead of Ormund. You could picture it if you tried hard enough. The kind gentle touches, could be more than fingers lingering against each other in the halls. That affection would not need to exist only behind locked doors.

You would not have to watch your word carefully nor have to calculate your every move with such intensity like your life depended on it, but in ways it did. You wondered what it would be like, the blissful easy happiness, but sometimes it was worse to delude yourself as that safe haven would never be in your grasp.

The clashing of steel made you flinch like it always did, but you came everyday nonetheless. Not only to stare at Gwayne, but to watch as Lyonel would eventually look up at you after man praised him, grin wide happiness glinting in his eyes.

You wanted to preserve the moment, to make it last a little longer, but it never did. So you stored it. To look back on in your moments of need, and there always one when you needed every thing you had stored over the years.

Lyonel's expression was the one you pictured when you bit your tongue during Ormund's long rants.

Mataryn's laugh was the one that filled your ears to drown out your husband's loud voice, or when objects began to clash against the walls when you said the wrong thing.

Garmund telling you how beautiful you looked while breaking your fast together that caused Lord Hightower's comments about your looks to fall flat.

Bethany's gentle hand that led you through the halls that gave you the strength to resist scratching down her father's face despite his hand being wrapped your throat.

In your deepest, and worse personal hell it was Gwayne's face and sweet northings, in your mind, whenever Ormund forced you to share his bed. At the end of the day everything always came back to him, as it always would you were sure.

He was the one your heart sung for. He was the one you wanted, but alas life was cruel in little ways. Like how he could be an uncle of sorts to every single one of your children despite him being the real father.

That was the sickest part. It was all within just enough reach to tease you without giving you the full pleasure. And you would have saved yourself unwanted heartbreak if you had only cut it off after Lyonel, and yet you were not that strong.

"Your children have a unique look about them," a voice called out, causing you to turn toward the source. You rolled your eyes discovering your husband's uncle.

Otto Hightower was not a man you were fond of, despite your feelings for his son. In fact you would even wager he was a man you loathed even more so then Ormund. Though luckily for you he did not spend enough time in Old Town, allowing you to keep what little sanity you had left.

"They look like me I am told you," replied easily, though there was an edge in your voice. though that could be chalked up to dealing with the man, as he always seemed to try your patience.

He hummed, his eyes continuing to analyze your son as if he was a piece of a missing puzzle rather than a boy of three and ten, "When do I have the pleasure of sending you off again?" you asked, causing his attention to drift back toward you.

His body now faced yours, as he stared down at you, but you did not flinch, you did not even turn away from his gaze. He was far from the scariest thing in this damned castle, "Are you saying my presence is causing you distress?" he countered, clearly trying to push your buttons.

You smirked, though it lacked any warmth, "Not at all. Merely making sure I provide my husband's uncle with a grand send off as it is my duty as Lady Hightower."

"Well, only a few more days and then you can send me off."

"I cannot wait," you replied, turning from him ready for this conversation to be over and to be as far away from him as possible, but it turned out he did not have the same plans as you.

That there was still more to discuss in his eyes.

''Does Ormund know that they are not his?" he finally called out, not loudly, but enough for you to hear.

You immediately paused, your jaw locking as you tried to remain compose, but you would not give them the reaction he truly wanted. Merely a warning, "That is treason, and if I hear it again I will take it before Ormund myself. Though I do suggest you watch your tongue, Otto, before it is removed. It would prove difficult being Hand to the King without one."

You always liked the sept after the sun had set, when mostly everyone slept. It was quite, in a way your mind never was. Though the true reason you went at night was that with the emptiness it always allowed another to join you in prayer.

For you two to talk in a place that did not seem like you were doing something improper. That you did not have to account for every servant or knight in the hallway to slip into the other's chambers. That you did not have to worry about Ormund requesting your presence.

You could feel him before he had even spoken a word, as if you were both the same person merely separated by two people. He was as much a part of you as your arms. He consumed you, and you let him, because if it was wrong why did it feel so right?

Then you could hear his boots across the floor, but even then he did not make his presence known. Not that had too. He did not say anything until he stood behind you, "For a moment I thought you were the maiden herself coming down to grace us all."

You tried to hide the smirk pulling at your lips, "Flattery gets you no where," you lied.

"Flattery gets me everywhere," he countered, dropping down to his knees beside you, leaning closer to you to whisper in your ear, "Do you pray for forgiveness or for them to turn a blind eye?"

He smirked watching your jaw clench, "I do not find your jests humorous today ," you whispered. You then turned looking around at the empty sept, "Your father knows."

His eyebrows furrowed together, "Knows what?"

"About the kids, or at least he thinks he knows," you replied. Your voice dropped lower, as you leaned closer to him, your heads nearly touching, "He asked me earlier if Ormund knew they were not his."

His eyes widened, "And what did you say?"

"That he should not speak of things like that or I will tell Ormund myself. Though I imagine he is attempting to collect evidence before he brings it before him. It is only a matter of time," you said, pulling away from him.

"And why would he do that?" he pressed, but you were sure he knew the answer. His father was an ambitious man, if suddenly all of Gwayne's heir were disinherited for being another mans. That would put Gwayne in line for Old Town, or at least his children if his father ever could get him married.

You did not give him that thought, "Mayhaps we should let him tell Ormund. Then he could take my head and end all this nonsense," you muttered, dipping your head, as if you could truly form a prayer in the mess of your mind.

"We could leave," he then proposed.

It was a nice thought. It was the dream, but alas it was not achievable for numerous reasons.

"And where would we go with five children, as I am not leaving Daeron alone here with him," the way you said him, with such edge it could turn into a blade and wield it if needed.

Too bad sharp tones and words never could save you.

Gwayne sighed, knowing you were right. He turned looking around the sept, confirming it was empty once more. His hand reached out, gripping your chin. His touch was always so gentle it almost brought tears to your eyes.

He leaned forward his forehead resting against yours, "I will handle my father. I promise to you on everything I will handle him."

Otto was not the true threat though, but you knew he would argue with you anyways. Merely stating he would handle it, but you did not want to put him in harms way.

You could not find the words to reply, so despite better judgment you leaned forward. Your mouth smashed against his. It took him a full minute to process where you were it seemed, as he leaned back, but not fare enough.

You were claiming him once more, crawling toward him. Your dress pushed up by your hips, as you straddled him. You could feel his hardened cock pressing into your core, causing you to roll your hips against him instinctively.

"We. Are. In. The. Sept," he said, in between your mouths moving together, as if you needed the reminder. You did not care, as you continued to kiss him as if your life depended on it. Sometimes it felt like it did.

He whispered your name, pulling back trying to be the voice of reason, but there was none left in your body it seemed, "Just let me have this. Please just let me have one good unguarded memory with you," you pleaded, your voice, raw with want.

Your hands were moving down his chest, causing his muscle to tense between the material. He should have denied you, as he knew exactly what you wanted as your hands moved to the ties of his pants, and you gave him the time to tell you this was wrong. To be the honorable man, he wished he could be with you.

But at the end of the day he was merely a man, with the love of his life sat atop him wanting him. And he never could tell you no.

"As you wished," he whispered, your hands moved untying the strings with a gracefulness of a woman who had done it. hundreds of times before. You lifted yourself up slightly, balancing on your knees, as his own hands moved under your skirts.

You could hear the tearing of your small clothes, but you did not care. Nothing in this moment mattered anymore. Not the place, nor the time or even the thought of someone catching you in the act.

You could feel the moment he freed you to the air, and it almost matched the moment you wrapped your hand around his shaft perfectly. He was heavy in your hand, already leaking from his tip as you began to move your hand up and down at an agonizingly slow pace.

He grunted, his hips bucking up into you, as he ran his long fingers through your slick folds. You were given no warning as he immediately inserted to digit into your drooling hole, "Gwayne," you moaned, your hand tightening around him.

He matched you, slow teasing, causing you to grow restless by the moment, "I want more," you finally confessed.

"As you wish," you replied, automatically, freeing his digits from your warmth to allow you to move hovering over his cock, "Take what you need, my love."

You held his gaze as you slowly sunk down onto him until your hips were flushed against another, "This is heaven," he confessed, his hands moving to hold your sides, your fingers digging into your flesh no doubt going to bruise.

You set the pace, quick, fast, as impatient as you felt inside with the needs that always consumed you for the man beneath you. It was overwhelming, and you both knew it would not take long before you were both tumbling over the edge toward release.

"You are so fucking beautiful," he whispered, pulled back as he admired you.

You let out a small chuckle, that turned into a breathy moan as he turned his hips slightly, "Flattery gets you nowhere," you repeated for the second time tonight, and it was a lie.

"It got me you."

"You've always had me. "

The pressure in your lower belly began to grow by the minute, traveling up your spine, causing your head to tilt back as your lewd sounds filled the Sept. It was improper, so improper, and shameful, but it did not feel as such for once.

The Gods were seeing you as you truly were for once, they along with Gwayne were the only ones who ever did. Not the proper Lady of Hightower, the one that was forced to put on an act and play Ormund's wife, but merely you.

The woman who burned so brightly for Gwayne Hightower it clogged your senses. The one that bore him four children, and that looked just enough like him it brought a smile to your face every time. He consumed you. He was you, and you knew very well he felt the exact same way that he did.

You were one. Even if it was against everything you both stand for. Even if it was the greatest sin ever preformed by a living person, it did not matter. It did nothing to hide the truth nor dull the feelings.

"I love you. I love only you," you whispered, as the coil in your belly finally snapped, your nails digging into the flesh of his neck no doubt splitting the skin.

He followed after you moments later, his hips stuttering as he fucked up into you, "I love you," he answered back, as he pumped you full with his seed, as it began to leak out over the sides.

You let out a laugh, as the highs of lust began to wear off as you looked around at the empty sept. He watched you, his gaze filled with the same awestruck expression he always watched you with. As if you were the most beautiful, precious thing in the world.

"Father, Smith, Warrior," you started.

His eyebrows drew together, "Huh?" he questioned, in confusion, not quite knowing how you could be praying whilst he was still inside you.

You ignored him continuing,"Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger." You watched as it finally clicked into his mind exactly what you were doing. You stared at him, as he grinned at you, and it appeared more boyish then anything.

It reminded you of when you first came to Old Town. When you spent your days with Gwayne instead of your husband to be, "Start over," he whispered, his forehead moving to rest against yours, sealing what was about to be said as if you were still not connected in the most intimate of ways.

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger." His mouth moved pressing to yours, before you pulled away once more, breathing in only each other, "I am his, and he is mine until the end of my days."

Gwayne Hightower was a man of firm beliefs. He was a man with honor, but it seemed to leave his body anytime you asked anything of him. That he would knowingly pump you full of bastards passing them off as someone else's children.

It was a strange.

The things he would knowingly do for you that went against himself as a person. He was a knight, a highborn son of Old Town, but at the end of the day he was a man. One that would take any form you needed him too.

Blood was not the most important thing in his life. You and your children were.

He took a breath, attempting to steady himself as he stood outside his father's chambers, the early morning light beginning to fill through the halls. He had yet to lay eyes on you yet, but knew it would only be a matter of time.

Finally he knocked his knuckles against the wood. Ready to face his father with, with the sense of amplified courage that only arose in matters that concerned you.

Otto opened the door, pausing when he notice his son if he was the last person he had been expecting, "Gwayne," he greeted.

"I wish to talk."

The father stared at him for a moment, before nodding letting him into his solar. It was smaller than the one he was use to, though that one belonged to the Lady of the Castle, so that made sense.

Otto did not stray far from the door, neither did his son.

Gwayne stared at him a moment, before taking a breath,"I heard you accused the Lady of boring bastards," he then said, straight to the point

The man nodded, "And how did you come to hear of this."

"It does no matter," he countered, trying to. continue once more, but his father would not accept that answer.

"No, Gwayne. Where did you hear of this nonsense?"

The son then rolled his eyes, seeing he was getting no where, instead changing his plan of action, "You will leave her alone," he said, his tone firm leaving no room for an argument.

Otto stared at his son for a moment before realization crossed his face, a grin pulling at his lips, "They're yours," he breathed his disbelief. The wheels already turning in his head that his son's son could be Lord of Old Town one day and his daughter's son King of the Seven Kingdoms.

Gwayne should have denied it the moment it came from his father's mouth, but alas he did not. It would not be a lie. They were his children, they were made from his seed, they were his blood, and yet they would never truly be his.

He finally opened his mouth to reply when there was a loud commotion outside. The two moved outside, but the younger was quicker. There was a woman outside, dropping a tray with perfume that looked oddly familiar. He watched as she tried to move the glass back onto the tray, but the metal then clattered to the ground.

It took only a matter of moments before he realized it was your hand maid, and it was your perfume now shattered against the floor. She stood to her feet quickly noticing the two men, as she ran a hand underneath her nose, trying to make herself presentable.

"What is it? What is the matter?" Gwayne asked, trying to push down the growing feeling of unease, but it did nothing.

Something was amiss here, and that was growing clearer by the moment.

The young woman looked up at him, with puffy red eyes, her lips turned down as they quivered. His hand moved gravitating toward his sword, scanning the hallway for anything that looked out of place, but it all appeared the very same.

It was quiet, like it was early in the mornings, "I went to ready her, but—" her words were cut off by herself, as she let out a shrill noise that caused him to flinch.

"Who?" Otto asked, but his son already knew the answer, and could feel the pit in his stomach double in weight. He had hoped he was wrong, prayed even in that moment that he would say some other woman. Anyone, but you.

The Gods were not on his side this once.

"Lady Hightower," she sobbed out, her hand covering her mouth.

Gwayne felt the blood drain from him, "What about her?" he asked, harsher then he meant to, but his mind did not linger on this fact. She did not answer, instead remaining and incoherent mess

The woman took a shaky breath, "There was yelling, and the knights charged in, and Lord Ormund was standing by the window," she then collapsed into the knights arms at the thought, "Oh!” she cried out once more, “He—he said she jumped!"

The words were hard to understand, but they registered almost immediately to him.

His eyes widened, his body filling with panic. He reached back grabbing the maid by the shoulder pulling her back forcing him to meet his gaze, "Jumped? Well is she alright? Where is she?" he asked, but he was already moving towards you chambers.

"Ser Gwayne!" she yelled, but he did not stop.

"Gwayne!" his father called, but even that did not pull him back, but his harsh hands wrapping around his arm, forcing him to meet his eyes, like he had down to the woman moments ago momentarily brought him back.

"She is dead. She jumped to her death," Otto told him calmly, but it still made him flinch, as it was the single worse thing he had ever heard in his entire existence.

And that was what history would say, but it was the furthest thing from the truth. Gwayne would spend the rest of his days, wishing he had taken you, the children, and ran far, far away from Old Town.

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