shh… don’t cry.

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

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

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

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

The solution was to discipline in private.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ormund notices.

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

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

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

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

You cannot catch your breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ormund does not.

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

You don't want to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You do.

"Over my knee."

This instruction, too, you follow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of pleasure.

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

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

You do not see him again for some time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, Ormund does not come to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looks at you and stares. Hard and knowing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's heavier. Sharper. Sweeter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You do hate him.

But yes, you hate his absence more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What? No! I—!"

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

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

"He did not touch you?"

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

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

"Yes," you echo.

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

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

"Remove your dress."

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

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

You do.

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

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

"Crawl."

You do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you…enjoying this?"

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

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

He does not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The word clangs around in your emptied mind. Perfect.

Perfect, perfect, perfect—

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

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

"Speak, sweetling," he encourages.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not a question.

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

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

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

What happens next is a kiss upon your shoulder.

Gentle. Devoted. Faithful.

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

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

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

He shakes his head, swallows, and tries again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tastes of home.

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

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

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

Ormund kisses you like he's starving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe not in everything, but for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Including him, you suppose.

"Will you deny me, then?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swear to him that you will.

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

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

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

And then, gently, he begins to push in.

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

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

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

And it makes you moan.

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

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

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

There is nothing soft about it. Nothing sweet.

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

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

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

"Do you wish for me to stop?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is not you who reaches for comfort first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A response does not come easily.

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

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

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

The decision feels heavy. Weighted.

But you do not need long to decide.

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

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

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

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

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

“you’ll touch yourself to this when you go back home, won’t you?” he whispers, and his words burn through your skin until they’re scorched on your bones. “finger that pretty pussy thinking of me?”

you're in his kitchen, and your knees are set tight against the cold wooden floor, and you're bobbing your head up and down, up and down, up and down, along the length of his cock.

you're in his kitchen, and your shirt lies discarded by your side, pretty tits jiggling with every move, and he does not part his eyes from the sight.

excuses materialize inside your head like wisps of smoke.

you are on a break. yours and aegon's relationship was broken before you officially called it quits, either way. and you are on a break. he's probably doing the same thing, anyways, and he was barely loyal to you when you were actually dating. and you are on a break.

you stop yourself before you can conjure any more.

in this moment, none of them matter.

none of them make up for the fact that he, the man whose cock is far down your throat, is almost twice your age. none of them make up for his steady hands and careful sounds. none of them make up for the fact that he, the man whose cock is far down your throat, has already broken your heart.

it does not matter, not when you swallow around his length and he lets out a quiet groan.

“you look so beautiful like this,” ORMUND hisses through clenched teeth. “it's easy to see why aegon was so besotted by you. hard not to be when you look this pretty on your knees.”

a moan breaks past your lips. 

you’re certain that his words will come back to haunt you later, when you’re back home and start dissecting the evening by its seconds, but at the moment, you close your eyes and do your best to tuck them away.

you run your tongue down the side of his cock, tracing a vein, and your hands travel down between your legs.

and it’s the stretch, and it’s the heat, and it’s the way he’s holding back from thrusting inside your mouth, and your mind is spinning with how good it feels.

“no, pretty girl,” he says, words falling out of his mouth in a purr. you decide you hate how soft it sounds. you cannot help but want to hear it again. “eyes open. come on, keep looking at me.”

you obey. you look up at him through your lashes, and he twitches inside your mouth. one of your hands slips under the hem of your shorts and starts to circle your clit over your panties, your own body trying to match his pace.

it’s not enough. 

you press your digits harder against your throbbing pearl, try to circle them faster, but you’re dripping down your thighs, warm and sticky, and as you struggle to take his cock deeper inside your mouth, you cannot help but think of how it feels when it is splitting your cunt open instead.

you can still feel his hands on you. you can still feel his lips on your skin.

it’s been months since the last time you laid with him—the night he said it would be best if you stayed clear of each other for the sake of your relationship with aegon, speaking against your embrace as he held you after fucking you—and you can still feel his hands on you: his soft skin and long fingers, his thick knuckles and strong hold.

it all remains, like the ghost of a touch over your skin, sending shivers down your spine at the memory it evokes.

you wonder if it will ever leave you.

“look at you, pretty girl, making such a mess for me,” his hips thrust against your face again, cock pushing down against your throat. “is this turning you on? mhm, are you getting off on the taste of my cock, pretty?”

a nod. you whimper around his length, and he hisses. he removes his right hand from the back of your head and curls his fingers around his base, pulling his cock out of your mouth as your pleasure begins to take form at the bottom of your stomach. a ribbon of spit bridges the empty space between his tip, reddened and leaking, and your lips, swollen and glistening.

ORMUND smirks, angling your face upwards, and runs the head of his cock over your lips.

you open your mouth and stick your tongue out, moaning as your orgasm ripples through you with a force that makes you realize that you have bitten more than you can chew; because this kind of bliss is the kind that has teeth, and is the kind of bliss that bites back.

it’s the kind of bliss that leaves its mark.

“by the seven, look at that,” he mumbles. his words are messy and slurred as he strokes his cock faster, and faster, and faster, chasing the same pleasure you have just surrendered yourself to. “you’re beautiful. seven above, you’re beautiful.”

and he comes undone.

a hoarse, broken moan leaves his mouth when he lowers his guard. he continues jerking his cock as he cums, balls drawing tight as he streaks your waiting mouth with ribbons of white. they fall all over your lips, down your chin, along the expanse of your cheeks.

he drinks up the sight, pupils growing wide to take it all in, and his euphoria, unlike yours, is the kind that has wings.

you swallow, and the moment he closes his eyes to take a breath in, you wipe at the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand. you lower your head to put on your top, and miss the way in which his eyes search for yours.

the lightning fixture shines over your head, golden and gentle like a low-hanging moon, bathing the kitchen in a faint amber glow. light bleeds over every surface as the day leaves little by little, and, for a moment, there is silence: silence as he gathers his thoughts and silence as you comb through yours.

he feels himself isolated from the world and is only standing in a quiet kitchen; glowing warmly under an artificial moon, and is sure that this is all there is, with his gaze set on the horizon and his anchor dropping on a bed of sand. silence, and the smell of grapefruit dish soap.

then, an exhale.

the world is the world again.

“this cannot happen again,” he whispers, voice soft as silk, words set in stone. they sting, hot and painful, running like acid down your spine. you can still taste his cum on your tongue. “we don’t work, you and i. not really. you know that, don’t you? and he loves you still, i know he does. he wants to try again. and you two—he's a better fit for you.”

your words die on your throat, and you answer what you can. “i know.”

ORMUND nods, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths, and tucks his softening cock back inside his pants. he squares his shoulders, picking up the boulder, shouldering the weight.

“you should stay the night,” he adds, after a moment. “there’s pasta, if you want something to eat.”

the daze is over as quickly as it began. your knees, raw and reddened, sting when you stand, and you're left with his words, quiet and regretful, as the bitterness of bile rises up your throat.

he initially feels dirty at the mere thought of having to become one with her, flesh on flesh, so he starts off by scheduling their encounters.

he would position her on her belly as to not have to look at her on their weekly coupling, it would be quick and sloppy and ormund would leave the chambers immediately after.

convinced that he cannot father a half targaryen half hightower abomination, he always pulls out and cums on her lower back or thighs, and he secretly enjoys seeing her covered in his spend.

as time goes by, everytime he touches her he would get more drawn in. her skin, her scent, her responses to what he does to her and how much she seems to increasingly enjoy the force of his hips pistoning into her.

their encounters would start to last longer, he would start letting himself enjoy it and she would become a more active participant instead of just something that takes his dick. and he would let her, gods damn him, he would let her.

she would touch him back, beg for more, pull his hair, be more vocal about how good he feels. she would feed into his delusions because she just loves his cock inside her so much, "i can feel you become a part of me, husband" she would whisper to his lips the first time he faces her as he takes her. then she kisses him for the first time, devouring him, and he loses it.

he starts coming into her chambers at bedtime almost daily, after her servants have just finished bathing her. he pretends he's entrusted that part of the routine to mere peasants but in truth he's starting to not care anymore.

one day she skips a bath to see how he'll react and he unexpectedly goes feral at the smell of her after an entire day, their sweat mixing together as he ruts into her and she squeezes him tighter and tighter.

he becomes addicted to it.

he pretends their increasing encounters are because she is so filthy inside and outside and he still has to cleanse her, but in truth he no longer can stay away from her glistening cunt, which he feels pulsing as he fingers her in preparation each time.

she begs him to spill inside her, trying to persuade him that maybe the reason she's not clean enough yet is because his spend lands on her chest or belly.

"purify me, husband, I beg of you. I need it, I need to be clean." she would play into it just because she knows it would drive him wild even as he denies her.

and when he finally paints her walls white... well, that's a whole different story.

The petitions had continued endlessly. Each one convinced their particular trouble outweighed the last. Ormund had sat through them all: a dispute over a millstream, a merchant guild demanding lower tariffs, a minor lordling whose son had impregnated a farmer's daughter and wanted the matter handled quietly. Governance. The word itself was leaden on his tongue.

He sank lower in the copper tub, letting the scalding water close over his chest, his shoulders, until it lapped at the hard line of his jaw. Steam curled from the surface in slow ribbons, fogging the stone walls, beading on the cool stones of the floor beyond the tub's rim. The heat found the knots between his shoulder blades and pressed into them, not quite enough, never quite enough. He let his head tip back against the rim and closed his eyes.

Behind the heavy linen curtain that divided the bathing space from the rest of the chamber, voices murmured. Yours, warm, threaded with amusement, and the lighter, quicker tones of two of your maids. A burst of laughter, hastily smothered. The rustle of fabric. More whispering. He caught the edge of a word that might have been shameless and another that sounded like he won't. He did not trouble himself with it. Whatever plot they hatched behind that curtain, it was not his concern. His concern, at this moment, was the slow unclenching of his jaw and the heat working through the ache in his back.

Then the chamber door clicked shut. The maids' footsteps retreated across the outer stone corridor, their giggling fading to nothing. Quiet settled over the room like a lid pressing down, save for the soft pad of your feet moving about, and the whisper of something being drawn from a hook.

"Come here," he called. His voice carried the rough, low grain of exhaustion. He shifted in the tub, water sloshing gently against the sides. "Let me gaze upon you before you sleep."

A pause. Then the curtain parted.

Ormund's mouth opened. No sound came.

You stood in the gap of parted linen, backlit by the candles on the far side of the room, and every detail of you hit him in sequence, each one landing harder than the last. The slip you wore, if it could be called that, was the scantest, most indecent scrap of silk he had ever laid eyes on. Sheer where it ought to have been solid, the fabric clung to your body like water, tracing the curve of your waist, the soft swell of your breasts, the small peaks of your nipples pressing against the gossamer as though the material simply was not there. It ended high on your thighs, high enough that the bare skin below the hem gleamed in the candlelight. Two threads of ribbon held the whole construction up over your shoulders, knotted at the front, thin as twine. A single breath would undo them. Your waist-length hair fell in heavy curls around your shoulders, and your eyes, warm, bright with mischief, held his.

He recovered enough to find his voice. "Come closer."

You crossed to him without hurry, settling on the edge of the tub, your hip pressing against the rim, and laid your hand against the side of his face. Your palm was warm and soft. He leaned into it. The stubble along his jaw rasped against your skin.

"I have missed you," he said.

You bent and kissed him, lingering there, your mouth moving against his with a gentleness that had no urgency in it.

"I have missed you more."

He reached out, his wet hand dripping, and caught the delicate hem of your slip between thumb and forefinger. He held it, examining it as though he did not understand what he was looking at. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth; the slow, crooked expression that surfaced only when something genuinely amused him.

"Why, I wonder, is your clothing budget so high, when it does not appear you wear any clothes?"

"Ormund." You rolled your eyes. "This is for you."

"Oh?"

"It's meant to excite a husband's loins." You said it plainly. "All the ladies have garments such as this."

He laughed. The sound came from somewhere deep in his chest, unused all day, and it loosened something in him. "When, precisely, did you acquire this?"

"Does it please you?"

He drew back to look at you again. The shift in angle let the candlelight catch the silk differently. The dip of your waist, the flare of your hips, the shadow between your thighs, all lay bare to him. His eyes moved over you slowly, cataloguing.

"You look as if you'd be at home at a pleasure house."

You gasped. Your hand snatched from his face, and you drew upright, mouth parting in affront.

He caught your hand before it could leave him entirely. His fingers closed around your wrist, firm, not rough, and he drew your knuckles to his mouth. His lips pressed against them, warm and damp from the bathwater, and he held them there a moment before speaking.

"I do not mean it unkindly," he said against your skin. "Only that you look as though you were made to confuse good men and lead them to ruin."

You held his gaze. The affront in your face cracked, crumbled, gave way to something else.

"Would you spend your coin on me?"

"I would give all the gold in my treasury," he said, his voice dropping, "for a night with you."

Something shifted in your smile. It turned sly, knowing, the warm playfulness draining from it only to be replaced by something more calculated. The two of you were no strangers to bedroom games, and though this had not initially been your intention, you saw no reason to change course.

You knelt beside the tub. The stone was cold against your bare knees, and the contrast with the heat rising from the water prickled along your skin. You folded your hands in your lap, straightened your back, and let your voice drop into something soft, submissive, and wicked.

"I have never seen you here before, my lord."

He caught on at once. The exhaustion in his face rearranged itself, and when he looked at you, the softness of a husband's gaze was gone, replaced by something cooler, more assessing; the gaze of a man who had paid for a service and intended to inspect the goods.

"You remember every man who passes through these doors?"

"No, but I would remember a man as handsome as you."

"I'm not here for flattery." He leaned back against the copper rim, and the water sluiced off his shoulders, running down the hard planes of his chest, catching the candlelight. He let you look. The muscles of his abdomen ridged beneath the water's surface, and the hair on his chest, darkened by the wet, lay flat against his skin. His arms rested along the edges of the tub.

"Why are you here, my lord?" You let your gaze trace the line of his arm where it rested on the tub's rim. "Does your wife not satisfy you as a husband deserves?"

His mouth curved. The stubble along his jaw caught the light. "My lady wife pleases me greatly."

"Then why," one finger extending to trace the thick vein that ran along his forearm, "would a contented man spend his coin on a woman such as me?"

Your fingertip moved slowly. The vein stood out against his skin and you followed it from the crease of his elbow to the ridge of bone at his wrist. His hand twitched. He did not pull away.

"Do you make your living sending men back to their wives?" he asked.

"I'm only curious, my lord." You could feel his pulse beating steady and strong beneath the thin skin.

He leaned toward you. The water shifted around him, lapping at the copper sides, the space between you closed until you could feel the heat coming off his skin, see the fine details of his face, the specks of pale green caught in the blue of his irises, visible only at this distance, like chips of sea-glass in deep water.

"Because my lady wife is a delicate creature. Gently born, gently bred." His eyes moved over you, taking in the way your kneeling position pressed your thighs together and made the hem ride up. "I would never do to her the things I'm going to do to you."

Something flickered across your face. Heat, delight, the sharp thrill of a challenge accepted. Your lips parted, your hand still resting on his wrist.

"Very well, my lord," Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried in the humid air, clear and steady. "Use me as you see fit."

Ormund gave you a crooked grin. The kind that crinkled the corner of one eye and bared the edge of his teeth. He planted one hand on the copper rim of the tub and carefully stood, water sluicing off him in sheets, running down the hard ridges of his stomach and the thick muscles of his thighs. His body was a map of old violence: a pale ridge across his ribs where a blade had caught him years ago, a raised mark along one shoulder, the silvery seam of an old stitch-job curling around his left forearm. Light brown hair dusted his chest, trailing down the center of his abdomen in a thin line that thickened below his navel. His cock hung heavy between his legs, already half-swollen, and as he stepped over the rim of the tub without reaching for a towel, water cascaded onto the stone floor in a wide splash that went utterly ignored.

He straightened to his full height and looked down at you, still dripping, still grinning. "Stop gaping and come here."

You took a step back. His grin widened.

"Don't be shy now," he purred, closing the distance. His hand closed around your wrist. Not rough, not gentle, just certain, and he drew you forward until your body met his. The wet heat of his skin soaked instantly through the sheer silk of your slip, plastering the fabric to your stomach, your breasts. "Touch me."

You raised your hands. Your fingers found the swell of his chest first, palms flat against the dense muscle as you trailed your hands down. You felt his abdomen tighten beneath your touch in a reflexive clench, tracing the ridges of his stomach, fingernails grazing through the trail of hair below his navel. One hand traced the hard cut of muscle at his hip, that sharp V-line that angled downward like an arrowhead pointing the way, and his cock twitched; thick and heavy and hard now, lifting away from his thigh. You looked up at him and found his gaze already on you. His eyes were dark, pupils blown so wide the blue had thinned to a narrow ring; the heat in them sent a warmth racing across your skin, prickling down your neck, between your breasts, pooling low in your belly. You looked back down.

He took your hand. Guided it. Wrapped your fingers around the shaft of him; hot, impossibly thick, the skin velvet-soft over iron hardness, and held you there. "There you go." He rolled his hips, a slow, controlled thrust into your grip, and the head of his cock pushed through the circle of your fist, slick with bathwater. You felt him pulse in your hand, a heartbeat made flesh.

"My lord, you cannot possibly mean to—"

Ormund's grin sharpened. A callback to your wedding night when you had teased him with that very phrase. "I assure you, I mean to give you all of it."

You stroked him again, slow, deliberate, your thumb dragging across the sensitive head. He hissed through his teeth, eyelids fluttering shut for one unguarded second. When his eyes opened again, the playfulness had burned away. What remained was something harder, hungrier, the look of a man done waiting.

"Get on the bed. Spread your legs."

You turned and walked. The stone floor was cold beneath your bare feet, water from his body marking a trail behind him as you crossed from the bathing area into the space where your bed stood. You could hear him behind you. Not rushing. He stalked after you the way a predator tracked something wounded, not running, because running implied the prey might escape, and you were going nowhere.

You reached the bed, grabbed the carved footboard, and scrambled up onto the mattress on your hands and knees, linens bunching under your knees. Then a large hand locked around your ankle. Iron grip. He yanked, and you slid backward across the sheets with a gasp, the silk of your slip riding up your thighs, your legs dangling off the edge of the bed. You rolled over. He stood between your knees, looking down at you.

"Take that off. I want to see what I'm paying for."

Your fingers trembled. You reached up to the thin straps of the slip, hooked them with your index fingers, and slid them down your shoulders. The fabric peeled away from your skin with the dampness of his bathwater still clinging to it, and the material pooled at your waist, baring your breasts to the cool air. Your nipples tightened instantly; partly the chill, mostly him. You shifted your hips, lifting yourself, and pulled the garment down your legs, past your knees, off entirely, letting it drop to the floor in a wet heap of silk. You lay back against the linens, hair fanning out around you in a wild dark halo, and looked up at him through the candlelit haze.

"Am I to your liking, my lord?"

"Yes," he said. "Very much."

He climbed onto the bed and moved over you, not straddling yet, just close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his still-damp skin, close enough that the head of his cock brushed your thigh and left a wet smear. He braced himself on one arm above you and looked down, the corner of his mouth curled up.

"Do you touch yourself?"

The question hit you like a slap. Heat flooded your face, your neck, your chest, blooming down to your sternum. "I beg your pardon?!"

He chuckled. Low, dark, the sound rolling from deep in his chest. "Do not take that tone with me; you are not my wife."His voice dropped a register, quiet and hard, the voice he used when issuing commands. "Answer the question."

You swallowed. "Y-yes, my lord."

He raised an eyebrow. The interest in his eyes sharpened to a point, the blue nearly swallowed by black. "Show me."

You lay back against the linens. Your legs fell open slowly, first one knee tilting, then the other, your thighs parting in increments, your breath coming shallow and uneven. You had never done this before him. Your hands moved down your body, fingertips tracing the plane of your stomach, the curve of your hip, dipping lower. You found your core with two fingers and ran them down the length of your slit, feeling the shape of yourself, the softness of the outer folds and the slick heat between them. You drew your fingers back upward, circling your clit with the pad of your middle finger, and a breath escaped you at the contact, your stomach tensing.

You brought your fingers back down. Found your entrance. Found yourself wet, dripping, honestly, the arousal thick and slippery on your fingers. You pushed one finger inside, and a moan spilled out, soft and unguarded, as you began to move it slowly in and out, feeling the walls clench around the intrusion. You looked up.

Ormund was flushed; his hand was wrapped around his cock, stroking himself in long, slow pulls, his eyes locked on what you were doing between your legs. His head was flushed, dark, weeping a steady thread of clear fluid that his thumb smeared across the crown with each pass. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscle in his cheek jumped.

"That's it," he said. His voice was shaky. Cracked at the edges. "Add another."

You obeyed. Pushed a second finger in alongside the first, and the stretch made you gasp, your head tipping back against the linens. You picked up speed. Your fingers curled inside yourself, stroking the spongy front wall of your cunt, and the sounds you were making- soft, hitching moans, breathless little gasps- filled the chamber, mixing with the wet noise of your fingers working in and out of you. Your hips rolled against your own hand.

Ormund's breathing was ragged. "It's not enough, is it."

You shook your head. It wasn't. Your fingers were slim and delicate and could not reach the places inside you that ached to be filled. Could not stretch you the way you needed, could not pound into you with the weight and force that turned your bones to water. You needed his thick fingers, his thick cock, the mass of him bearing down on you to truly stretch you the way you liked.

"Use your words."

"No, my lord, I—" You pulled your fingers free, slick and glistening, and before you could say another word, he caught your wrist. Lifted your hand. Brought it to his face, inhaling deeply, his nose nearly touching your wet fingers. The sound he made was animal, a low groan in his chest. Then he took your fingers into his mouth. His tongue swept between them, lapping at the taste of you, curling around each digit, sucking the slick from your skin with a wet, obscene sound that made your thighs clench together. You gasped. Your free hand gripped the sheets.

He released your fingers with a slick pop and crawled over you. His large body caged you in. Arms on either side of your head, knees spreading your thighs wider, his cock hanging heavy and hot between you, the shaft dragging across your stomach as he settled his weight above you. The sheer size of him blotted out the candlelight. His shadow swallowed you.

He leaned down, his mouth beside your ear, his breath hot and damp against your temple. "I hope you are prepared, because I will not be gentle with you."

A jolt of electricity ran through you, starting at the base of your skull and crackling down your spine, through your belly, straight to your cunt. Wetness pooled between your legs, a fresh surge of slick that you felt drip onto the sheets. The thought of him using your body, taking what he wanted, made your thighs tremble. Your breath came in short, shallow pants.

"My body is yours, my lord."

He braced himself on one hand, and with the other he reached between you. You felt his fingers wrap around the shaft of his cock, felt the broad head of him drag through your silky folds, through the wetness, the heat, and the friction of it; even that light contact made your hips buck. You placed one hand on his shoulder, gripping the hard cap of muscle, and the other on his bicep, feeling the cords of muscle flex beneath your palm.

He pushed into you. The full length of him drove into you in a single, brutal thrust, and you cried out, a raw, ragged sound torn from somewhere deep in your chest. You had not prepared enough, your fingers too slender, too few, for the girth of him forcing you open around his cock. You felt every inch. The sting was sharp and bright, and you loved it; loved the ache of it.

He pressed his weight onto you. His strong arms gripped you tight, pulling you against him as he sank even deeper, and you clawed at his back, fingernails raking down the sweat-damp skin, leaving red lines across his shoulder blades. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, and you felt him throbbing. A pulse that matched the hammering of your own heart. His jaw was clenched, his breath coming in short, harsh bursts through his nose. He was adjusting to the feel of you.

"You're so tight for a whore," he said through gritted teeth, and the words vibrated against your throat.

You managed to find your voice. It came out breathless. "My mistress reserves me for only the most special clients."

He leaned back onto his knees, his cock still buried inside you to the root. The new angle shifted him against your front wall, and you bit your lip. "Is that so?" he asked, one eyebrow arched.

You rolled your hips. The friction dragged a sound from both of you simultaneously. "Yes," your voice had gone half-wrecked already, trembling at the edges. "Rich men usually have small cocks."

He tilted his head. His eyes narrowed. The blue had vanished entirely; only black remained, bottomless and bright with something dangerous. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face, the kind that preceded ruin.

"I am going to enjoy this very much."

He pulled out. The drag of him was slow; you felt every ridge, every vein of his cock as it withdrew. The suction of your cunt gripping him, trying to hold him in, until only the head remained inside, the thick crown stretching your entrance. Then he slammed back in. One brutal, full-length thrust that drove the air from your lungs and punched a cry out of your throat that echoed off the stone walls.

He did it again. Pulled out to the tip. Drove back in. You felt him carving his way into you, reshaping you around him, the drag of every vein against your swollen walls as he withdrew only to plunge back in, each thrust so deep it felt as though he were reaching your throat. The wet, obscene sound of skin meeting skin filled the chamber; squelch, slap, squelch, the bed frame groaning beneath you, linens bunching and twisting under your back.

You bit your lip. Pressed your mouth shut, trying to muffle the sounds climbing out of your throat. He noticed.

"No. I pay for those sounds." His voice was rough. "Let me hear them."

He delivered another harsh thrust; deeper, harder, his hips cracking against yours, and the moan that ripped out of you was loud, uncontrolled, bouncing off the walls. Your back arched off the bed.

He picked up his pace. Thrust after thrust of him using your body for his pleasure, his hips driving forward in a relentless, battering rhythm that shoved you up the bed until your headboard rattled with each impact. You could hear yourself; wet, desperate, the sounds you were making beyond your control, moans and gasps and broken syllables that might have been his name.

"Harder," you begged, the word coming out a sob of want.

His hand found your throat. His fingers wrapped around the front of your neck; not squeezing the airway, but pressing, claiming. The weight of his palm against your pulse. Both your hands flew to his wrist, wrapping around the bone, just holding on. He slammed into you harder. Each thrust driving the breath from you, the sound from you, the thoughts from you.

He had never handled you like this. Never spoken to you this way. Each filthy word that dropped from his mouth, each degradation, each dark praise, traveled straight to your cunt like a physical touch, making you clench and drip around him.

"You dirty whore," he growled, his thumb pressed against the side of your neck, feeling your pulse hammer. "Getting off like this. Wanting to be fucked like this."

You could only moan. Heat overwhelmed heat. Your skin was burning where his body met yours. The coil of pleasure wound tight in your belly, a spring being compressed to its limit. You felt the hair at the base of his cock grinding against your clit with every thrust, the friction sending sparks up your spine, and it was so much, too much, the sensation layering and building until you could barely breathe—

Your orgasm hit you. Hard. Your whole body seized, clenching in violent, rhythmic spasms around his cock, your back arching off the bed, your nails digging into the thick muscle of his back hard enough to leave crescents. You came with a sound that was half-scream, half-sob, your thighs clamping around his hips, body shaking. He groaned above you, a deep, guttural sound, and you felt his rhythm falter for one stroke as your spasming cunt milked him.

He continued fucking into you through your orgasm. Each thrust prolonged the waves crashing through you, drawing them out, stretching the pleasure into something almost unbearable. You whimpered, oversensitive, your hands falling away from his back to grip the sheets, twisting the linen in fists. He rode you through the aftershocks, his pace still brutal, still relentless, until the pleasure edged toward pain.

Then he released your throat and stilled his hips. You blinked up at him, dazed, as he pulled out of you. The sudden emptiness was shocking. You were gaped open, fucked loose and swollen, slick with your own arousal, clenching around nothing. You opened your mouth to speak. He flipped you over. One hand on your hip, rolling you bodily across the rumpled sheets, and you found yourself on weak hands and weaker knees. Ormund's hands gripped your hips. The broad head of his cock pressed against your entrance, still slick with your orgasm, and you felt him lean over you, his chest against your back, his mouth near your ear.

"My turn," he said.

He pushed in, slower than before but still splitting you open, filling you so completely that there was no room for anything else. No air, no thought, just the overwhelming reality of being fucked.

He began to pound into you like an animal, snapping his hips forward with enough force to rock the heavy bed frame against the stone wall.

"Take it," he snarled, his voice unrecognizable.

He released one side only to snatch both of your wrists, yanking them behind your back, pinning them there, using the leverage to force your upper body down into the mattress. Your face was pressed against the linens, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. The bed creaked and groaned under the assault, the wooden frame sounding as if it might splinter at any moment.

Your arms were useless, trapped in his grip, legs trembling violently, your muscles burning from the strain of maintaining the position on your hands and knees. Slowly, your knees gave out. Ormund let your wrists go as you collapsed, allowing you to fall flat against the mattress. He followed you down, covering your body with his while he continued to thrust into your prone form.

The angle change hit you deeper, rubbing against spots inside you that made your vision white out. He slowed his pace just fractionally, grinding into you instead of thrusting, torturing you with the depth.

"Are you going to peak again?" he rasped against your ear, his breath hot and ragged.

You let out a groan and nodded your face against the sheets. "Already?" he mocked, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "What kind of greedy whore finds her pleasure twice before a customer achieves his once?"

You could only babble, incoherent pleas falling from your lips, your mind shattered by the relentless stimulation. "Please... Ormund... I can't..."

He reached around your hip, his fingers finding your swollen, sensitive clit. He rubbed it roughly, in tight, fast circles, matching the tempo of his hips. You screamed his name as the second orgasm tore through you.

"Fuck!" Ormund roared.

He slammed into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and held himself there as his body seized, spilling inside you, his cock pulsing as he filled you with his seed. He groaned low in his throat, his eyes squeezed shut, every muscle in his body locked in a rictus of pleasure.

Then he pulled out slowly. The movement dragged a whimper from your lips. He shifted back, kneeling between your legs, and watched with fascination as his cum began to leak out of you. It was a thick, white trickle, running slowly down your thighs, mingling with the slick evidence of your own arousal. You looked thoroughly fucked, used, ruined in the best possible way.

Ormund threw his head back, his skin glistening with sweat in the dim light. "Fuck," he breathed, the word a prayer.

The energy in the room began to settle, giving way to a heavy, sated exhaustion. He collapsed onto the bed beside you, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling as his heart rate slowly returned to normal.

After a moment, he turned onto his side. He reached out with a gentle hand, wiping the sweat-soaked baby hairs from your forehead and brow. His touch was tender now, a stark contrast to the moments before. You opened your eyes to look at him. They were glassy, unfocused, but filled with a deep, lingering warmth.

"Are you alright?" he asked. The game was over. The role shed, leaving only your doting husband.

You nodded, unable to find your voice just yet.

"I have never..." He started, then stopped, shaking his head as if unable to articulate the magnitude of what had just passed between you. He groaned as he sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His body ached in the most satisfying way.

You continued to just lay there on your stomach, thinking of what had passed. Your mind was a haze of pleasure, the boundaries between the fantasy and reality blurring.

Ormund stood and walked across the room, his movements slow and heavy. He returned a moment later with a warm, damp cloth. The first touch of it between your legs made you gasp. You were sensitive, swollen from the rough handling, and even the gentle pressure was intense.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "Relax."

He wiped you so gently, cleaning away the mess of your coupling with a care that belied his earlier ferocity, taking his time, ensuring he was thorough. When he was done, he discarded the cloth onto the floor and pulled back the heavy duvet, gathering you into his arms as if you weighed nothing. You curled into his chest, burying your face in his neck.

"You were so perfect," he whispered into your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You shifted, propping yourself up slightly on his chest to look at him. A shadow of doubt crossed your features, a vulnerability that hadn't been there during the game.

"Is that what you need to be happy?" you asked softly. "Have you been unsatisfied before in our marriage bed?"

Ormund looked at you, blue eyes serious. He reached up to stroke your cheek, his thumb brushing over your soft skin.

"I am very happy. More than I deserve."

He leaned in to kiss you, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of salt and lingering desire. He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

"If I made you feel as though— I am sorry."

You kissed him again, laying your head back on his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. The fear dissolved, replaced by a warm glow of security. You traced idle patterns on his chest, your mind drifting back to the thrill of the act.

"Next time," you murmured sleepily. "I am in control."

Ormund ran his hand down your back, soothing you. "Oh, really?" You could hear the smile in his voice. "What would you like to try?"

You smiled against his skin, a mischievous glint returning to your eyes. "Perhaps I can be a princess, and you can be a dark knight holding me for ransom."

Ormund laughed out loud, a deep sound that startled the quiet room. "You're going to fuck your way to freedom?" You smacked his chest, feigning outrage. "I will not tell you my desires if you are going to laugh!"

He caught your hand, interlacing your fingers, rolling you both over, shifting his weight so he was looking down at you. The playfulness in his expression softened into something warmer and infinitely devoted.

and, yeah. he knows he should send you away. should tell his guards to take you elsewhere, should give you a golden dragon for your troubles and tell you to buy yourself a nice gown or a good meal.

he should do the right thing. the godly thing. but then you come near him smelling of honeysuckle and ambrosia and every godforsaken tempting thing in all the seven kingdoms, and ormund is done for.

at first, you only sit in his lap and kiss his cheeks. and he tells himself it's fine, you know? it's not like you're really doing anything wrong. just worshipping a man you'd been paid to make feel good. and it does make him feel good, your soft lips against his skin.

but then he lets himself touch you.

slow at first. a hand on your thigh—over your dress. albeit a thin barrier of lace and silk, but a barrier still. and then he drags his knuckles down the back of your smooth neck, stroking the sweat-slick hair that clings to your nape.

you thread your own fingers through his curls, mouth drifting lower to lay kisses over his pulse. you're good at what you do, he realizes quickly. because before he can even register what's happening, you're turning fully to staddle his hips and hiking your dress up your legs.

he can feel you, even through his trousers. the heat that emits from between your thighs, the wetness, the desire. it makes him feel dizzy. drunk, even.

you give a tentative roll of your hips over his bulge and his head falls back, knocking lightly against the top of the mahogany chair. it's too much, and he knows it, and there's a thought in the back of his head as you create a delicious rhythm that he might be damned for this.

but he's too far gone now, that iron grip on his control slipping through his fingers like smoke. he can only feel the remnants of it like a thick humidity, can hardly remember those life-long teachings of the faith.

when your fingers unbuckle the iron buttons of his doublet, he lets you. doesn't push you away like he should when you push it over his shoulders and down his strong biceps, either.

you're so soft. tracing his scars with eager hands, still humping his clothed cock like you're the most desperate girl he's ever seen. he tugs roughly at the tie at the back of your dress, the fabric over your chest falling away with little resistance.

his big hands come to cup your breasts, massaging the supple flesh, calloused thumbs stroking over the peaks of your nipples. his mouth waters at the sight of you, bare and free and open, all for him.

his for the taking.

his for the feasting.

ormund leans forward and suckles your tit into his mouth, tongue demanding as it flicks across your nipple. he kisses his way across your sternum to the other, sucking and biting, unable to stop himself from making some sort of claim on you despite being fully away you're not his to claim.

he's not an indulgent man, no. but greedy? well...that's another matter.

your breath is warm against the shell of his ear as you say, "i want you inside me."

he should say no. he knows that.

but then you say, "please, ser."

and gods. what's a man to do? deny a pretty woman? deny the prettiest woman?

ormund doesn't have the strength. not when you beg so beautifully.

"get up," he says.

you do without a moment's hesitation. perfect girl. obedient girl.

ormund stands to his feet and crowds your space until you have to take a step back. one, and then another, and another. he tilts his head and smiles with a wolfish grin until your back hits the edge of the desk.

he sees it there, for a fleeting moment—the fear in your eyes. but you don't have to be afraid, not of him. he's a godly man, don't you know? he would never hurt a woman, let alone one like you.

gently, he lifts his hand to your face and strokes the back of his knuckles over the curve of your cheek. "do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"

the fear subsides, and ormund traces the shape of your sweet mouth with the pad of his thumb.

"if it weren't for coin, would you still want this? and don't lie, girl."

he watches as your pupils dilate. you nod, slowly at first, but then again with more certainty. "yes."

"good." he presses his thumb past your lips, feeling the soft wetness of your tongue and she sharpness of your teeth. you hollow out your cheeks, staring up at him through your lashes the whole time.

a moan escapes him at the sight of you. pretty and sinful and irresistible all the same. he lets you suck his thumb for a few precious moments, committing the feeling of your warm mouth to memory.

but the moment his desire for you grows impossibly more suffocating, he brackets an arm around you and lifts you onto the desk. ormund pushes your shoulders back and pulls your dress up right over the ravens he'd been writing moments before you'd stepped foot into his space, ink likely still drying.

you lift your legs; the heels of your feet hooked right at the edge. ormund gorges himself on the sight of you; bare and spread wide for him, beautiful and womanly and so very wet.

with one hand, the knight undoes his belt. and with the other, he strokes a finger through the seam of your cunt. finds your clit and circles it carefully, delighting in the way your eyes flutter closed and a hum leaves your lips.

his cock is aching now. throbbing in his hand as he pulls it from his breeches and strokes it desperately.

this would be enough to finish him, he knows. a firm grip around the base of his cock and the most mouth-watering sight before him. an interactive display of indulgence.

it should be enough.

and yet it is not.

ormund brings his hand, wet now with your arousal, to his lips. he inhales deeply, taking the scent of you deep into his lungs, before he brings his finger to his mouth and sucks the taste of you off of it.

he makes space for himself between your spread thighs and watches curiously as you prop yourself up on your elbows. "i want to watch it go in," you admit sheepishly.

there's a tone of innocence in your voice that has him trembling with need. it makes him feel...powerful, almost. like you're at his mercy.

and maybe you are.

ormund knows he shouldn't like the feeling, but he does. and he's already gone this far, and so he grips the back of your neck hard and pulls you forward, abdomen curling to get a better view.

he lines himself up at your entrance, coating the tip of his cock in your slick, and then slides in deep.

the thought crosses his mind that you feel like heaven.

tight and wet, a kind of worship in it's own right.

ormund fucks you hard. tugs at your hair and slams his hips against yours with reckless abandon. kisses your cervix with the tip of his big cock, stretching you wide.

he doesn't kiss you, because it's too intimate.

but his lips hover over yours, breathing in your moans, swallowing up your exhalation. ormund thinks you're beautiful as you are, but when your eyes are wide and you're all filled up with him?

gods.

it's something else entirely. makes him throb inside of you, the muscles in his arms flexing as he holds you upright. "you're perfect," he says, and means it. doesn't throw the word around lightly.

but it's true.

ormund circles your clit with his free hand after gathering spit from his own mouth for ease of friction. he smears his saliva over your cunt, slapping his fingers against you slit, twice gently, and then once sharp.

but he soothes the ache quickly, shushing your whining with a steady pressure against your swollen clit.

he spreads his fingers and slides them down, two on each side of his cock that still pistons into your opening. sweat begins to bead along his hairline. "tell me you want me," he murmurs, voice low and thready.

"i want you," you say.

and it satisfies him, but then you keep going and his knees grow weak.

"want you to—to defile me. feels so good. so—so good inside of me, please. don't stop. please don't stop. i want to be your woman. i'll do anything, my lord. anything, please."

there's a part of him that doesn't believe it. ormund tells himself you're being paid to say these things. that it's about the gold and not about him.

but you beg so beautifully and he thinks that yeah, he might want that, too.

might want to keep you at his bedside for his own twisted pleasure. for his own relief. his pet. his plaything.

his woman.

your cunt squeezes tight around him, and your knuckles around the edge of the desk blanch as you hold tight. "oh, gods."

he groans, the sound reverberating deep in his chest, and then empties himself deep inside of you. fills you up and doesn't stop his thrusts. his cock twitches and becomes coated with your release and his.

he doesn't slow his pace until your muscles go slack, until the oversensitivity becomes borderline painful.

carefully, he releases his hold on you and lays you back against the desk, a small smile forming on your pretty face. a look of pure bliss, provided by his touch alone.

ormund gently pulls himself back, and watches as the sticky white mess of his cum spills out of you. he gathers it with his fingers and pushes it back in, thumb stroking lightly over your clit.

it's wrong, and he knows it, but he hopes that it sticks. hopes that one day your belly will be rounded with his baby, and he'll have no choice but to marry you. to raise you up from a girl in a brothel to a lady of his house. a hightower.

ormund hopes he'll get to keep you.

ormund also hopes the gods might forgive him.

Daeron's expression turns sympathetic as he sees your mood sour, prompting you to step closer, one hand moving to brush his cheek as you speak, your tone hushed but warm. "Don't give me that look," you scold, but it contradicts the softness of your touch and tone. "There's nothing to worry about." Your thumb smooths over his cheekbone, motherly and reassuring, as you always do when he's putting others' emotions onto his own young shoulders. "Ormund will know what to make of it."

"As always."

Both of you perk up at the familiar voice, watching as your husband enters the tent through the flaps, one eyebrow raised as he assesses the scene, eyes narrowing at the sight of your hand cradling Daeron's cheek, jaw clenching minutely. "Such matters are not for wives," he shoots you a look, "or squires," his voice dips to a firmer tone as he glances at Daeron, "to worry about." Ormund closes the flap behind him before continuing, seeking privacy. "Or talk behind their hands like gossiping mongrels where I cannot hear."

You feel Daeron tense beneath your hand, and your thumb brushes his cheek to soothe, huffing as you hold your husband's gaze. "The boy was just relaying information to me, which I am grateful for." Daeron relaxes under your touch, which makes you hum, sneaking him a small smile before turning your gaze back to Ormund. "As any squire would."

"He is my squire."

"I borrowed him," you counter, lifting your chin, not backing down.

"You cannot borrow someone's squire. It is unheard of."

"And yet you are hearing about it now. Novelties are common during wartime, are they not?"

The corner of Ormund's lips twitches for one moment at your audacity before he scoffs, eyes narrowed as he holds your gaze enough to let you know this will not be the end of this conversation. It sends a shiver down your spine.

"So they say," he responds, stepping closer, motioning with one hand towards the flap of the tent. "Go see what that beast of yours is doing, won't you? There are matters I must discuss with Lady Hightower." Ormund's tone is firm, brooking no argument as he waits for Daeron to obey, the young boy nodding curtly, before turning to do the same to you, albeit a touch more reverent.

"My lord, my lady."

You smile, thumb tracing his cheek once more before he moves, letting your hand fall to your side, watching as he makes haste towards the tent's exit.

The silence he leaves behind is thick for a heartbeat, two, before it is broken by your husband's voice. "You coddle him incessantly," he reprimands, face scrunching in distaste, as if such a thing offended him personally. "Petting him like a cat and cooing at him as if he were but a babe."

Being a touch theatrical has always been one of your husband's most endearing traits, and one of his most daunting, as you sometimes remind him, to his annoyance. You will never admit that poking at that certain flaw of his tickles you greatly, just as it does now.

"He is young," you combat, "and this is his first ever war. A gentle touch would do him well."

"Too gentle of a touch will soften him overmuch and he will not be fit to fight alongside me, as is his duty," your husband counters, tone resolute as he takes slow, measured steps towards you, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. "You know this."

And you did. The importance of coming out victorious was paramount to your husband, his house, and his cause. Seating the rightful heir on the Iron Throne was the one thing that mattered most, and Ormund was hellbent on seeing it through to the end, by any means necessary.

"I am aware," your tone softens, sighing as you reach for him, hand touching his cheek as you did Daeron, but the difference was stark in the way you offered your affection, thumbing at the cut of his cheekbone with intent, leaning in until your breaths mingled. Ormund frowned, knowing you were trying to appease him, but didn't pull away, instead leaning into your touch, tilting his head into the cradle of your palm, eyes boring into yours. “But someone has to soften the rigour you instill in him, husband, for he shall not be cruel, but just, even in times of war.”

“Being just is not enough,” he protests again, and you can feel his jaw tighten beneath your hand, which you try to soothe with soft swipes of your thumb along the bone, a touch that he welcomes, despite the turmoil in his gaze. “If one needs to be heartless, then the Gods have willed it so.”

Your brows pinch together, the urge to try and make your husband see reason slowly curdling into something acrid. “Since when have the Gods willed a young boy to cruelty, Ormund?” Your tone is no longer soft nor warm, sharpening at the mere thought of Daeron being made into something he was not meant to be. “Is this what the Seven Pointed Star had taught us all these years?”

Ormund’s eyes widen for a fraction, the use of his name in such a cadence from you and the sting of your words halting his breath. He knew how fiercely protective you were of the boy, like a lioness with its cub, even if not yours by womb. Now it was his turn to try and bring back the sweetness in your tone, for he shall never admit it, but having his wife cross with him was a fate he did not particularly enjoy.

“My love,” he murmured, and tried not to react when he saw your expression pinch even more at the fond moniker. “Sometimes, in the midst of war, we cannot abide by all that The Faith has taught us, no matter how much we wish to grace the Gods with our deeds.” Ormund took a breath, trying not to get irritated when your pretty face didn’t soften an inch. “And that boy is fated to sit The Iron Throne, for his blood is pure, and not savage, and his teachings are proper, and not the stuff of legends long past.”

Sit the Iron Throne.

You took a step back, recoiling from your husband as if burned, the warmth of your touch no longer on his cheek as you whispered, mortified. “Sit the Iron Throne?”

Such plans were news to you, for Aemond was to be the rightful heir now that Aegon was gone. But it seems your husband’s ideals reached further than you could’ve ever conjured up yourself. Was it because Aemond was to be sent to Harrenhal? Did your husband believe Rhaenyra’s forces would slay Vhagar and thus leave the throne with no one to occupy it?

“No,” you said, resolute, fingers starting to tremble as you curled them into fists at your side. “I will not have my boy thrown into that den of vipers that we’ve tried so hard to keep him safe from.”

Ormund’s chest rattled with the deep breath he took, as if preparing himself for the onslaught of your dissatisfaction to come. “He is not—”

“Don’t you dare!” Your tone was sharp as steel, voice rising, all pretence gone now that your husband had braved to utter those words to you, knowing how much they would chip at your tender heart. “You know just as well as I that Daeron is more mine than anyone else’s. I have raised him since he was a babe—”

“And you have done so valiantly, my dear, but—” Ormund tries to soothe, but the bitter taste in your mouth from his words is more pungent than anything he could say to save himself from your wrath.

“Do not patronise me so!”

Your chest is heaving, and you feel those damnable pinpricks behind your eyes, moisture dampening your lash line, tears slowly forming, as if already feeling the grief of losing one of the things you cherish most. “King’s Landing is a wretched place, devoid of honour and swarming with enemies, and you want to send our—”

Our son.

But you stop, chin wobbling, not daring to say such a thing now, knowing it will do no good, and only make your husband protest further.

The sweetest boy, who hid his chubby little face into your skirts and clung to them when nightmares came at night, is now sentenced to a life you know he does not wish for. You can already feel your stomach churning with trepidation just at the thought, your gaze unwavering despite the tears brimming in your eyes to shoot daggers at your husband, who stays unmoving before you, looking equal parts irritated and unsure of how to proceed in the face of such strong emotions.

“I cannot, Ormund,” you whisper, voice breaking around the edges. “I shall not let you make a scheme of my boy just to fuel your own ambitions.”

You expect your husband to protest, to scream and rage and rip the very tent you’re in apart in his hands, but he does none of those things. Instead, he watches you, as calculated as he’s ever been, as if devising a plan to turn your sorrow into something for his own gain, or so you think.

What you do not anticipate is for Ormund to sigh, long and suffering, before walking towards you, lessening the distance between your bodies until his sword hilt bumps against your hip. “Do you believe that I am doing this solely for my own gain, my love?”

And you want to argue that, yes, you are certain of such things, for your husband was never one to not think of himself or his family first and foremost. But you don’t get to verbalise that, Ormund’s voice, softer than before, carrying that tone which could melt the marrow of your bones in mere seconds, but now, your impending grief is too great, your sorrow hardening you too much for such mellowness so quick.

“I do it for us,” he says, tilting his head to the side, bringing your faces closer, noses almost brushing. “For our legacy. For the future of House Hightower, which is now in ruins given the death of Otto and the usurpation of the King.”

You wish to protest, but your husband does not let you, sensing the argument on the tip of your tongue before it forms, a habit he picked up after more than a decade by your side, knowing you inside and out.

“Ascending Daeron to the throne will grant us power beyond our imagination, and allow the boy to live in a world of his own making.” The words are just and sound, but they do not go through you; the image of your sweet Daeron sitting upon that blasted throne full of swords and lies is too heavy on your heart.

“He will be in grave danger,” you croak, tears brimming along your lash line, slowly slipping down warm cheeks. “People will seek to harm him, to demand favours he’s not ready to offer, to—”

“And I will be in his shadow, making sure none of that comes to fruition,” Ormund says, tone brooking no argument, his gaze holding yours, willing you to see the seriousness of the matter. “If anyone dares to conspire against our boy, I will have their heads before they can draw their next breath. You have my word, sweet wife.”

Our boy.

You draw in a trembling, wet breath, your husband’s words breaking your heart and putting it back together in one fell swoop, a quiet, choked sob parting your lips as you try to utter a word back, anything to dismantle Ormund’s words, but you cannot.

“Oh, my love,” he coos, and it does not sound as condescending as it should’ve, as Ormund would pity those around him who show weakness. No, not with you. He wouldn’t dare make a spectacle of your tender, caring heart, which has grounded him many a time in his darkest, most turbulent moments. “Come here, sweetheart. Do not weep so.”

And you, powerless to resist, take the small step which is needed to bridge the distance between you, allowing your husband to cradle you in his arms, holding you as gently as one would a flower, but firm enough to make it known he wishes not to let go anytime soon.

One of his broad palms settles along your back, slowly smoothing down from the small of your back to the nape of your neck, the other anchored to the back of your head, coaxing you to rest your face along his throat. “Shh, shh, sweetling,” he whispers, turning his head to brush the words against your temple before pressing a soft, lingering kiss against your brow. “I will never let anything befall you or the boy. You know that with certainty.”

You do.

Gods, you do, but the fear that gripped your heart like a vice at the thought of such a grand plan was more powerful than reason and proof. Ormund had always gone above and beyond to ensure you and Daeron were safe at all times, even when he was away, instructing guards to follow you around like shadows and sit unmoving at your doors while you slumbered.

“I-i know, but the peril that awaits him if—”

Another kiss brushing your skin halted your incoming spiral, the feeling of your husband’s warm, rough lips against your temple melting you further into the safe strength of his arms, a haven in itself as you feared for what was to come. “The peril shall not exist. Our boy will have me, you, and more men-at-arms that I can count to keep him away from harm. In that, you must trust. In me, also.”

Your arms, which have hesitated until now, moved to grip at the back of your husband’s tunic as you embraced him tightly, needing a rock to cling to, nuzzling your face into his throat, dampening his skin with your tears as you sobbed quietly. “I trust in you more than life itself,” you croaked, and felt the pleased hum your words elicited from Ormund, as if the thought of you confiding in him so wholeheartedly brought him immense satisfaction. “But not that place, those people, that damned chair.”

“And you are right to do so, my love,” he approved, slowly putting weight from one foot to another, guiding your bodies into a gentle sway from side to side, meant to soothe you further. “Gods know everything the Targaryens touch is defiled beyond words. But we shall change that. Make it our own. A place where we and the boy can build a world fit for us alone.”

It sounded too good to be true, like a fairytale the septas would whisper to babes as they grew older, but the determined tone of your husband’s voice made you want to cling to this fantasy as well.

“Just us and our boy?” You murmured, fingers curling tighter into Ormund’s tunic, as if you could etch the very hope of such notions into his very bones.

“Yes, my sweet,” he whispered, brushing another lingering kiss to your temple, eyes fluttering shut as he held you close, still swaying. “Just us and our boy.”