Jeongin's dimples

ᯓ For a life split between training, sleep, and servitude since birth, it’s unsurprising that these types of activities have not come across Wamuu’s schedule too often. Kars’ doctrine demands total commitment, of the flesh and the mind.

ᯓ I wouldn’t put it past him to be a virgin frankly. Maybe in the past, there have been slip ups where he caught sight of something…. Particularly delicious. Typically though, the threat of discipline keeps him from straying too far.

ᯓ Lusty? No, it’s a need to feel you come undone— to see his superiority over a little human reinforced.

ᯓ Fast learner. Even if he doesn’t have experience in the sensations you seek, he will gain it through you: instruct him, show him how you touch yourself. You like the feeling, don’t you? Why? Tell him.

ᯓ Once he has it nailed, how to make you tick, it’s a massive point of pride for the Pillarman. Though he’d mask it in teases.

ᯓ Seeing you in pain does nothing for him, unless it’s pain from the mounting pleasure of him manipulating your most sensitive parts. Not into anything that would outright hurt you.

ᯓ Orgasm denial. For both of you.

ᯓ Training, he calls it in soft, tight breaths, his thumb slipping over your wet tip/clit for what must be the hundredth time as you grasp into the sheets, his own hand on his fat, weeping cock. You have to resist the urge to tip over the edge. He’s doing it with you and he isn’t close. Are you that weak?

ᯓ Even if it is “training”, he can have fun. Without much effort, he can pin your hip down with one hand and tease you until you’re babbling, sobbing for the great Wamuu to please let you cum.

ᯓ Nips more than he bites. He doesn’t create the biggest hickies, but likes dotting your chest and hips. Almost the size and shape of fingerprints.

ᯓ Likes your sensitive neck, and anywhere he can see the tightening of muscle. Calves. Pecs. Biceps. Any of them. Can’t resist how your waist looks in his hands either.

ᯓ Wind play? Temperature play-ish. Tendrils of cool air curl around your limbs, graze your wet folds/pulsing length, raising goosebumps.

ᯓ Let it pin you to the bed, squirming and shivering in place. It drives him insane.

ᯓ Favorite position is anything he can see your face, but is somewhat partial to holding your legs open in a V when you’re receiving, he likes holding your ankles.

ᯓ (I think Wamuu would be more likely to bottom than Kars, but it is still a once in a blue moon scenario. Treat it reverently.)

ᯓ Though once he gets over your humanness (and himself, really), he does enjoy serving you. Laying on your back, his arms snaking up your torso as he goes down on you like a man at an altar.

ᯓ If you haven’t been interested in it earlier, he is interested in anal play.

ᯓ There’s something that soothes the old values of dominance he’s internalized. Perhaps it’s the whimpers you make when he preps you, the soft skin of your ass, the way you shiver as he pushes inside you for the first time. Tight, shaky, so adorable and small in his grasp (AGAIN, the Pillarmen are like 8-9 feet tall. Idc how you look, all readers are getting their shit rocked by them if they so desire).

ᯓ Fat dick, large like the other Pillarmen’s, proportional to his size. I don’t think any of them can resist brushing their fingers over the spot in your abdomen where the head of their length is spearing you.

ᯓ Ownership. He truly owns you, him and his lords, and he lets you know.

“Your body reacts so much at the slightest touch… are humans really so weak?”

“My little one. Hold still.”

“Now. Thank the great Wamuu for deciding to play with you.”

ᯓ He likes seeing your body marked with his seed, inside and out— perhaps a bit of a fetish for it. Cums quite a bit too.

ᯓ Grits his teeth, moans when he finishes. Sometimes there’s a hiss, like the breeze across leaves. Holds you so tight, you fear you might break a few bones.

ᯓ Very careful and concerned about aftercare. Sore? Let him massage your muscles after a bath. Really likes to feel the soft slip of your wet skin beneath his palms.

ᯓ Chances are if you both serve the upper two, you’re going to be needed soon. But he has the experience— don’t worry, he’ll take care of both of your tasks. (You may owe him later.)

Gwayne gives you nothing in response.

For the first time since you met — late in your adolescence, when he needed something to prove and you needed coin to make; when everything between you was all warm cheeks and trembling hands — Gwayne is at a loss for a clever word, and unmoved by the slyness of your grin. He closes the distance between you instead, flinging the door shut behind him with a careless hand and staggering with each uneven step.

You meet him in the center of the expansive apartment — paid for, in part, by his Hightower coin alone. You hold him tentatively by the forearms, and feel the worn wool crack stiff with dried mud. “Gwayne…” you murmur gently to him, all the mockery long gone from your voice. You search his empty face with worried eyes. “Look at me— Are you hurt?”

He does not answer that either. Instead, his trembling hands lift to find your waist. The callouses along his palms snag briefly in the soft silk of your robe. He finds himself very suddenly overcome by the familiarity of having you in his arms again; a nostalgia that rises in his throat and strangles him. His dirty chin quivers as he leans further into you, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder and knotting his fists hard into your dress.

You feel the trembling start in his shoulders before you feel something warm and wet smear along your collarbone. The man weeps over you with great, shuddering snivels that he hides into your neck. It is the most vulnerable you’ve ever seen him, you think, even more so than the day you met — when all the other highborn boys teased him for his lack of experience, saying that he must not have the appetite for women, and sent him scrambling here to prove himself. 

He found you instead; a girl of his age, new to both Oldtown and the Honey Inn. A girl who saw right through him and refused to take his coin, or anything else he offered that night; but embellished enough stories that made all the taunting whispers about him finally stop. It was a small kindness, though one that threatened to undo him entirely. 

He’s warmed your bed ever since, both as client and something less easily named. You hold him now the same way you did that first night, asking nothing of him and expecting even less.

You draw him a bath once his breaths come more easily to him. You peel the ruined gambeson and sweat-stiff small clothes from his pale skin, and make no comment about how thin he’s grown as you lower him into the steaming water. The water runs brown, then dusty rose, and then finally clear as you work a soft cloth over his skin. Across his shoulders, down his spine, and over the frail skin of his hairless chest. 

“You needn’t—” Gwayne attempts to speak, his very first words since he crossed your threshold, though his voice comes out cracked and low with disuse. He feels half smothered beneath the foreign tenderness you offer him, but he does not flinch under your touch. He never has. “You needn’t do this for me, you know?”

“I know…” you nod and smooth the cloth along the milky-white column of his throat when he tips his chin to look at you, kneeling just outside the tub. “But I want to.”

When the warm water cools, you towel him dry and dress him in clothes a size too big for his frame — softly worn trousers and a loose linen tunic; souvenirs from previous patrons, washed by your own hands. Gwayne tries not to think about who might have shared your bed while he laid shivering in the mud. It was much easier to imagine you as his and only his, though he’s never quite found the courage to ask that of you.

“I’m sorry,” he says from where he lies within your silken sheets, wrapped in the sweet scent of your perfume and the particular stench of sweat that clings to the walls of the establishment. He doesn’t ask if you’ve taken clients today; he doesn’t want to know the answer — but the hour is early enough that he lets himself believe his body is the only one your hands have touched so far.

“For what?” you scoff, sliding beneath the cool sheets to join him. The feather mattress dips slightly under your weight until your legs tangle with his scruffy ones out of habit. “For tracking half the Kingsroad across my good Naathi rug? Because Mistress Aleena will absolutely dock you for it— whether you bought it or not.”

Gwayne exhales hard through his nose in place of a laugh, pink lips curling into a tired grin. “For all of it,” he says, pale eyes as dull and empty as his voice. “For… coming here like a beggar, for… crying on you like a child. For—” 

“Gwayne,” you sigh, splaying a free hand over the newfound hollow of his jaw. “You have nothing to apologize for. Not tonight, not ever if I have any say on the matter. Do you understand?”

Gwayne’s eyes soften around the edges as they flit back and forth between your steady gaze. His chapped lips part but cannot seem to summon an answer for you. Your soft grin widens into a more devilish thing as your hand trails down the curve of his jaw, past his sternum still flushed from the bath, and over the soft trail of auburn hair above the hem of his trousers. 

“I said…” Your fingers creep beneath the fabric to find the dense patch of coarse hair there. “Do you understand?”

The words of a response die on his tongue when your palm squeezes gently at his cock, soft like velvet and achingly sensitive under your touch. A broken sigh spills from his parted mouth as he tips his head back, damp auburn hair wild on the pillow. He twitches slowly stiff in your hand, dribbling pearls of pre-cum at the soft pink tip that you use to lubricate each slow stroke. 

He only vaguely feels the tip of your nose nudging the side of his, right before you press a tender kiss to his chapped mouth. He exhales hard through his nose as your lips slot effortlessly together, breath fanning warm along your cupid’s bow. His hips buck up into your hand with a sort of desperation you haven’t seen from him in quite some time, and your mouth curls into a smile pressed against his.

The distant creaking of the fourth step in the hall — an old plank that’s had a way of warning you of every approaching patron since you first took this room — shatters the moment entirely. Your head tilts upward against Gwayne’s when the heavy oak door swings open without a pretense of a knock, as if the man on the other side didn’t know that closed doors in a house like these only ever meant one thing.

Gwayne makes a weak, wounded sound in his throat when your hand slows around his cock. “Why’d you stop?” he mutters against your mouth, heavy eyes fluttering open to find you glancing off towards the door.

“It seems like we have company…” you croon with a smile.

Gwayne’s brows lower in confusion right before his head turns against the pillow. The screwed look drains into something far closer to dread when his eyes fall on his cousin looming in the doorway — standing a head taller and twice as broad through the shoulders. He reaches for the silver pomander chained perpetually to his scabbard and lifts it to his nose. His nostrils flare as he inhales the earthy incense, trying hopelessly to escape the stench of sex clinging to the walls of the Honey Inn.

You knew Ormund Hightower mostly by reputation rather than appearance. He’s handsome in the manner that most Hightower men were handsome, and chiseled cold in a manner that suggests all the unkind stories Gwayne’s told you about the man over the years were likely unembellished.

“So… This is where you’ve run off to,” Ormund says in a melodic voice as he strolls further inside. He scans the room with pale, attentive eyes — the tub running low by the window, the discarded clothes just beside it, and his cousin freshly home from war and spending his return in a whore’s bed. A thin smile curls at the corner of his mouth accordingly: “I confess, I do find myself surprised, cousin… I hadn’t realized you possessed the… appetite for this sort of thing…” 

Gwayne goes rigid underneath you while his cock softens once more in your fist. An age-old humiliation flickers behind his eyes — the same look you remember seeing on him all those years ago. 

“It’ll cost you extra if you mean to join us, my lord,” you call to the older man, with an ease about you that suggests you’re utterly unbothered by an audience. Your head tilts to your shoulder as you study the man, eyes raking slowly over his broad form. “Though I’d wager you have more than enough coin for it… And the face for it, too, no doubt…”

Ormund’s chest burns with a strange mixture of offense and pride. His strong, shaven chin lifts slightly upward as he drops the pomander back on its chain, giving you the whole of his attention now. “My faith does not permit such… indulgences,” he says in a smooth voice. “As I’m sure you very well know.”

“Mm… Well, if the Seven are half as kind as everyone insists, they wouldn’t begrudge a man for having a little fun now and then,” you answer without missing a beat. “Could do wonders for you, my lord— You look dreadfully tense.” 

Ormund’s pale eyes do not stray from your squinted stare. There’s something almost involuntary in it, in the way his gaze snags and catches with yours — even when your hand starts moving again under the blankets and Gwayne’s pale form tenses beneath your touch.

“Well…” Ormund hums, trying hard not to choke on his embarrassment. “You’re a bold thing, aren’t you? For a woman who sells herself by the hour.”

“And you’re a bold thing for walking into a lady’s room uninvited, my lord,” you quip and watch him falter at the volley. You turn back to Gwayne with a huff, and swing your leg to straddle his thigh as you call back to the older man, “You can watch if you like. Or wait your turn in the hall— Either way, I’m afraid I’m with a patron at present.”

Gwayne’s eyes you with a wide, worried gaze as you coax him hard again with your hand. You swipe your thumb over the bulbous tip and gather the pearly beads drooling there, before lining him at the entrance of your cunt. His pale hands settle on either side of your waist, clenching hard at the delicate fabric of your robe. Any words of protest that might’ve risen onto his tongue dissolve into a broken moan when you pierce yourself with him, slow and without concern for the man still standing across the room.

Ormund lingers there for a while longer than he’d like to admit. He tells himself that the sour feeling curling in his stomach is disgust — decent and godly disgust that any devout man ought to feel at such a display. He, admittedly, has always been good at telling himself things. 

But still, his feet do not move. And the longer he watches your hips move slowly on top of Gwayne’s — the sight of it only partially shielded by your robe and the sheets gathered at your thighs — the harder it becomes to name the thing coiled in his chest. A curiosity, perhaps, of what your hips would feel like in his hands; of what it would feel like to be nestled in your cunt— 

Ormund despises himself the moment the thought surfaces, for how long the dreadful image lingers in the back of his head before he can shake it away. 

He turns on his heel and storms towards the door with a mixture of jealousy and disgust and distant intrigue rising into his throat like bile. He pulls the heavy oak shut behind him with a resounding thud that fills the quiet room.

Gwayne shakes his head against the pillow when he’s finally gone. His pale eyes are still wide with alarm but glassy with a lingering pleasure too, as you continue grinding your hips over his lap. Your velvety cunt squeezes him with each pass, threatening to milk his orgasm from him entirely.

“You should not have done that,” he confesses breathlessly, and wears the warning etched across his pretty features.

“Done what?” you respond through panted breaths, bracing yourself on his soft chest. “Defended you? Dreadfully sorry, my lord— next time I’ll let him have the last word—”

“That’s not—” He inhales sharply and grabs hard at your waist to stop your movements, so that he might concentrate on something other than your warm, drooling cunt for more than a second. Gwayne peers up at you with a suddenly solemn look. “He’ll want it now. My cousin— What he saw now in this room. He’ll want it now simply because it’s mine.” 

You arch a brow in a playful look. “So I’m yours now, am I?” you joke.

Gwayne exhales hard through his nose when you fail to heed his warning with any real seriousness, chest deflating under your touch. Your smile only widens at the half-hearted glare he gives you then.

“You don’t know him the way I do,” he mutters.

“No. I don’t,” you agree, planting your palms on either side of his head as you lean down over him again. The plush of your breasts threatens to spill over the low neckline of your robe; you smile when you catch Gwayne’s unabashed staring. “And I’d very much like to keep it that way… Which is a pity because I might’ve made an exception for that face of his… A shame, really, that the Gods wasted such a pretty face on such an unpleasant man…” 

 Gwayne’s mouth lifts into a crooked smile despite himself. “You’re going to be the death of one of us, you know that?” he tells you, close enough now that your noses brush with every word. “Though I can’t be entirely sure which…”

“Mm…” you hum, and feel Gwayne’s chest rumble with a groan when you roll your hips over his again. “I do hope it’s the more tiresome cousin then.” 

You kiss him before Gwayne can argue the point. And this time, he does not pull away — and he does not for a long while after.

Gwayne makes himself at home in your bed the way he has since boyhood. He returns not quite a week later, when word of Criston Cole’s death reaches Oldtown — his handsome head struck from his shoulder and mounted on a pike by the Winter Wolves, no more than a three-day ride from the Reach now. He tells you this with his heavy head laid in your lap, staring distantly at the crackling hearth across the room, and blinking back burning tears before they can stain your pretty silk dress.  

His auburn hair slides like silk between your fingers as you run your hands through it, with the same unthinking tenderness you’ve shown him a thousand nights before this one, though he feels far less deserving of it now.

“You needn’t perform this for me, you know?” he mutters, rubbing his cheek along your covered thigh while his thumb smooths absently over your knee. “I know what I am to you…” 

“Oh, really?” you say with a smile evident in your voice, though he cannot see it from where he lies. “And who might that be?”

Gwayne turns his head to peer up at you. A weary half-smile hints at the very edges of his mouth as he answers, “A man who’s paid twice over for the privilege of your company over the years…”

You flinch at his words before you can properly catch yourself. It had been years since Gwayne last put coin in your palm for anything; longer since, perhaps, than he’s stopped truly needing to. He’s filled your larder more times than you could count, dressed you in silks finer than half the highborn ladies at court, and furnished this very room with the good Myrish looking glass and the featherbed you share now — all without once being asked. 

So it stings a little now, to hear him speak of you still in the language of ledger — as though even after everything, he still cannot quite let himself believe he might simply be loved and not owed.

“Yes…” you sigh, combing your fingers from his temple to the side of his neck. “You’ve paid me a great deal of coin to take care of you… But no one pays me extra to love you. And I find that I very much do.”

The words threaten to undo him completely. He has not grown any more accustomed to tenderness since the war ended than he was before it began. He was not raised to think himself particularly deserving of love; not with a family that whispered often of his peculiar appetite and a cousin who made a sport of his shame at every turn. And then you came along and never once made him feel like the freak everyone at court had long decided that he must be. You are, he thinks, the closest thing to a miracle he’s ever been given.

“Where will you go?” he wonders suddenly aloud, auburn brows pinching low in curiosity. “When Rhaenyra’s army arrives, I mean?”

You shrug, and the thin sleeve of your nightgown slips from your shoulder. “The crypts with everyone else, I expect—”

“What if we left?” he blurts before he can properly weigh the words in his head. His eyes dart wildly across your face, aglow now with a prophecy he can see so vividly in his head. “Daeron has Tessarion. And surely the three of us are not so heavy a burden for a dragon to bear. We could be gone from the city before anyone thought to look for us— and already leagues away before they could try.”

“And do what, exactly?” you wonder with a warm laugh. “Comb my hair by firelight and pray the open road pays half so well as Oldtown? I have a trade here, Gwayne, one that will long outlast this useless war. And one that does not travel well.”

“You wouldn’t need a trade,” Gwayne scoffs. The mattress dips under his weight as he sits up ahead of you, drawing his knees to his chest and resting his forearms across them. His face is very suddenly close to yours now, and very suddenly solemn. “I’d take care of you.”

“So I’d go around being your whore then? Is that it?”

His face screws in a pained sort of look. “You wouldn’t be my whore. You’d be my lady.” 

The promise steals the words of a clever response from your mouth. You’ve heard enough of them fall from enough men over the years to fill a maester’s ledger — vows made drunk with sex and unmade sober when it was done; declarations of earnest men who meant well but were misled by their own wanting. You’ve learned the sound of deceit well enough over the years to recognize that this was not one of them. 

Gwayne was, perhaps, the first man of any real means to offer you true courtesy that was not only spent with his coin; and you would like nothing more than to return the favor, to be his lady. But you learned long ago, the hard way a girl born into nothing usually learns such things, that some fates are simply not written for women like you.

A strange feeling settles heavy in your chest accordingly. It weighs down the edges of your tender smile as you reach to smooth a piece of silken auburn hair back from his temple, if only to buy yourself half a moment before you answer him.

“I cannot leave,” you mutter gently to him. “The road is not… gentle to women, whatever protection you mean to offer me… What if we were separated? What if you grew bored of me? What if I became a burden to you—?”

“Never,” Gwayne protests, words sharp with hurt.

You meet his frown with a much softer look in return. “Whatever’s coming for this city is no kinder than whatever’s waiting for me out there…”

Gwayne’s face falls. His taut look of offense softens slowly, through a thick swallow in his throat — the kindling hope of the fleeting moment folds in on itself like a flower at last light.

“But I do want you to go, Gwayne,” you whisper, bringing both hands to cradle his flushed cheeks. “You’ve never been happy in this city, not truly, not since I’ve known you. Take the boy and go somewhere it’s safe. You deserve that much, if nothing else."

He shakes his head between your palms, though not quite in protest. “Who will take care of you with me gone, hm?” he asks with a sad sort of grin.

“I take care of me," you answer with narrowed eyes. “I always have. Long before I found you, and long after I expect.”

Gwayne falls quiet for a moment thereafter. It takes him a while to find the words to speak again, and when he does, the words go as distant as his forlorn gaze. “I’m not certain I could manage it regardless… Ormund watches everything— every-one. He always has… He’d know I meant to slip away before I’d so much as breathed a word of it to Daeron…”

Your thumb stills on the warm apple of his cheek. “All you’d need as a distraction,” you shrug. “Something shiny enough… And perhaps close enough to his own doorstep that he’d have no choice but to look at that instead of you…”

Gwayne catches the change in your voice before he catches the true meaning underneath it. His brows lower in a dubious look. “…Do you have something in mind?”

You give him a slow, sly, and devilish smile in response. “Oh, I have a great many things in mind…” you coo to him. “Do try to keep up, my lord…”

The plan comes together slowly after that, whispered low against the pillows with the candles burning down to near nothing. You outline the basics of it, and Gwayne fills the gaps with everything he knows of his cousin — of his habits, his pride, his cruel nature. And though you find yourself almost fond of it, the surest way you can think of to buy Gwayne and his nephew their escape, the man cannot quite stomach the thought.

“Ormund is not the kind of man who plays fair,” he warns you in a whisper. “Even in games he thinks he’s winning, if he so much as suspects—”

“He won’t,” you assure him, tracing a slow finger along the tense edge of his jaw. “I’ve made a trade of reading men like him, Gwayne, and it’s only for one night. You find Daeron, ready the dragon, and leave your cousin to me. Trust me, I have handled far worse men for far less worthy causes.”

“The scouts say they’re a day’s ride out, maybe less,” Ormund says beneath the soft scraping of his boots along the dim passageway. His voice bounces off the walls, where the torches gutter low with the late hour. “Though… Rhaenyra’s army has proven rather slow as of yet, haven’t they? Dragged down by supply, no doubt, and by the unfamiliar country… Much to our advantage, just as I knew it would be.”

Gwayne tenses his jaw, struggling to stomach the older man’s hubris — a thing he has choked down often enough over the years that it should no longer taste of anything at all, though it still has a way of burning going down. There is a small satisfaction in it, though, Gwayne realizes; in knowing something that, for once, his cousin does not. A little victory in knowing that Daeron is saddling Tessarion in the dragon’s stable at this very moment, while Ormund waltzes through this castle, utterly unaware of it.

“Many men will die regardless,” Gwayne reminds him.

“Yes. We will lose men,” Ormund nods on an exhaled breath, then tilts his head to flash the man a feigned look of sincerity — a kind, tight-lipped smile with no warmth in it at all. “Which means you’ve got nothing to worry about, cousin. You were never counted among the men anyway, were you?”

He lifts a ringed hand to pat the younger man on the shoulder, a little harder than necessary, before wrenching open the door ahead of him. Gwayne stands in place and watches him, jaw flexing as he grinds his teeth. He clenches his hands into fists, exhales a slow breath through his nose, and lets the insult pass slowly over him. He watches, instead, as Ormund strolls into his solar and falters a half-step past the threshold.

Ormund’s nose catches it before his eyes do — a strikingly foreign scent hanging in the air, of warm oil and crushed petals, sorely out of place amid the leather and parchment and wet stone. His nostrils flare faintly as his eyes finish the work his nose began. His gaze scans the room until it lands finally on you, arranged on the couch by the hearth like a thing to be painted. The sleeves of your dress threaten to slip from your shoulders as the neckline dips low enough to reveal the canvas of your plush breasts, kissed by the flickering candlelight.

Something in his chest leaps before he can help it, a red-hot flare of gladness at the sight of you lounging so delicately in his own chamber, which was only ever possible in his dreams before now — vividly and more often than he’d like to admit, since the morning he found you at the Honey Inn. He told himself it was only the irritation of you that lingered, the bitter memory of a woman far too bold for her station, though the lie only stuck so much.

He swallows down the boyish excitement rising like bile in his throat, and disgust follows hard on its heels — first at himself and then at the reflexive worry of some guard or handmaiden or septa seeing someone like you waltz into his chambers looking like that. He has spent too long manufacturing his reputation for it to go to waste on some common whore.

“What… is she… doing here?” Ormund spits each word like venom.

“You said it yourself. Rhaenyra’s army will likely make Oldtown before break of day,” Gwayne says lowly as the door clicks shut behind him. “This could very well be the last night either of us has left… And I thought you might want one happy memory before you give yourself to the dust.”

Ormund’s ringed hands twitch into loose fists at his sides. He tilts his chin and swallows hard and finds that it’s near-impossible to break your stare, no matter how plainly he wears the mask of disgust across his face. It takes him a second too long to turn away from you, and to plaster a brittle smile on his mouth when he looks over his shoulder at Gwayne.

“So you’ve brought me your leftovers?” he says with a short, humorless laugh. “How generous of you, cousin.”

“Well, leftovers would imply that I was once his, my lord,” you call from your place on the couch, twisting your pointer finger around the golden tassel of the pillow just beside you. “And I don’t much recall belonging to anyone… It’s bad for business,” you punctuate your quip in a whisper and with a devilish grin.

Ormund gives you a realer smile this time, though it’s quickly swallowed by his usual narrow-eyed look of composure. “Well… You’ve certainly got a mouth on you, don’t you?”

“Hm…” you shrug, and let the sleeve of your gown slip from your shoulder. “So I’ve been told.”

Your glimmering look of amusement stays locked with his pale-eyed stare as he saunters slowly towards you, like a predator to prey — though you look rather pleased to be caught in comparison. So much so that Ormund struggles to tell which of you is the apex now, even as he towers over you lounging form.

“You’re very devout, I hear,” you tell him, tilting your head to your bare shoulder to study the breadth of his frame — his long legs, his ringed hands, his broad chest, his sharp jaw, his cold cold eyes. “The Faith frowns on this sort of thing, doesn’t it?”

Ormund scoffs out a laugh. “Whoring?”

“Idle hands.”

You shift on the plush cushions until you’re on your knees before him, eye level with his scabbard and the silver pomander glinting in the torchlight. You reach for his hands in a smooth, unabashed motion — palms soft against the rough skin of his knuckles as you splay his ringed fingers flat against your ribs, just beneath the swell of your breasts.

His hands go stiff beneath yours, forgetting how to move them for a moment. And though his breath catches at the foreign contact, he does not step back from you, not even when a faint red flush begins to climb up the column of his throat. His mouth parts softly as his pale eyes go lidded, and your smile sharpens at the sight of it.

“You can touch me if you like, my lord,” you tell him, smoothing your hands over his green-leather coat up towards his shoulders. “I promise I don’t bite… Unless you’d prefer that I did.”

Gwayne watches your arms curl around Ormund’s shoulders with his stomach in knots. He feels suddenly very nauseous, watching his brutish cousin rest his undeserving hands where Gwayne has lain his own a thousand times over. Even now, knowing exactly what game you’re playing and why, he wants so desperately to pull you away and take you back to the Honey Inn and drown in your silk sheets forever.

But the gods aren’t that kind, and you are far too stubborn to come with him, so he clears his throat and bids his final goodbye. “Well…” he calls into the quiet, forcing a lightness into his voice as he folds his hands behind his back and moves towards the door. “I guess I’ll leave you to it…”

“Stay,” Ormund commands in a flat voice, without once taking his eyes off yours.

Gwayne freezes mid-step. His eyes widen right before an awkward laugh sputters from his mouth. “What?” he chuckles, forced from a half-strangled throat. “You’ll surely not have much fun with me standing about, cousin—”

Ormund turns finally to face him. A hint of a pleasant smile sits on his mouth, though his eyes carry a much icier glare in comparison. “Stay,” he repeats. “It’s only fair, isn’t it? You’ve been keeping her to yourself all these years, I’ve heard. Now you’ll have your turn to watch. I find I rather like the idea of you learning what that feels like.”

A flicker of anger passes over Gwayne’s face.

Ormund’s smug grin widens. “Do sit, cousin. You’ll want a good view, I expect.”

Gwayne does not move from where he stands but does not close the scant distance between him and his escape either. He has seen what Ormund does to people who do not abide by his every command, and he is less inclined to witness it himself now — or, worst of all, have that cruelty brought upon you.

You watch the exchange with an unreadable expression and file the encounter in the back of your head for later use, should you need it. One hand drags from his shoulder to his neck, coaxing him to look your way again with gentle fingers splayed along his shaven jaw.

“Fond of an audience, are you, my lord?” you murmur to him. “I confess, I wouldn’t have guessed that about you before now.”

Ormund nods, almost pleased. “There’s a great deal about me that you couldn’t possibly guess,” he retorts in a low voice.

“Good thing I’m a quick learner then, isn’t it?”

You urge him further down and tilt your chin to meet him halfway, slotting your lips in a lingering kiss. He’s warm and firm pressed against you, though his tongue tastes of nothing more than mint leaves and well-water when you lick into his mouth; as clean and sterile as all the rest of him. So much so that you think he could probably get drunk on the Dornish wine stained on your tongue alone. And you figure that he must, the way he relaxes against you with a slow breath, planting one hand along the back of the couch to brace himself and urging you backward along with it.

Your lips part with a quiet click. You smile to yourself when Ormund attempts to chase your mouth, nudging the tip of your nose against his broader one. “Let the poor boy go,” you coo softly to him. “I don’t suspect you’ll want an audience for the things I have planned for you, my lord.”

Ormund’s broad chest warms at the promise in your words, but his stubborn will never wavers. “No… I don’t think I will.”

You try not to let your face fall completely as you scramble for another excuse that might set Gwayne free. The auburn-haired man scoffs a faint laugh from across the room. “Cousin, I—”

“You will stay,” Ormund commands. “And learn exactly how it feels to stand apart and watch.”

Something cold and heavy settles in the pit of your stomach at his words — at Gwayne’s previous warning come to life right before your eyes. “He’ll want it now,” he’d told you. “He’ll want it simply because it’s mine.” You hadn’t understood the true weight of his meaning until now, with both you and Gwayne trapped beneath the man’s easily irritable, if not dangerous temper; and watching the promise of freedom slip through your fists like grains of sand.

You replace the distant look of worry on your face with another small smile the moment Ormund turns back to you, and try hard to kiss him back without reservation when he presses his mouth to yours again. There is little restraint in him now — in the tongue he licks between your parted lips, or in the ringed hands that trace the neckline of your dress.

His fingers curl beneath the thin fabric, urging it down down down until your bare breasts are exposed to the firelight and your delicate nipples pebble in the cool air. They’re sensitive within his rough hands as he cups them in his palms. You sigh hard in place of a moan, and feel Ormund grin softly into his kiss at the sound of it. His wet mouth smears across your skin as he trails his kisses from your mouth, to your jaw, and down your neck, before planting them to your left breast.

You sit back on your haunches and cradle the back of his hand, whimpering quietly when his tongue flicks across the sensitive nipple. Your eyes fall to Gwayne’s on instinct, where he remains across the room with his jaw locked tight, his hands balled into fists, and his pale eyes flaming with a withheld rage. He feels every inch of the late hour slipping away from you both — Daeron is still waiting for him at the stables now, and soon it will be too late to flee. And somewhere beneath his fear is a simmering jealousy, as he’s forced to watch his cousin’s undeserving mouth caress your body.

Your eyes dart to the door just beside him; a silent plea for him to leave with Ormund now distracted, as his mouth trails to your right breast. Gwayne answers with a curt shake of his head, to the left and back again. He wouldn’t make it down the hall before Ormund would realize he’d gone, and the both of you would likely suffer far worse for it.

So he suffers the sight before him instead, watches Ormund’s swollen mouth pluck off your breast and kiss the breath from your lungs once more.

He pulls off of you with a rosier grin. “Alright,” he pants. “Undress me.”

And though you’ve undressed many men over the years, your fingers tremble around each clasp of his leather coat for a reason you can’t name. You struggle now to meet his gaze with as much confidence as you had moments ago, as you urge the heavy fabric from his shoulders. His tunic goes next — the lace unknotted and the hem pulled from his trousers. You tug it up and over his head until the golden canvas of his body is revealed to you, toned from years in the training yard and unblemished from years of hiding from battle.

You run your hands down his shaven chest to the sparse at his stomach, a line that leads down into his pants. You unbuckle his scabbard next and then loosen the knot at his trousers, urging the fabric down his scruffy, muscular thighs. He sighs through his nose when his cock meets the cool air of the solar. He’s a few inches shorter than Gwayne, but thicker where it counts, with veins that trail in jagged lines from the base of his cock to the soft pink tip.

“Go on…” Ormund coaxes with a nod. “Kiss it.”

He’s half-stiff and smoother than velvet when you take him in your fist. He twitches harder in your palm when you duck your head to press a languid kiss to the satin head of his cock, right before swirling your tongue under the ridge of it.

Ormund watches you from the bridge of his nose, laughing through a low moan in the back of his throat. “Look at that… She is a good whore,” he hums with a smug smile, as he cradles the crown of your head in his wide hands. “And I didn’t even have to pay her…”

His head swivels in Gwayne’s direction, where he finds the younger man still scowling by the door, mere inches away from his escape. Ormund’s grin only widens at the sight of it.

“Careful now, cousin, or I’ll start to think you’re jealous… She said it herself, didn’t she? She doesn’t belong to anyone. Bad for business… Right, dove?”

You nod with your lips still wrapped around him, suckling the sensitive tip of his cock and using the remnants of your spit to jerk the rest of him in a slow, firm fist. Ormund grumbles a moan in the back of his throat and tips his heavy head back. His toned stomach tightens as a pleasured feeling coils in the pit of it, wound tight by your expert mouth upon him.

He tries to even his wavering breaths in a feeble attempt to make the moment last — if only to make his cousin watch a little while longer — but the wet sounds of your mouth are enough to undo him. And when you reach a hand to squeeze softly at his heavy balls, he nearly bursts entirely.

“Enough—” he hears himself blurt, pulling you off by your hair. Your lips part from him with a smacking sound. The thin string of saliva connecting you to him pulls thin until it clings to your bottom lip. You peer up at him with wide, glassy eyes. His broad chest heaves with every panted breath as he fights to regain his slipping composure.

“Get out of that dress,” he commands breathlessly, lips quirking into a grin. “And get on your hands and knees.”

You feel your heart thrumming hard in your throat when you reach for the sleeves of your dress, having long slipped from your shoulders now. You slide your arms out and roll the remaining fabric down your torso. The silk pools like water at your feet when you rise to take it the rest of the way off. The air feels cool against your flaming skin, and leaves chills pebbling in its wake. When you turn to plant yourself on the couch, just as he commanded, you feel Ormund swat your ass with a less-than-kind hand.

“Facing him,” he scolds in a gentle voice. “Give him a show now, shall we?”

You settle on your hands and knees along the lush cushions, angling yourself to face the door — to face Gwayne. Your bare chest heaves at the sight of him, pretty face etched with an anger you haven’t quite seen from him before. The quiet wretchedness of a man watching a thing he loves be claimed by a hand that’s already taken so much from him, and knowing that he cannot save you from any of it.

You want so badly to tell him that this is only a means to an end — that you do still love him — but you cannot risk Ormund hearing the words aloud and cannot hide the slick of primal excitement going sticky between your thighs.

So for now, you can only hold Gwayne’s wet-eyed gaze, and hope he can read the apology written in yours.

Gwayne cannot seem to look away from it, not even when Ormund settles in just behind you, with one leg bent on the cushion and the other still planted on the floor. Not even when the man presses two long fingers at the entrance of your weeping cunt, and hums in satisfaction when they slide without friction within your sticky walls.

“Mm…” he laughs beneath your whimpering. “You are lovely, you know— wasted on this trade, if I’m honest…” He curls his fingers and feels you clench around them when he pulls them back out again. “Perhaps I’ll wash some of that sin off you tonight… Make you clean… Make you mine… Would you like that?”

He reaches around to press his pointer and middle finger to your bottom lip, still glimmering with your slick. Your mouth parts for him on instinct, and he presses them to the pad of your tongue. You nod wordlessly with his long fingers in your mouth, salty-sweet with your honey, and imagine their Gwayne’s instead.

“You’ll agree with anything I ask, won’t you?” He laughs when you nod and slides his fingers out of your mouth again. “Like I said… Good whore…”

He grabs himself in his fist and presses the head of his cock to your pulsing entrance. He pierces you slowly, and feels your eager cunt spread around him inch by inch. Your airy sigh mixes with his rumbled groan when he buries himself to the hilt, with his hips pressed flush to your ass.

“Are you watching, Gwayne?” he calls proudly to his cousin, smoothing his rough hands along the canvas of your back.

Gwayne’s fingers curl and loosen into fists at his sides as his features flicker with a choked-back rage. “I’d prefer to take my leave now, cousin,” he answers, half-strangled.

“No…” Ormund coos with a sympathetic shake of his head. “Not until she cums, anyway. So… best work quickly, dove.”

He fucks into you a second later with a sort of precision you’d expect from a man like him. His thrusts are shallow and rhythmic and methodical. His balls smack your leaking cunt with every pass, creating a lewd symphony of sex all around you — of skin clapping against skin, of panted breaths entwining. Gwayne figures the sounds of war must’ve been far less cruel than this.

Ormund braces one hand along the back of your neck, like you’re a hound to be forced into submission, while his other slithers around your hip. The pads of his fingers press hard to your clit and a cry falls from your mouth before you can help it, filling the otherwise quiet solar.

“Rather sensitive for a whore, aren’t you?” Ormund chuckles from behind you. “Because you’ve never been fucked by a man before, I’d wager. Isn’t that right, cousin?”

Gwayne’s eyes burn under the weight of his unshed tears. He has faced death a thousand times over in the past few weeks, yet none of it was quite as heart-aching as this. His rage simmers to a boil in his throat, and it feels like fire when he swallows it down again.

Ormund’s thrusts grow sloppy thereafter, led purely by the pursuit of his own pleasure. But his fingers remain merciless on your swollen clit, and a white-hot pleasure begins to swell in the pit of your stomach accordingly. You grit your teeth and clench your fingers hard around the gold arm of the lavish couch in a feeble attempt to fight it — for your own pride, and perhaps for Gwayne’s, too.

“You’re mine now,” you hear Ormund say from just behind you, choppy between his faltering thrusts. “You’ll answer to no one else’s bed but mine. From this night forward. Is that understood?”

You nod wordlessly in response, if only to appease him for the moment, and feel his hand tighten on the back of your neck.

“Say it.”

“…I understand,” you just barely manage to squeak out.

“Then cum for me.”

He presses harder on your clit. Your face twists with a pleasure you can no longer fight away. You squeeze your eyes shut when your gaze falls instinctively to Gwayne’s, and when his pained features make your chest sear with a burning feeling. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan as your cunt gushes around Ormund’s twitching cock. He thrusts into you once, hard, and shudders just against you. His rough groan mixes with the sound of your quiet whimpering as he spits ropes of warm cum into your fluttering pussy, milking him for every drop of it.

“That’s it…” he spits through gritted teeth, fucking you sloppily through the rest of his high. “Take it all— There you go…”

He swats your ass once he’s finally spent himself inside you, gripping hard at the plush skin there and forcing you flush against his scruffy thighs. A satisfied grin sits crooked at his mouth when his lidded gaze falls once more to the man across the room.

“Oh, don’t sulk, cousin,” Ormund calls to him, flushed chest still heaving. “I’ll have another whore sent up for you, if you wish.”

Gwayne flinches instantly at the very thought of it, at being with anyone else but you — at some other woman’s hands being where only yours have been, at having some other stranger’s mouth on him instead of the only one he knows by heart. His features flicker with an involuntary disgust before he can hide it.

“Oh…” Ormund grins wider. “Did you… Did you think you could have this one?”

He punctuates his question by thrusting hard into you once more. You make a pained noise in the back of your throat at your growing sensitivity; head bowed and shoulders heaving as your weeping cunt clenches around his softening cock. Ormund chuckles through another moan at the sensation.

“No. No, no— See, this one’s mine now…” Ormund continues, pale eyes icing over into a glacial sort of look. “And you’d do well to remember it, cousin… Because I’d hate for anyone to come to harm over… so small a misunderstanding, wouldn’t you say?”

Gwayne’s blood runs cold at Ormund’s promise, because he knows his cousin far too well to mistake it for anything less. And he knows now, too, that whatever escape he, Daeron, and Tessarion might’ve made tonight has long since closed in on itself, and will surely not open again while you remain under Ormund’s dangerous, unforgiving hand.

So he will stay. And he will wait for Rhaenyra’s army to march through these gates. And he will make certain that his cousin does not live to see the end of it, so long as it means that Gwayne gets to have you to himself when the ashes finally settle over Oldtown.

A = Aftercare

Ormund's aftercare is strategic. He would learn everything he needed to in order for you to feel safe and reliant on his comfort, especially after sex. He'd known the exact amount of time to hold you, the right amount of touch you'd need, and if you required snacks, they were always ready. It was a necessity to keep you under his control.

B = Body Part

On himself, Ormund loves his chest and torso. He actively keeps himself well-groomed and adored how toned he is. It makes it easier for you to rest on top of him. On you, he'd love your hips, your waist, your tits, your ass. I don't think he'd hate any part of you, really.

C = Cum

Ormund is so pent up all of the time. His temper is proof of how wired and pent up he truly is. So when he cums, it's always hard and intense. He'd bury his cock deep inside of you and groan so loudly as he finally lets go of all the tension inside of himself. And it's always so much all of the time.

D = Dirty Secret

Ormund loves when you get on your knees in front of him. The idea that you pray only to him, bend only to him, never fails to make his cock hard and ready to be pleasured. He is someone that does not believe in the seven but uses religion as a metaphor for sexual endeavors.

E = Experience 

With how particular Ormund is, he is someone that has only slept with a small amount of people. He's someone who is calculated and takes his time so he'd rather be with someone that he knows he would be with for a long time so that he can learn their body. With you, he took his time to map you out and to see exactly what you liked and didn't like.

F = Favorite Position 

Ormund's favorite position is the mating press for sure. He loves locking you in place and being able to look down at you as he fucks you relentlessly. I also think he'd love taking you from behind, especially when he's angry and needs to blow off steam.

G = Goofy

I don't think Ormund is goofy at all during sex. He would tease you relentlessly and mock you but he isn't silly about it.

H = Hair

Ormund is very well groomed. He ensures that he doesn't have chest hair and with his cock, I'd assume that he at least keeps it very well trimmed. On you, he would expect something similar. You don't need to be completely bald but he would want you to be well taken care of.

I = Intimacy 

Ormund can be very intimate and this goes into the teasing and mocking thing as well. He would lean over you, thrusting into you, his hand intertwined with yours, while murmuring in your ear. "You like that, sweet girl?" He'd ask. "By the sounds of it, you certainly do." And his voice would be smooth and low.

J = Jack Off

Ormund almost never masturbates. Not unless you're in the room with him and he wants to watch you pleasure yourself while he does the same. He much prefers to have you take care of him with your mouth or your cunt. There's really no need for him to jerk off.

K = Kink

This man absolutely loves to give degradation to his lover and praise them when necessary. He also has an immense breeding kink and when you're pregnant with his heir, he can't help but fawn over the firmness of your tits and the swell of your belly. I also think Ormund would be into choking during sex, especially in a manner of controlling you.

L = Location 

He very much prefers to spot in the privacy of your bed chambers away from prying eyes. However, Ormund has cleared a room with one simple command while angry just so he can bend you over a nearby surface and pound into you relentlessly. And he's done that more times than he'd ever truly admit. I also think he would love a more intimate atmosphere and have sex with you in the tub.

M = Motivation 

Ormund's motivations are linked to his self-control (or the lack thereof). He'd want you to rely on him, to need him in every aspect. And sex is one of the best ways to make that happen. The idea of you needing him just as much as he wants you is more than enough to be a motivator. His temper is also a very huge motivator.

N = No

I think his biggest no's are anything that include any form of bodily fluids. As well as he wouldn't do anything that would cause physical harm to you. You are like his delicate flower, he wouldn't want to hurt you.

O = Oral

At first, Ormund would be against giving head. He would say that it is beneath him to get on his knees for anyone. But he does it for the first time in a moment of weakness and loves it so much that he almost cannot stop. The way you tasted, the way you smelled, the whines and moans that left your lips as his tongue moved across your clit. He loved it all, especially when you would sit on his face and use him to seek out your pleasure. Only he can make you feel such a way.

P = Pace 

Pace is always so hard because it depends on the mood of the situation. I think during more intimate moments, Ormund would take his time. He would want to ensure you were enjoying yourself, especially when it's night time and you're in his bed chamber. But when he's angry, he's hard and fast and without mercy. And when you seek him out to give you what you need, he lets you have your way with him in any way. But only because he allows you to do so.

Q = Quickie

Quickies only really happen when Ormund is angry. Bending you over the nearest surface when recieving a letter that he did not like the news from. Or pulling you into a storage closet when a random lord visiting the castle annoyed him so he fucks you until all of the tension is gone from himself. He loves to pretend as though he's always in control of himself but really, he isn't.

R = Risk

Ormund's riskiness is all dependent on his temper. Normally, he didn't like being risky. He didn't want anyone to know or see any sort of weakness he may have. He mostly avoids having sex in public when he's of sound mind but other times, he simply does not care. He is Lord of Hightower and if he chooses to fuck his wife in his office or in a corridor, then he will do so.

S = Stamina 

His stamina is very good. He can last at least two rounds before growing tired. But most of the time, he goes one round in the morning and another later in the day.

T = Toys 

In a modern world, I think Ormund would hate the idea of toys at first but then he'd get intrigued by a vibrator and use it on you for the first time and absolutely love how fast you cum because of it. He'd never buy you a dildo but vibrators? You guys have a lovely collection of them.

U = Unfair

Ormund can be so unfair!! He will deny you of an orgasm randomly if he felt like it. You weren't acting the way he wanted you to so now you just don't deserve to cum. Or he'll make you cum so much because well it's what you want and it's the perfect reward right? So don't complain. You'll take what he gives you.

V = Volume

I don't think Ormund would be terribly loud. He's the type to grunt and groan, murmur in your ear, but he's never loud enough that anyone could hear through the door. The only thing people would be able to hear from him is the clapping of skin with his hard he was fucking you.

W = Wild Card

There was a time when you woke Ormund up by rutting against his thigh and he loved how needy you were that he just laid there as you sunk onto his cock and rode him until you were cumming so hard around him. He had to actively make sure he didn't cum too fast because he wanted you to take your pleasure from him. He's also woken you up with his cock inside of you because you were just to pretty and he needed to feel you around him.

X = X-Ray

They call them Hightowers for a reason and it's not just because it's the sigil of their house. Ormund is about eight inches and girthy. He knows he's well-endowed and he is not afraid to admit it.

Y = Yearning

At the end of the day, Ormund is a man and it is quite easy to make a man horny. I think he'd look at you and be in the mood but would control himself until the two of you had the ability to be alone. His cock, however, was always ready to be inside of you at any given point in time.

Z = ZZZ

He has you beneath him, breathless and wanting. He's been teasing you for ages, his lips tracing down your throat, his fingers playing along the inside of your thighs, his voice a low murmur against your ear telling you to be patient, to be still, to wait just a little longer. By the time he settles between your legs, you're trembling. Your hands are fisted in the sheets, your back is arching, and every nerve in your body is singing with anticipation. You need him. You need him so badly you can barely think.

He positions himself at your entrance, that familiar, devastating smirk on his lips. You can feel him right there—hot and hard and so close—and you're practically vibrating with the effort of not just pushing your hips up to meet him. He pauses. Lets the moment stretch. Then he leans down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, and murmurs in that low, self-satisfied voice:

"Here comes the High Tower."

Silence.

Absolute, ringing, disbelieving silence.

Then you snort, the kind that comes from somewhere deep in your chest and catches you completely off guard. Your hand flies to your mouth, but it's too late. The damage is done. You're laughing so hard your shoulders shake, your stomach clenches, and you have to press your palm flat against your face to try to compose yourself.

"What—" Your voice comes out as a wheeze, high and incredulous. You can barely form words through the giggles that keep bubbling up. "Did you—did you just—"

Ormund freezes above you. His smug expression wavers, then crumbles into something vaguely offended. "What?"

"You cannot—" You're gasping now, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. "You cannot say that. That is not a thing people say. That is not a thing anyone has ever said in the history of the Seven Kingdoms."

"It is my house words."

"It is not your house words!" You're half-shouting through your laughter, your legs still wrapped around his hips, your body still trembling for an entirely different reason now. "Your house words are 'We Light the Way.' I know they are. I learned them. We have a tapestry."

"The official motto, yes." He has the audacity to look slightly put out, as if you're the one being unreasonable. "But every great house has an unofficial motto. Something more… personal. More intimate."

"There is no unofficial motto that is just you announcing your own—" You can't even say it. You dissolve into giggles again, pressing both hands over your face. "Oh gods. Oh gods, I cannot breathe."

"It was meant to be seductive." His voice has gone flat, but you can hear the cracks in his composure, the way the corners of his mouth are fighting a losing battle against a smile.

"Seductive?" You drop your hands and stare up at him, your face flushed, your eyes still streaming with tears of laughter. "Ormund. My love. My dearest husband. Light of my life. You just compared your cock to a siege tower."

"It is a very impressive siege tower."

"That is not better! That is so much worse!"

You collapse back against the pillows, your whole body shaking, and the mood—the carefully built, exquisitely tense mood that he had spent so long cultivating—shatters into a thousand irreparable pieces. He lets out a long, defeated sigh and drops his forehead to your shoulder, his weight pressing you into the mattress.

"You are never going to let me forget this, are you?" His voice is muffled against your skin.

"Never," you promise, still giggling. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him close even as your chest heaves with residual laughter. "Every time we visit the top of the actual Hightower, I am going to think about this. Every time you light the beacon. Every time someone says the word 'tower' in my presence. Every time—"

"I understand," he says, his voice absolutely leaden. "I have made a terrible, irreversible mistake."

"The worst," you agree. You press a kiss to the top of his head, your lips lingering in his disheveled hair. "But I still love you. Even if you are the most ridiculous man in the Seven Kingdoms. Even if you just unironically announced your own penis like a herald introducing a lord at court."

He groans—a long, low sound of pure masculine suffering—and you can feel him laughing now too, quiet and reluctant, his shoulders shaking against you. "I hate you," he mutters into your neck.

"You love me. You literally just tried to make love to me while doing a pun."

"It was not a pun. It was wordplay. There is a difference."

"There is absolutely no difference."

He lifts his head to look at you, and despite everything—despite the ruined mood and the tears of laughter still drying on your cheeks and the absolute absurdity of what just happened—his eyes are warm. Fond. Full of that deep, possessive adoration that still makes your heart flutter even after everything.

"You are a menace," he says.

"You are the one who said 'here comes the High Tower' while literally inside me. Or—" You snort again. "Almost inside me. Before I started laughing so hard I forgot how sex works."

"I was trying to be romantic."

"Romantic. You were trying to be romantic by naming your cock after your castle."

"It is a very large castle. The largest in the Seven Kingdoms, in fact. I thought the implication was clear."

You stare at him. He stares back. His expression is absolutely deadpan, but his eyes are glinting with suppressed laughter, and you crack first. You always crack first.

"You are the stupidest man I have ever married," you wheeze.

"I am the only man you have ever married."

"And yet you are still the stupidest. That is how stupid you are. You have no competition and you still won."

He kisses you then, swallowing your laughter, and it takes a long time—and a lot of very patient, very silent repositioning—before the mood rebuilds itself. But it does without a single word from him about towers or lighthouses or any other architectural metaphors.

Afterward, when you're both tangled together in the sheets, sweaty and sated and drifting toward sleep, you feel him press a kiss to your shoulder.

"I am never going to live that down, am I?"

"No," you murmur, your eyes already closed. "But do not worry. I will only bring it up every single day for the rest of our lives."

He sighs. "Here lies the High Tower. Felled not by siege or storm, but by his wife's complete inability to appreciate romantic wordplay."

"Here lies the High Tower," you correct sleepily. "Felled by his own terrible decisions."

March 2025

You were seated next to Benjamin, Daeron Targaryen’s actor, on one of the chairs on set on House Of The Dragon. You were filming a couple scenes with him and James since your character, Vaenora Targaryen, was in Tumbleton with her lord husband and his squire. You never thought you would do scenes with your ex husband especially as a married couple.

“Your rings look really cool.” The teen boy admired the rings that adorned your fingers. You showed them off so he could take a proper look.

“Right? I really like this one. I hope they let me keep it after filming is done.” You pointed to the green emerald ring. In the show, Ormund gave Vaenora the ring.

“I hope i get to keep something. Maybe the wig?” He joked.

“I’m sure they’ll let you keep a prop or two. I got to keep a necklace from season one. Well not the original, I got one of the replicas. Still cool though.” You replied.

Before Benjamin could speak, James walked on to the set in full Ormund costume. He walked over to you and Benjamin. “I just took one of the best naps ever.”

“Mate, I don’t know how you do it. You’re napping in the most random places while there’s loud noises.” Benjamin said.

You knew James could take a nap pretty much anytime anywhere. You even saw him take a nap in his armor when you visited the set. Technically you weren’t supposed to be filming anything yet, but you decided to go just to see James act as Ormund.

“He’s a deep sleeper. At least he doesn’t snore.” You added.

Benjamin was about to ask how you knew, but he quickly remembered that you and James were once married. He stayed silent.

“You’re looking lovely. Oh, look at that,” James pointed at your rings that Benjamin was just admiring. “That’s a beauty.” The older man complimented.

“I would hope so. The costume department modeled it after my engagement ring. I was telling Benjamin I want to keep it. Looks nice, right?” You held out your hand so James could get a closer look at the ring that was almost identical to your engagement ring that James had given you years ago.

James couldn’t help but smile. You still had both your engagement and wedding ring. James wasn’t the type of person to ask for them back. He stayed multiple times that he had given them to you so they were yours.

Benjamin was then pulled away by some producer so now it was just you and your ex-husband sitting next to each other. It was never awkward between you two. The relationship had ended mutually though you hardly saw each other after it. Schedules were all over the place and both of you filmed in different locations. That didn’t stop you from sending a text message once in a while. You still remember the day James texted you about being offered the role of Ormund Hightower, the husband that your character, Vaenora, has been mentioning since season one.

“Have you eaten yet? I have some snacks laying around the place in case you need it.” You told James.

“No, I’m fine. I just ate after my nap. Thank you though.” James replied. His heart melted at the fact that you kept snacks around the set just for him.

You hummed in response. You relaxed into your chair and closed your eyes for a second. You assumed James was scrolling on his phone, but you could feel his eyes on you. Still, your eyes remained closed. “Do I have something on my face? Please don’t tell me I have some sort of bug crawling on me.” You joked.

“No, you’re fine. Even if there was a bug, I wouldn’t let it harm you,” James assured you. “You just look really ethereal in this lighting.”

He could’ve said pretty. Gorgeous. Beautiful. But no, he said ethereal and it made you remember why you fell in love with him in the first place.

—

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yourusername The Hightowers 💚 (before hair and makeup) jginorton

houseofthedragonhbo The Lord and Lady of Oldtown!

jginorton my lady!

darksister_ sir you can’t just comment that and expect me to move on

dragonscales i’m going to be thinking about this for days

starkoaths sometimes i forget they’re divorced because he does shit like this

Upon Ormund and Daeron’s arrival at Tumbletown, an opulent feast of roast lamb and exotic fruit assortments had been laid out to greet them in their decisive victory. You were there, waiting for their arrival, and you’d taken it upon yourself to wear one of your most splendid silk gowns—the one which would shine an iridescent shade of emerald green in the daylight. The sun ceaselessly shone upon Tumbleton, so when your sire and brother walked into the dining table, your copper hair seemed afire in the sun, and your dress all but gleamed in its signature Hightower tones of green and gold.

You bowed reverently as the doors croaked open to receive them.

“Sire.” You addressed Ormund Hightower. “Brother.” You addressed Daeron. They bowed their heads upon seeing you.

“Y/N.” Ormund addressed you. Daeron glanced warily over towards the older man, and it was only when Ormund gave him silent leave to do so that Daeron approached you, thrusting you into a heartfelt hug.

“Daeron could hardly bear to be apart from you.” Ormund remarked as he watched the two of you embrace one another. Daeron kept the hug short, but his eyes continued to glisten warmly as he pulled away from you.

“But we did what we set out to do.” Ormund continued, and when he slid his chair back, you and Daeron quickly rushed to follow his lead. “And now, we sow our victory seed by seed.”

You weren’t privy to Ormund Hightower’s schemes—your older relative was a sly and cunning man, and you, his young heir, all but flocked to the demands of his ambitions. With you and Daeron as his wards, he had the both of you in the palms of his hands—Daeron, whom he would thrust unto the Seven Kingdoms as the heir apparent, and you, a pretty maiden who could be used to secure an alliance with one of the great Houses.

Although Ormund recognized that the two of you were budding youths, he also recognized that the two of you required much molding. There was a meekness that you two shared that seemed unbefitting of the blood of the dragon, and Ormund liked that. He used that, often treating you two as his two pawns in the ever-shifting and dangerous realm of Westeros.

While Daeron’s place was to blend into the role of the virile, daring new heir, your job was to flaunt your beauty for all of the realm to witness. You needed to be the picture of Hightower pulchritude, the vision of purity and elegance. Every hair had to be brushed in its right place, every mannerism both gentle and graceful. It is what he wanted of you, and whatever Ormund Hightower wanted, he got.

“This place reeks of dung and cowardice.” Ormund had been strenuously cutting up his lamb; he grunted in vexation as his dull knife finally cleaved the meat.

“I can smell it on them.” He said disdainfully. “Their allegiance is with that cunt Rhaenyra Targaryen, yet we have seized their grounds, and they will bend to the will of the Hightowers. We will treat with them, we will consider them because we have need of them.” He stuffed a piece of meat in his mouth and worked through it before clearing his throat. “See, you two must understand what it is that you need in this world, and you must seize such things carefully. Be sycophantic in your pursuit if you must, but if you play your hand right, your small efforts just may eventually lead leagues and armies against the enemy. Then, you can snatch-“ he took an apple in his hand, snatching it out of the fruit bowl, “-the power right out of the dragon’s claws.”

You and Daeron’s eyes met. This was the game that you two so often played at the dinner table—who would offer to speak first? Who would put themselves forward to say the first word, to stroke Ormund’s insatiable ego? Of course, it almost always ended up being you, as you notably had a way with your sweet words and courteous manners. It only took a fleeting gaze with Daeron for you to understand that it was your move now.

“A thoughtful and concise musing, sire.” You pronounced gently, and your voice chirped softly, as though a birdsong, amidst the quietness of the room. “The pretender Rhaenyra could not dream to match such a cunning mind.”

Ormund nodded at that. “Mm. No, she could not, Y/N.” He murmured as he chewed, his eyes set upon you. “With flattery like that, you could win over all of the Great Houses with but a word.”

His dark brown eyes suddenly slid over the sight of you; you gulped down a bite of lamb, feeling the way his cold and appraising eyes scanned the image of you.

“You have been growing in all of the right places, I see.” The compliment made your heart flutter, but with what, you were unsure. It was certainly an unfamiliar sort of flattery, and you sat with it for a moment until Ormund abruptly slapped his hand against the table—suddenly, you remembered yourself.

“I think it’s just about the right time to put you on the market. Give the lords of Westeros a sight for their sore eyes.”

Daeron’s eyes had grown frightened. “..Now? Already?”

Ormund turned to the boy, chuckling incredulously. “Did I stutter? Yes. Rather, I think we should begin the preparations soon. I shall write to the Great Houses and propose marriage alliances. How might a lord resist such a pretty and pliant girl like Y/N?”

Daeron was not happy with the news. First, his uncle Gwayne had gone off to fight in the war; now, his twin sister would soon be married off to some lord far across the lands of Westeros. You were, of course, unhappy with Ormund’s sudden change of mind, as well. You’d known your fate since early on, from the time that you were a young girl, being raised in the ways of motherhood and domesticity. Yet, you were only 16–you’d heard of other girls being married off much earlier, no doubt, but you’d never envisioned yourself being given away so soon.

Alicent Hightower was your mother by blood, but she had deserted her post long ago. It was Daeron who had been by your side through thick and thin. You had shared your womb with him, and though it’d been only mere seconds which officially declared you the older sibling, you took those precious seconds to heart. You sought to protect him, to be by his side no matter what. But what would happen now, if you two were forced apart?

You did not want to know, but you were also not keen on turning your back on Ormund’s wishes. Ormund’s temper was easily kindled, and it was hardly a pretty sight when your older relative snapped. He hated when things didn’t go his way—he was a control-freak, meticulous, obsessive, and you knew what might happen if you tried to work your way around his wishes. Throughout the years, You and Daeron had grown to fear him, and so, when your handmaidens announced Ormund Hightower’s presence at your door, you tensed in your bed.

The breeze of the shifting midnight winds was subtle but sharp against your bare skin. You were donned in a silken nightgown and nothing else; your hair was down, your skin delicate from the bath that you’d just been given. It was the dead of night—why was Ormund waiting at your door?

Getting onto your feet and draping your tresses against one shoulder, you hesitantly told your handmaidens to let him in.

“Sire?”

The image of Ormund Hightower was a dimly lit one—he wore a green leather tunic, his signature outfit of choice (minus his sheathed sword at the hip), and though his face was cloaked in darkness in this light, you could feel the way that his presence seemed to change the gravity of the room.

“Y/N.” You searched for his eyes in the shadows; he stepped forward, and his features came into the distant candlelight. He was inscrutable.

“Leave us.” He ordered your handmaidens, who casted a wary look towards you before doing as they were told.

It was the shuffling of feet, the faint whispering of your servants, then it was just silence. You heard your own, successive breaths in your ears, the pitter-patter of your heart pumping blood, but otherwise, there was nothing but the night and its stillness—a delicate thing, which you were hesitant to shatter. When you did speak, your voice faltered for a moment.

“Sire, it’s..it’s late.” You then said gently, disoriented by the circumstances of his visit.

You thought that he might explain himself, that he might fill in the blanks of his sudden presence. Yet, Ormund only began to step towards you silently, his footsteps leaving soft patters against the cobblestone.

“Some of the lords may arrive as early as three days’ time, if they are to answer the requests of my letters. It is now, more than ever, a dire time for house Hightower.” Before you could hardly blink, Ormund had covered the distance between you two, leaving but a few feet to separate yourselves. As he now stood in front of you, you couldn’t help but feel terror beneath the weight of his gaze—how quick might he snap? How suddenly might his temper flare? You had not a clue what to expect from your older relative, and though you found yourself mentally bracing for a reason to flinch away, Ormund did nothing of the sort. Instead, he took one other meager step towards you, quietly beckoning you to face him fully.

“You must understand that, hm? My dove?”

He was tall, his voice gentle and coaxing amidst the silent hum around you.

With fright thinly concealed in your voice, you spoke. “Yes, sire.” You told him.

Then, he picked up his foot and took a step just to the right; slowly, you realized that he’d begun to map out the space around you, now circling you with enclosing steps.

“Your twin brother, the chink of light in a dark and desolate time.” His voice trailed to your right side, and his eyes remained intent on you as he sauntered silently about your unmoving figure. “Rhaenyra reigns in King’s Landing by conquest, yet soon enough, the people will turn from her and set their eyes upon Daeron. A budding young boy raised in the comfort of Oldtown—a vision of a true leader, a king who shall rule with both piety and promise. Daeron, with copper hair rather than silver; Daeron, who was raised in the faith of the Seven. Daeron, a boy in no way akin to his inbred and ungodly Targaryen father. His blood runs thick with the strength and the holinesss of the Hightowers, but there is a taint in his blood, as there is in yours.”

When he circled back to his place in front of you, his words chilled you down to your bones, as did his eyes. You were aware of Ormund’s visceral hatred for the Targaryens, and though you and Daeron were of his blood and raised in his likeness, Ormund still looked at you in this way—the wary, speculative way with which he picked you apart, as if trying to drain the very Targaryen blood from your body.

“You are the vision of a Hightower woman. Your hair is spun red velvet,” You almost flinched when his hand outreached towards you, but a breath released thinly from your lungs when you realized that Ormund had started to run his fingers through your hair. “even more so than your brother’s is. You are more receptive of your religious teachings than he is, I’m sure. I see you visit the sept day by day, night by night. You have proven yourself to be the most obedient pupil.”

Then, he put his finger just under your chin, and you hiccuped as he tilted your face up to his.

“And you will continue to be such. Do you understand me?”

Your lips parted, a soft sigh blooming between them; Ormund’s eyes flickered towards your opened mouth fleetingly.

“Yes, sire. I will.” You said quietly.

Ormund Hightower’s eyes were of a warm almond color, but in this light, they were as dark as onyx as they gazed upon you. Ormund had most often looked upon you with cold appraisal—always looking for something to improve, to fix, to correct. But tonight, in their cloak of darkness, his eyes seemed different; they still flickered across you observantly, however, they lingered now, seemingly indulging the sight of you in a way that they never had done before.

His hand came forward, and your gaze followed it as his fingers found the string of your nightgown; just at the middle of your chest, your gown was held together by a bowknot, yet in silence, Ormund began to unravel it.

“The men that attend us, the men whom you must enchant, they may be old or young, rough or gentle, honorable or heinous.” The bow undid itself quickly; your chest was heaving beneath the silken fabric. “What matters is their title, what they may provide us in our time of need.” He slipped two fingers beneath one strap of the gown and pulled it off of your shoulder. “Whomever presents himself as our most convenient ally, that is the man whom you must entice. With those blue eyes of yours, your sweet words-“ With the other strap now dragged from your shoulder, your gown fell to the floor. “-and your body.”

The breeze left you frigid; Ormund’s scrutiny of your naked body left you even colder. His gaze slid down your flesh, halting every once in a while to linger upon a certain part of you. As his eyes fell lower and lower, your body tensed, nearly shuddering beneath the heat of his gaze.

“..You have been bleeding, yes?”

In your nonplussed state, you stuttered. “Y-Yes, sire. Monthly.”

He shifted on his heel, slowly resuming his path, leading him to circle about you again.

“I trust you have not bedded another?” He asked, disappearing behind you.

“Of course not.” You answered, stunned to hear him ask such a thing. “..S-Sire.”

The lids of your eyes seemed to be wrenched open, as the fright and the uneasiness kept them permanently widened. He had bared you fully before him, and now he was circling around you like a predator stalking its vulnerable prey.

“Such alabaster skin; it glows in the moonlight. Your breasts have grown supple.” Some strange, wet feeling roused between your thighs, and you reddened; for all of your piety, you feared that this moment might make a sinner of you. “Your adolescence has gifted you such pleasant curves, though you must be shaved and groomed before you are visited.”

Just as the fear and shame began to subside, Ormund had returned to the front of you, and he now started to examine your face. There was such calculation in his eyes; it was almost as though was inspecting some exotic creature or perhaps some marble sculpture with intrigue. Instead, he was inspecting you—every curve, every bit of your flesh, perhaps looking for a flaw in your very body, too. But why did he linger so?

With a tenderness unbefitting of him, Ormund grasped your face, his hand nearly large against the small expanse of your cheek.

“An innocent face, as well. Men like that; they like purity, so that they may defile it.” He held you there for a moment, bared in the moonlight, anchored only by the hand upon your face. If not for it, perhaps you’d crumble right there, shrink in fright. But he wanted you like this—looking up at him, shaking in your nakedness, completely pliant to the whims of his control. He seemed to want it, because the moment was already stretching on too long, and there was a tenseness in the air which indicated that this was leading into perilous territory.

Just before he let go of you, his dipped his head, and for a fleeting instance, you realized that he was smelling you. The scent of your recent bath lingered upon your skin, and he seemed to delight himself with it for a second before he finally released you from his touch.

“Put your nightclothes on.” He ordered you, waving a hand at your nightgown, which had bunched around your feet. “Have your handmaidens trim your hair, shave every inch of your body. I expect perfect behavior from you, this week. Soon, you will be married, and I will have earned myself a powerful ally.”

You did not move from Silverwing's side, not truly knowing if this was going to go in your favor or not, but you had a feeling.

The man did not reply staring down at you, "If it would please you this conversation would be easier on the ground! I have no weapon nor guards so you will have the true advantage here!"

The man hesitated a moment before sliding to the ground. He moved in front of his beast and you did the very same, "Sōvēs," you then instructed Silverwing and she took off into the sky. His mouth opened slightly to try and command his dragon to stay, but Vermithor was already off following after her.

"Our dragons are mates. Did you know that?" you asked, and you could tell by his reaction alone he did not. "I am sure there is a lot she does not tell you."

"I am loyal," he immediately replied, as if that was what you were accusing him as.

You smiled kindly, "I did not say you were not," you nodded looking around rocking back and forth on your heels, "What is your name, good ser?"

"Hugh."

You nodded, "I am told your wife is inside Tumbleton. My husband and I have talked extensively and we would like to provide her a safe exit if that is your will.”

"Your husband?" he asked, confused, his eyebrows drawn together, as if he was missing a piece to the puzzle.

"Lord Ormund Hightower is now my husband. We married a few days ago in the eyes of the Seven. Love just does not wait as I am sure you know," you answered.

He stared at you a moment, saying nothing and you smiled once more, warmly the one you reserved for only two people, but this was not a genuine one and that was okay. "What she offered you have you received yet?"

He said nothing once more and it was an answer enough. You nodded, "Is it something simple that should have been granted by now." For a third time, he was absolutely silent, telling you everything you needed to know, "What is it that you wish for, Ser Hugh?" you finally asked.

"To provide living for both my wife and myself," he finally told you causing you to nod.

You tilted your head back and forth as if it was a hard decision, "And if I tell you I am ready to grant that?"

The hesitation was clear in his face, causing him to open his mouth before clamping it shut as he watched you, "In return for what?" he asked.

You smiled once more at him, faux warmth and kindness dripping "Swear yourself to me, and your dragon. Though as you can see he has no objections in the matter."

"To you?" he questioned, his eyes widening as if he had been expecting someone else. Mayhaps one of your three brother's more than likely the eldest.

"Yes to me. I am the eldest. I am the rightful heir to the throne in the eyes of the Gods and fourteen flames. My brother's are craven boys who hide behind their dragons and as you can see," you gestured around to your beasts flying in the air, "I do not hold their values."

The contemplation was clear as day causing you to nod, "Well I can leave you to it. You can think on if it so pleases you—"

"I accept!" he suddenly blurted to you, causing you to smile, a real one. Silverwing let out a joyous screech from above you.

"You can bend your knee now, and swear your oath now."

"Dragon! My Lord there has been a dragon spotted."

You and Ormund were both on your feet in a flash. Your eyes widened, and you replied before your husband could, "What dragon?" you asked, the man. He did not answer shaking in fear, his mouth opening and closing causing you to roll your eyes.

"Well what fucking color was it you imbecile?" you asked, moving toward the man.

"I do not know—"

"Fuck!" you screamed, moving toward the door, and you almost had it open when a hand quickly wrapped around your arm stopping you.

Ormund stared at you, eyes wide in panic, and the fear he would never voice a loud. Mayhaps for himself. For Daeron. For you.

"You mustn't do this alone. Think what we will loose if we loose you," he tried, but you could see the emotions seeping through. It was not only that. His face was showing every vulnerable emotion he could not

Your hand moved out, cupping his cheek, "Then I will die, and you mourn me while taking Daeron far far away from here," you instructed. Your mouth pressed to his quickly, causing him to be distracted. You pulled away from him before he could stop you once more, disappearing despite his protests calling for you to wait for him,

You ran through the streets, pushing through the people toward the gates. The men guarding it immediately opened it recognizing you. Silverwing flew through the air, coming to land just in front of you as if she knew you were coming.

You went to approach your ready mount, when another dragon was spotted. Your eyes squinted slightly, your hand moving to rest above your eyes blocking the sun from view trying to figure out just who had come to you.

You let out a breath of relief realizing it was Dreamfyre, which meant, "Helaena," you whispered watching as the beautiful blue dragon landed with a soft crash, causing the ground to shake. She let out a roar of warning, causing you to stay planted right where you stood.

Silverwing responded with her own, "Lykirī," you instructed, running a reassuring hand against her side causing her to preen from attention.

Your younger sister and her only daughter slid off the side, approaching you allowing you to finally feel as if you could move from your spot.

"Hi," you breathed out, not in front of the pair of them. "How are you here?" you said your hands, cupping the woman's face as you scanned her face for injuries before moving to her child.

"A knight helped us to the Dragonpit," she explained you, causing you to nod.

You knelt before Jaehera who allowed you to examine her with a timid smile, before you stood back to your full height, "What knight?" you asked, in confusion,

"Alfred Broome. He said to go to Aegon, but I knew that you would be a better choice. That you would protect us. Protect my girl," she sobbed out, her body shaking slightly.

You opened your arms, and she moved forward collapsing into your arms. You held her tightly, "You are safe. Nothing is going to hurt you know, and I will protect you unlike I was able to do with Aemond," you promised, kissing her head as you could feel your own tears collecting in your eyes.

You meant good on your word. Nothing would happen to Helaena, Jaehaera nor Daeron so long as you still draw breath from this earth.

Your boots, squelched against the wet grounds of camp. You navigated back toward the heart of camp. Your back ached from the bark it had been driven into moments ago, and you knew it was painted an angry red, but you did not let it stop you.

You made your way to your youngest brother's tent, stopping just outside the door, "Daeron," you called out, giving him a moment to deny your entry.

The young man appeared pulling back the curtain. His grin widening in excitement seeing you and only you, "I thought you were busy," he said.

"I always have time for you," you assured him. "I was actually hoping we could go for a stroll outside camp," you said, your lips turned up in the gentle smile.

He looked hesitate for a moment, "Does Lord Ormund know?"

You nodded, "It his idea. He wants me to try and wear you out so that you may rest for a few hours before we are set to take off."

Daeron then stepped out, following beside you as you made your way toward the treeline

"We are less than a day away from taking King's Landing," you said, casually.

He nodded, and you could see his lips turn down in a frown, and as if you were apart of him you knew exactly what went through his mind.

The thought of violence. The thought of you having to get hurt to claim what it is yours. The thought of what could happen to his elder brother if this was not done peacefully.

You stopped immediately, your eyes scanning around ignoring his look of confusion before you took a step toward him, "I have a…plan to do this without bloodshed," you suddenly, declared, your voice dropping even lower to prevent yourself from being heard from anyone, but the pair of you.

He blinked at you in, mouth parting in surprise as he stared you. His head whipped around searching for any stray listeners then once he realized it was the pair of you, "How?" he asked immediately.

You stared at him a moment, letting out a sigh, "We are but a few hours march from King's Landing, and Ormund is planning to start once it is dark. We leave ahead of him."

"And do what?" he asked, leaning forward in anticipation.

You smiled, "We walk through the castle, with our heads high and straight to Aegon, because that is still our seat. We are still Targaryens and we have something he does not."

"Dragons," he breathed, out causing you to smile.

Your hand raised, resting against his cheek, "We have the power to take what is ours with fire and blood, but he does not…Therefore we may not have to use it."

The green robe hung loosely on you, as you laid sprawled out against the mattress awaiting Ormund. He was praying, for a swift victory more than likely. You did not really listen when he told you of his intents as you were already formulating a plan of your own.

It was simple. It was so incredibly simple it seemed to easy, but you knew Ormund like the back of your hand. You knew exactly what to say, how to say it, and how to present yourself to sell yourself exactly like you needed too.

You were a weapon. This he knew, and had used on his own will against others time and time again, but this was different. He was a avid schemer, but so where you. And right now you needed to be a better one then him. One step ahead.

He pushed through the tent pausing slightly as he took in your current state. "You are dismissed," he said not turning to even look at who had followed behind him.

He clicked his tongue, as he began to remove his tunic, holding your gaze with a grin, "You have just been laying here nearly bare for anyone to see…What would I have done if someone saw you in such state, dear wife?" he asked, pushing his top layer from him revealing his toned chest.

"You would have their eyes then," you said, pushing yourself to your feet. Your fingers pulled the string, as the material pooled to the floor leaving you completely bare.

Ormund's breath got stuck in his throat for a minute, as he took in your appearance. He then leaned down,not fully pulling his eyes from you as he pulled his boots off, discarding them off to the side.

You moved toward him, your hands trailing down his skin causing his muscle to tense under your touch as he made quick work of his trousers and breeches, now matching you. His mouth shot down claiming yours.

His hand moved wrapping around your throat, holding you in place as his tongue pushed back sweeping into your mouth as if he was trying to devour you whole. He consumed you. Every thought. Every sense. You were his in every way that mattered. In every way that formed you belonged to him.

You were his. Just as her was yours, and you would do anything to make sure he was not harmed.

"Sit down," you instructed, nodding to the bed, causing him to grin.

He stared down at you for a moment, tilting his head, "And what have I done to deserve this?" he asked, settling down against the furs.

You smirked,moving forward slightly, before settling down on top of him, "A husband deserves to be rewarded for all his hard work does he not?" you asked, your legs moving to straddle either side of him. Your hands moving to lace through his hair tilting his head back.

"You are a sight. The maiden favored you," he confessed.

Your hand wrapped around his thick shaft running his tip through your folds, notching himself at your drooling hole.

"The Gods smile upon you Ormund, and therefore they chose me for you," you said, before sinking down atop him.

You let out a moan,your nails digging into his scalp. His hands moved to your hips, not giving you anytime to adjust before he began to guide you. "You are my life. The sins I would commit for you. You—" he let out a low moan as you moved against him, quickening your pace. "You are everything."

"I am nothing without you," you whispered, your head lulling back as you could feel the coil in your belly already threatening to snap. Your swollen clit, rubbed against his pubic bone giving it the attention it so desperately needed.

And at this point your plan was out the window, chasing your own high. Fucking yourself onto your husband as if you were a desperate whore rather than a highborn woman. A Queen.

"Our sons will be dragon riders," you said, your hands tightening in his hair as your eyes rolled back slightly.

"Our son will be destined for glory, and nothing less," he agreed moving your hips against him, faster, as you took him deeper.

"You will father kings, Ormund," you cried out as your orgasm finally wash over you.

Your vision went white, as it traveled all throughout your body. An all consuming burning that came alone with the man that only he could deliver. In a flash you were on your back, as he took over.

He fucked int you like a man possessed, fast, frantic as if he was trying to prove something. His head moved, resting in between the crook of your neck, as he thrusted in and out brutally. Your cunt taking him as if it was it's only life purpose.

"We will be unstoppable. Nothing would ever dare step between you," he whispered, his nose pressed against your flesh breathing you in as he continued to fuck into you. Your nails dragging frantically down his back tearing the skin.

You could feel his hips starting to stutter, each thrust getting lazier, more frantic indicating he was close, "You will save my blood. You will save my line." A final roll of his hips, and he came inside you with a guttural groan. His fingers digging into your hips further, imprinting himself into your skin just like he had every other aspect of your life.

He was a part of you, as you were apart of him. Together you would have exactly what you both desired. Power, but for different reasons. He would be all the same in the end. A throne, a duty pressing into your shoulders that you both would have the strength to uphold as one.

"I love you," you whispered, and his mind was too hazy from his post orgasmic state to notice the tone you said it in.

He pressed a kiss to your neck, letting his lips linger on your warm skin, "I love you," he whispered back like a confession, as if he were praying to the Gods at the alter. A higher being rather than his wife.

Ormund laid back, bringing you into him, his slick chest pressing into your back as his arm draped around you firmly. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head before closing his eyes, hoping to rest some before the march ahead.

Your eyes did not close. You laid still, listening to his breath even out, before slowly sliding from the bed. You moved quietly pulling your own riding gear on, no wanting to bother calling someone to help.

That was a risk, and you did not need those right now, enough would be waiting for you once you reached King's Landing. Once you were finally dressed, you turned back glancing at your husband's sleeping form

Your heart pulled, urging you to wake him and to inform him on your plan, but you brain stayed firm in its logic. You could do this without him. You could handle this in a calmer way then slaying an entire castle with a large army.

"I love you," you whispered, quietly enough not to disturb him, but you needed to say it at least one more time.

Just incase.

You made your way through the camp. The sun had began to set as you met Daeron awaiting by your two mounts. You let out a breath, trying to steady yourself as you approached the steward awaiting you by the trees.

He was a timid boy, by the name of Bryon. He never could fully meet your eyes for long, and even now as you approached him his eyes laid watching the two dragons in fear. You smiled at him kindly, moving to grip his shoulder causing him to look at you, "I have a task for you."

He stared at you for a moment. Not in the eyes, but somewhere near your cheek, before nodding awaiting his orders, "Once I am in the air I want you to alert Lord Ormund that Daeron and I have departed," you instructed. You stepped around him heading toward Silverwing who let out a sound of excitement.

"To where, Your Grace?" he yelled out.

You paused, "To take my throne."

You sat outside King's Landing in the fields, for some time, giving Ormund and his army time to catch up incase this did not go the way you had in mind. You wanted this done as smoothly as possible, but you were not an idiot. There would be resistance. Mainly from Aegon, but his men were a different story, Mere men believed in power of the dragon, something he now lacked where you did not.

Tessarion landed first, inside the gates causing the man to stumble backwards. "Open the gates for my sister!" he declared, voice steady, masking the kind boy he was underneath.

Silverwing landed outside the door with a loud roar, as you slid off just as the doors opened allowing you to walk through. Daeron stood waiting for you, his hand resting open the sword on his belt.

A knight, one that you did not remember came practically barreling toward you. One of the brave few it seemed, but the fear was evident in his eyes as he eyed Tessarion. Then there a crash behind you.

Neither you or your brother had to turn to know Silverwing now sat atop the gate, her claws digging into the walls as she sat staring down at all the men. He stopped in his steps for a moment, eyes wide before continuing forward.

"We were not expecting you my Prince… Princess," he said out, but did not seem so sure on your title.

You smiled, "Our brother currently sits the throne. Is it not our right to be by his side?"

"Well, yes…but I was told that if you came—"

Silverwing and Tessarion let out a loud roar alerting them of their presence. About the fact that you still had what their King did not. Dragons. The power and fear that came along with that.

"We do not need help finding him do not worry," you called out, before Daeron followed after you. He did not try to stop you, and neither did any of his men, all staring at the dragons with a hesitation.

They had spent months without this. They had gotten to comfortable.

The hallways were practically empty, and you wondered if the staff had already fled or if they were in hiding trying to protect themselves from the beasts that sat right outside.

You did not allow yourself to look around reminiscing on the halls of your childhood, vision straight as you made your way to the throne room. Daeron on the other hand did the opposite, "I do not remember this place," he whispered, looking around as if he were afraid of the ghosts.

"You turned out better, because you do not remember this place," you replied, as he followed after you.

Muscle memory carry you toward the throne room. If your twin was not already there it would be only moments there until he was no doubt being alerted of your presence. You finally reached your destination pausing outside the doors.

"Are you afraid?" Daeron whispered.

You shook your head, "No. I know it is what I must do," you said, turning toward him.

And it was the truth, because the alternative was him. Was putting a crown on his head he had no desire for. It was a title that would drain his light, and duties that would waste his youth instead of the peace he should have as a third son.

Then yours and Daeron's name sounded through the air, causing you to both to pause turning toward the source. Your mother came barreling toward the pair of you. Her red hair pulled back, as her eyes looked wild. Her face looked sunken in, and she looked tired, drained from the events that had transpired after she placed her son on the throne.

"What—What are you doing here?" she asked, looking between the pair of you.

She reminded you more of a wild animal that the composed woman of court she was suppose to be. You merely smiled, "I am here to talk with Aegon."

Her head then snapped back down the hall, "Where is…" she trailed off, but you knew what she was asking.

Where is Ormund. Where is the army she knew would be close if you stood here before her.

You smiled, "My husband." She flinched in disgust at the thought. The truth that you were now married to her cousin. To a man older then her. That this was truly her fault. She had sent you to him. "Is right outside King's Landing. Do not fret he will be here soon."

You then turned toward Daeron. "I want you to wait here," you told him, "Catch up with our…dear mother," the disdain was clear in your words as you looked to the woman.

"But—" Daeron protested, moving toward you trying to stop you. He stopped when you turned toward him.

Your hand moved cupping his face, "I need you to trust me. I will handle this like I do everything."

He stared at you a moment, before nodding in agreement, "I trust you." Alicent watched her eyes flickering between the pair of you, her lips slowly turning down.

You smiled at him, "Come alert me once Ormund is here. If things do not go as plan you will leave. You will save yourself and only yourself going back to Helaena," you instructed. She had instructions. She had a further plan, if this went even further. One that would keep her, Jaehaera and Daeron safe just like you promised.

He frowned at you, his eyes watering slightly. You kept your smile, nodding to him before finally turning away from him. You turned to the door, your hands resting over the large oak.

"Let me—" your mother started, trying to insert herself, to accompany you.

But that was the last thing you needed. "Know your role, Alicent," you hissed, repeating the words she had once told you.

She flinched, as you pushed open the doors slamming behind you, "Well this is a sight," you declared looking to your twin.

Aegon sat in a wooden chair at the end of the throne. The few members left of his council and two guards sat off toward the side. Corlys, Larys and Orwyle all stood as you made your way into the throne room.

"Sister," Aegon greeted, though you could hear the edge in his voice as he watched you carefully.

You smiled. You walked slowly, unhurried as you were, "You look truly pathetic," you declared.

"I could have your tongue for that."

"Aegon you cannot even stand. Let us talk honestly now," you tsked. "I have come for my throne," you called out, with a shrug.

He looked toward his council in disbelief, before his head snapped back to you, "Your throne?" he laughed, "You have no more right to the Throne than the Bitch Queen of Bastards."

You chucked, "And yet she sat your throne for half a year in your absence, because you fled." The smile drained from his face as you moved into the room, closer to him. His three men moved off to the side standing beside each other as they watched you and your twin.

You stopped in front of him, your eyes moving over his legs to which no doubt were mangled leaving him truly incapable of walking properly, "One could argue I have more right then you…You have no heir, no dragon, and you cannot even walk… Your wife and daughter fled to me for safety after you abandoned them like a craven, and you believe you are fit to rule?" you asked, laughing as you looked around. Corlys Velaryon, Maester Orwyle and Larys Strong said nothing, but staring at you.

The intrigue clear in their eyes. "I have a dragon. Three more sworn to me. I am married to Lord of Oldtown and commander of the Hightower army who currently marches upon this very kingdom ready to seize it. And my youngest brother Daeron is my heir until I can produce one of my own. Aegon can not control his cock how can you expect him to control a Kingdom."

You turned toward him with the smile, "And there is the fact he is not—"

"Stop!" he screeched, his chair rutting against the floor as he tried to stand, but was unsuccessful collapsing into the wood.

You let out a laugh, your shoulders shaking, "Oh…Do they not know?" you asked before turning to his council.

Your twin screamed your name urging you to stop, "Aegon did not even come out the womb first. Not very fit of a king if you ask me. You can even ask our mother that," you said nodding to the door that kept you separated from her.

"Aegon has brought you nothing, but death and destruction. He has killed the dragons, he has killed families. Mine, yours, and others. His time is over, and now we seek a new beginning. One that myself and my own council are ready to bring you. One that most of you have the chance to serve on if you prove yourself worthy," you declared with a shrug.

"Fuck you!" he yelled tossing his chalice across trying to aim for you, but missing horribly. You stepped back slightly, let out a laugh at his pathetic attempt.

You then turned to his council once more, The three remaining men who stood staring at you, when a roar from outside that rattled the castle walls. "Lord Ormund has arrived. The Hightower host is outside the gates," Daeron declared, bursting through the doors, moving to your side quickly.

"Your final chance to do this without bloodshed, My Lords," you warned.

"Kill her! Kill the bitch!" Aegon declared, but not a single person made a move.

"Open the doors for the Hightower Host. Save yourself rather than a dying king who has already cost you so much."

The three men leaned their heads together whispering and you watched your brother's eyes widen in horror, understanding what they were doing, "You are loyal to me! I am the king! I am the fucking king!" he made an attempt to stand, reaching for his crutch, but it fell from his shaky hands causing him to crumple to the floor.

Corlys and Larys shared a look, "We will open the gates," the Velaryon declared, as the Strong followed after him.

Aegon let out a scream of agony, frustration or even defeat you weren't sure, but you turned to him nonetheless. "Help the prince into his chair," you instructed turning to his guards, "And then move him out of the way."

"I am the fucking king!" you rolled your eyes. You watched his few men help him into his chair before moving it of to the side slightly, looking toward you for your approval. You nodded, before going to step forward, but a hand shout out stopping you.

"Do not get to close," Daeron warned, eyes wide in fear.

"He cannot hurt me. Not anymore," you whispered, assuring him with a smile as you made your way toward your twin.

You kneeled in front of him, far enough that he could not grab you, but still close enough that you did not have to talk loudly. "This is for the best."

"Fuck you," he grit out.

You smiled at him, "Oh, Aegon. You never will just grow up," you sighed, standing to your feet once more.

The doors burst open once more, revealing your mother who ran to you, eyes wide as they flickered between each of her children, but you did not pay attention to her. Your eyes remained solely on Ormund who stood in the doorway, a proud smile filing his face as he looked to you and only you.

Hands reached out, cupping your cheeks forcing you to meet Alicent's gaze for the first time in a long time, "Mother," you greeted, coldly, sending shivers down her spine.

She stared at you, her eyes frantic as she blinked at you, "What have you done?" she asked, forcing you to stare at her.

You almost scoffed in reply. Instead you smiled at her, but it lacked any warmth, "What you could not," you said, before removing her hands off you.

You turned staring at the throne, as you felt someone fill the spot next to you, and you did not even need to turn to see who it was. You could feel his presence, seeping in through you as if you finally felt whole with him standing next you.

"My wife, the Queen," he whispered to you, and you could hear the awe in his voice. The slight disbelief that this was real life and not some dream of his. "My wife! The rightful heir of the throne has finally come to take back her Kingdom!" he then declared, turning to the hall.

You stared at the Iron Throne for a moment longer before finally beginning to climb the steps, slowly, You took your time, taking in the moments listening to your husband list off the extensive list of titles that now followed after your name.

You sat down on the throne as Ormund finally finished listing off your titles, as you stared out at the small crowd with a smile, leaning back into the iron chair as if were made of plush rather then steal.

"You may begin by swearing your oaths to my wife. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms."

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