Milo

You had known Ormund Hightower all your life, loved him when you were young and foolish enough to believe that your innocent heart mattered to him. For years, you had molded yourself into his ideal—you kept yourself pretty, perfected your manners, and stayed up late reading tedious books just so you could casually strike up a conversation on subjects he cared about.

“Only you would throw yourself in the studies of the arts of war. What a charming young lady you are.” He would smile and be amused, and you would bite the inside of your cheek, genuinely believing you were winning him over.

You had carefully crafted your image as a prim, intellectual lady, dedicating every ounce of your grace and intellect to a singular, desperate goal: enticing him.

And you really thought you were at the forefront of his thoughts too—

“I present my victory to you, my lady. And at my behest, name you as the queen of love and beauty.”

The day you were crowned by the dashing heir of Oldtown right after he won the tourney before the entire court was the day you truly believed your girlhood dreams had come to life.

However... Ormund Hightower was apparently a man of distinct taste— and the young flower of House Tyrell was not on his list of potential brides, despite his fondness of you.

“Any good man would be delighted to be the object of your affections, no more so than I.”

It was the night after the news had broken of him asking for the hand of the vivacious Lady Tarly. He had a crooked smile, even as you stared at him with heartbreak shining in your eyes.

“Alas, I am a man soon to be wed. We must cease these meetings, so I ask you not to call on me any longer.”

Your heart died then, and stayed cold for the next ten years.

But fate, working its cruel irony, returned Ormund to you just as the war of succession for the Iron Throne began to tear the realm apart. Although the man before you was no longer the posh new lord of Oldtown, but a seasoned man hardened by politics and a wife who died in childbed.

“Declare Aegon the rightful heir and commit five thousand of your men. In exchange... my protection and the hand of the Lady Tyrell.”

Your good sister, the Lady of Highgarden, who was the regent for her infant son, had wished to remain neutral amidst the ongoing civil war. But the Hightowers were kin to the queen dowager and had been fiercely loyal since ancient times. Confronted with Ormund Hightower’s formidable host and the threat of dragonfire, she simply could not refuse his offer.

However, you had not forgotten the man who had broken your heart.

. . .

“Who would have thought that you would remarry? Your poor wife must be weeping in her grave.”

That was the first thing you said to his face after ten years, and he was entirely unfazed and amused instead.

“Of course, no one is more delighted than I to accept this most generous proposal,” you followed, your voice dripping with sweet venom as you paced before him. “But I wish to settle an arrangement first.”

Ormund leaned back, an intrigued glimmer in his dark eyes. He had a small smile and gave you a nod, gesturing for you to continue. “And what might that arrangement be, my lady?”

“I wish to maintain my freedom. I expect to be allowed to live on my own terms, and that includes being permitted to keep my own counsel, travel as I see fit, and take my own companions.”

Ormund’s lips twitched, as he tilted his head. “Companions? Do you mean lovers?”

You lifted your chin and looked down at him with haughty defiance. “I suppose so. Because frankly, I cannot see either of us engaging in romance in our otherwise unfortunate union.”

How was it that the man who once meant the world to you be the one you felt nothing for when fate twisted its narrative so you could become his wife?

“The rose has grown rather sharp thorns, I see.”

For the first time, you saw how Ormund’s eyes lit with distaste, even if he was ever amused. “As much as I could imagine, I couldn’t possibly allow that. At least for old times’ sake, shouldn’t you grant me the grace of fulfilling the role of your lord husband?”

“Let us speak freely here. If I recall correctly, it is my house’s bannermen you seek, and ten years is a long time,” you scoffed. “We might have been fond of each other once, but we are, at present, not.”

“Oh, but I am,” he countered smoothly, “still very fond of you, Lady Tyrell.”

Ormund finally rose from his seat and approached you with ease. His blue eyes narrowed, and a wicked, knowing smile curled his lips.

“And I have no intention of sharing what is mine, least of all with men lesser than I am. If it is a lover you want, then you will find I am more than sufficient.”

He stepped into your space, a particular yet pleasant smell—from his collection of pomander, no doubt—filled your senses. Leaning down, he whispered directly into your ear:

“At least let me prove to you that we don’t need romance to find… a common ground.”

This man was far more cunning than you had ever given him credit for, seamlessly crafting a trap for you to fall into.

But if he thought he could effortlessly master you like a piece on a chessboard, he was sorely mistaken.

He might have broken your heart a decade ago, but now, you held the shards.

Ormund Hightower, however, seemed intent on making good on his word.

He lavished you with his wealth, stood beside you like a devoted and gallant husband, and before long, even the smallfolk began singing praises of your match—utterly charmed by the sight of their Lord and the new Lady Hightower.

And he wanted the exclusive rights to your bed? Fine. You would grant him lordly dues, but—

—seven hells, you would have never expected that sex with him would be this great.

One time, it had started with him pinning you against the walls of your chambers, devouring your lips like a man in heat. The other time he took his time, worshiping every inch of you until you were weeping his name into the silk pillows, begging for a release he purposely delayed.

And now—

“Haah...”

The breath hitched in your throat as you sank down onto him, the heat and friction from where the two of you were joined striking like a sudden fever. You sat astride his hips, your skirts pooled around you, anchoring him beneath you.

Ormund’s calloused hands were gripping your waist as he let out a grunt, trying to steady himself against a shifting tide. He looked up at you, his blue eyes hooded, blown wide with a hunger that melted away the facade of composed lord from the war council.

This was him entirely at your mercy—

You rolled your hips with a fluid, agonizing grace that drew a ragged groan from deep within his chest. You kept your chin tilted high, meeting his lustful gaze with a mocking smile.

“Is this all it takes to render the Lord of Oldtown into submission?” you taunted, your voice trembling slightly with the pleasure of him, though you forced the words out like a dare. “A woman’s touch?”

Ormund’s jaw clenched, a breathless grin on his face. “Since when... have you become so sharp-tongued?”

“Since I realized pretty words are wind and noble lords are fickle liars,” you provoked, leaning forward until your tangled hair brushed his cheek, your breath hot against his ear. “Now, are you content to let me rule your bed just as Highgarden rules over you?”

Crafty little lady. That was his breaking point.

With a low roar, Ormund seized control. He didn’t unseat you—instead, his hands locked onto your hips like iron clamps, guiding your body into a bruising rhythm that completely shattered your cool. He drove up into you with fierce thrusts, proving with every deep stroke just how formidable he truly was.

The smug defiance bled out of you, replaced by needy gasps of pain as he chased your peak, drowned in his carnal dominance until the world blurred into a haze of white-hot heat and mutual ruin.

. . .

When it was over, the heavy silence of the chamber returned, and you woke to find yourself tangled in his arms.

Ormund lay with his eyes shut, his broad, bare chest pressed against you, holding you fast.

His hair was disheveled, his eyelashes were long, and for a moment you saw your first love again, who stood tall amidst the rose gardens.

How is a man well-known for his faith lure you into thinking of sins?

You immediately tried to pull away as your pride demanded that you re-establish your distance. However, when you moved to swing your leg off him, a sudden ache between your thighs made you wince slightly.

Ormund noticed instantly as his eyes fluttered open. He shifted beside you, his voice unusually soft in the dim light. “Are you sore?”

“I am perfectly fine,” you snapped, brushing his arm away as you reached for the sheets to cover yourself, trying to regain a semblance of independence.

You had expected him to either offer an argument or wear that infuriating smirk. He did neither. Instead, he quietly rose from the bed, and you watched him, expecting him to leave you be.

However, a moment later, Ormund returned to the bedside. He gently pulled back the linen sheet and before you could protest, the soothing, comforting heat of a warm towel pressed against your inner thigh, wiping away the slick remnants with tenderness.

You froze, the sharp retort dying in your throat.

His touch was gentle, devoid of the lust from moments ago and completely stripped of the smugness he wore by day.

“Do not coddle me, Ormund,” you croaked, your voice tight as he pressed another clean, warm towel gently over your lower abdomen for comfort, before pulling the sheets over you.

“You ride like a wanton, yet you are far from used to it,” he sighed softly, as if lamenting. “I would have been gentler, if I had known.”

You fell silent as shame coiled in your chest—a mirror of when you were just a young girl vying for his attention only to face the news of his impending wedding to another woman.

But he is taking care of you now, and you have become his lawfully-wedded wife. And in this quiet gesture, a dam broke in your memory— of a young man who draped his coat over your shoulder as you basked amidst the roses of Highgarden.

“You must be cold. Go inside already,” he would say, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

You used to dream of his touch, his love, his everything. It was bittersweet how he was yours now, but you were torn between heartache and a desire to pay him back in full for what he had inflicted on you—the bitter, humiliating pain of not being chosen.

“Must you hate me that much?”

You blinked up at him, caught off guard. Ormund met your gaze with a certain sternness you had rarely seen from him.

“...to the point of hurting yourself?” he went on, his brow furrowing as he looked down at you. If you were bold enough, you would presume that it was concern that you saw in his eyes.

Yet… it only made that part of your heart clenched instead.

Why now? Why only after you had hated him enough to last a lifetime? Why only after you had spent nights crying yourself to sleep that he finally turn his eyes on you?

It was so fucking unfair.

“You presume too much, Ormund Hightower.”

Your response was biting cold, yet so soft and whispery. He blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his features.

“Rest assured, in this very contractual marriage of ours, I have no intention of feeling anything for you,” you continued, your lips curving into a cruel smile. “Other than with my body.”

To your relief, not a single muscle in his jaw twitched, burying whatever thoughts your words had stirred in him.

He shook his head lightly, finally breaking your gaze, a ghost of a smile returning to his lips, though it never reached his eyes.

“So be it then,” Ormund murmured, his voice dropping to a low baritone that carried no warmth, only the absolute finality. “How regrettable though. One may mistake you as the rose, whereas you have long since become its thorns.”

Without waiting for your answer, he straightened, turning his back on you to dress, leaving you alone in the quiet wreck of the bedsheets.

You have done it. You had ensured that his affection would forever remain beyond your reach.

That may be so, but it did not mean the physical hunger between you regressed in the slightest

You had laid with him a few more times afterwards. Each encounter in his chambers was an exercise in numbing hearts— he took you with a demanding dominance that left you breathless and slick with sweat and pleasuring you as if you were the only woman he worshipped.

Yet, as soon as the sun rose, Ormund was back to his cynical self, his crooked smile and calculating gaze ever keen on you. He kept you at an arm’s length though since that night, strutting through the halls of the Hightower as the proud lord he was.

You truly believed you could kill that fragile part of your heart that still yearned for him, matching his coldness with your own pride.

Until the turn of the moon, at least.

“My lady... this is strange.”

The pale morning light filtered through the arched windows of your solar as your maid, Ellyn, tugged firmly at the laces of your corset. You stood before the tall silver mirror, waiting to be cinched into your dress.

“What is?” you asked, feeling how her fingers slipped on the laces.

Her hands smoothed over the small of your back as she tried once more to force the edges of the bodice together. “The laces simply won’t meet. It is as though it has shrunk.”

“Do not be foolish. Pull harder.”

“I am pulling, my lady, but...”

Ellyn hesitated, her eyes shifting to your reflection. Slowly, a realization dawned to her as she stepped to the side. “Oh, my...”

You looked at your reflection then, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

There, beneath the unlaced corset, your normally slender waist held an unmistakable curve—a slight protrusion in your belly that had not been there a moon ago.

“Bless the Mother,” Ellyn whispered, her hands dropping away as a smile broke across her face, entirely unaware of how your breath had caught in your throat. She beamed at you, asking:

“My lady... your courses— when did you last bleed?”

. . .

“We will march for Tumbleton.”

You were pulled from your daze at the dining hall when Ormund’s voice broke your thoughts.

“You, however, are to remain in Oldtown,” he continued, adjusting the signet ring on his finger. “You know the city and the ledgers. I need a steady hand to rule it in my stead.”

His words passed by at first.

“I’m bringing my ward Daeron and his beast. I have also arranged for the merchant boy to have his hair dyed to stand in his place—”

“A double?” you asked, almost in disbelief. “If anyone notices the deception—”

“They won’t,” Ormund interrupted smoothly, a cold smile touching his lips. “People see what they expect to see. Silver hair, a fine cloth, and the right escort would do to make one a prince. It keeps the boy safe, and more importantly, it keeps our leverage intact. I’d wager sooner or later they’re going to demand his head.”

It was this exact cunning that had captivated you. He was a man who saw the board three moves ahead, possessing an intellect forged for the cruelties of war. The fact that your child would have him as father brought a wave of reassurance, somehow.

But at the same time, dread creeped in— with the news of his departure, the secret beneath your skirts suddenly felt twice as heavy.

Ormund paused, his sharp eyes narrowing as he caught the hollow look in your eyes. His lips crooked.

“No counsel to give? You already wear the expression of a widow grieving a husband lost to the war.”

The barb pierced through your fog, sparking a sudden flash of ire as you gave him a look. “Do not flatter yourself.”

“That’s more like it.” He rose from his seat with a low chuckle. He didn’t see the ghost that seemed to settle over you, nor the way your hand instinctively wanted to press against the fabric of your skirts.

There were barely two days before his banners moved out, and somehow you didn’t have it in you to let him go without any parting words.

“May the Seven guide your path.”

The hollow blessing tasted like ash in your mouth, but it caught his attention. Ormund paused and turned back to face you.

However, there was no warmth in his expression—only an expressionless stare that bore straight through your soul.

“I thank Her Ladyship for her blessing,” he said, his voice dropping into a formal cadence. “Though I find it unnecessary.”

Three weeks had passed since then, and even the air in Oldtown was thick with the apprehension of war.

With Ormund riding out to lead his host, the governing of the city fell upon your shoulders. While it was your first time doing so, you found that you possessed the head and patience for it.

And thankfully, it kept you busy enough to keep the ghost of him out of your thoughts.

Yet at the same time, unbeknownst to you, your devotion to the city made you a conspicuous target.

It happened on a gray morning while you were overseeing the distribution of rice near the harbor. Before your household guards could even draw their steel, men in dark cloaks had surrounded you and cut down the soldier closest to you—

“Lay down your swords!” you screamed, trembling as the smallfolk were sent into a cries of horror after the man’s blood splattered across the cobblestones.

The crowd erupted into a panicked frenzy, scattering like birds before a hawk. Your remaining guards hesitated, their blades shaking in their hands as the cloaked men closed the circle around you.

From the shadows of the docks, a man stepped forward. He wore a dun-colored cloak, his brigandine bore the banners of Targaryen black and red. Men loyal to the Queen Rhaenyra.

“Yes, yes...” the leader sneered, his voice cutting through the screams of the fleeing smallfolk. “Tell them to keep their steel sheathed, Lady Hightower, or we will turn these docks into a slaughterhouse.”

“You dare bring violence to Oldtown?” you demanded, your voice finding its steel despite the frantic pounding of your heart. “Lord Ormund will have your heads on spikes before the moon turns.”

The man laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Oh don’t you know, my lady? Lord Ormund bit off more than he could chew. Even as we speak, he lies dying in a pool of his own blood in Tumbleton.”

The world seemed to tilt beneath your feet, leaving you hollowed out by an icy shock. Without thinking, your hand flew to your abdomen, your fingers pressing firmly against your velvet gown, trying to find something to hold.

Dying. The word echoed in your mind like a funeral knell. The fortress of ice you had built to protect your heart shattered. For all your vows of indifference, the thought of him bleeding into the dirt tore a jagged wound through your chest.

Your captain of the guards stepped in front of you, his sword raised. “My lady, we can take them. Run for the gates!”

“If a single blade is drawn, my men will cut these peasants,” the leader warned. “We will burn these docks, and every innocent soul on them will die because of your pride. Come with us quietly, or watch Oldtown bleed.”

You looked at the terrified faces of the very people you had spent weeks watching— the women holding their children close, the old men trembling behind the grain carts.

For years, Ormund had protected them as their lord. Even if he is now— No matter how, you couldn’t let his city fall.

You placed a firm hand on your captain’s arm , forcing his blade down. “Lower your sword,” you commanded quietly.

“But my lady—!”

“I said, lower it.” You stepped past him, lifting your chin, refusing to let these dogs see you tremble. Looking at the leader in the eye, you spat, “I will go with you. Spare the city, and let these people go.”

He gave a mocking bow. “A noble choice, Lady Hightower. The realm will remember your piety.”

A rough hand seized your arm, dragging you towards a waiting carriage. The smallfolk of Oldtown wept aloud as they watched their lady—the sweet rose who had looked after them these past few weeks—spirited away into a cage.

Only when the heavy door slammed shut and the iron bolt clicked into place did the stark reality finally crash over you.

Tears welled in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks as you cradled your belly and struggled to breathe under the crushing weight of the very possibility that the man you had once again fallen in love with might well be dead.

There were many things, in truth, that Ormund favored in you.

You always smelled of sweet roses— out of everything, that was probably what he liked the most.

The vast gardens of Highgarden suited you, and he remembered the girl you used to be, the one who had been too timid to look him in the eye at first, but who had beautifully worked herself up to be able to do so.

He knew of your affections— he has always known. It flattered him, though none but himself and the Gods would ever know that he, too, harbored a quiet fondness for the innocent Lady Tyrell.

His little rose. In truth, he had believed that someone so young and sweet as you shouldn’t be bound to a man like him. His late wife—rest her soul, for he had been fond of her too, though it was never a blind, consuming love—had been different. She had been compliant, and more than ready to submit herself to her wifely duties, and she was who he needed when he first took on the mantle of the Lord of Oldtown.

The Gods are cruel, as all men know, especially when his dutiful wife died in a tragedy and he had to turn to House Tyrell to aid his house in its conquest for the throne— only to find you, his rose, still very much beautiful and unwed.

However, that sweet rose has grown thorns. So sharp the thorns that he has almost forgotten how soft the petals are.

You no longer stuttered and conducted yourself with pride that both vexed and captivated him. In the beginning, he had been intrigued by the woman you had become because he was convinced that the gentle little lady of his memories was still there, waiting to be coaxed out.

That was why on the day he took you to his bed and realized the truth—that you were merely performing and he had been anything but gentle—he drew the line.

But you merely looked at him with eyes as cold as winter.

“Rest assured, in this very contractual marriage of ours, I have no intention of feeling anything for you.”

Every time those words echoed in his mind, it felt as though a dagger were piercing his lungs.

. . .

“Lord Ormund! My lord! Thank the Gods you’re back!”

Tumbleton had been a bloodbath, and he barely survived it himself—a blade having pierced his armor and a hair’s breadth from his heart. But the market city had fallen, the Blacks had been broken there with the betrayals of two of their own dragonriders, and in the grand game of thrones, that was all that truly mattered.

However, the moment he stepped his foot back at Oldtown after six weeks, the atmosphere in his own home were grim— his household servants were openly relieved, some almost weeping, as if he was a ghost returned from the grave.

“They told us you were dead, my lord,” the head guard told him somberly. “We thought all was lost.”

“A blatant lie made to weaken our morale,” Ormund hissed, his hand dropping to the pommel of his sword as his wound ached. “Tumbleton has fallen, and I’m far from the grave.”

Still, he sensed something dreadful had occurred by how mournful the maidservants were—

“My lord!”

Before Ormund could demand what had happened in his absence, a shrill voice cut through. Ellyn, your faithful handmaiden, pushed past the other servants, her eyes were red-rimmed from days of crying.

She fell to her knees, clutching desperately at the hem of his traveling cloak.

“You must help her, Lord Ormund! You must bring her back!”

A cold knot of dread coiled in his stomach. He looked down at the trembling girl, his brow furrowing deeply.

And the words she uttered next, as she looked up at him with tear-streaked cheeks, made his blood run colder than when he saw dragons burning Tumbleton.

“The lady! Three weeks ago, while the city was fooled by the news of your death, the false queen’s men took her away!”

They had taken you to Tumbleton.

The market city was ravaged beyond repair. For three weeks now, they had held you hostage in a makeshift holdfast. They gave you barely enough bread and water to keep you alive, and as the days bled together, your hope withered to nothing.

Your unborn child, who grew heavier by the day beneath your heart, was the only thing left to give you the strength to survive this madness.

And as if your situation weren’t desperate enough, through the timber door of your cell, the muffled voices of your captors reached your ears. They were conversing in frantic, hushed tones.

“The smallfolk are rioting in King’s Landing. They’re storming the Dragonpit. The Queen is fleeing!”

“Then what of us? What of the woman?” another rasped.

“Leave her. If the Hightowers find us here, they’ll flay us alive. Set the fire. Let the ashes cover our tracks.”

Alarmed and struck by a sudden, feral terror, you flung yourself against the door.

“Let me out!” You screamed for help, your voice raw, hitting the wood until your knuckles bled.

But the only response was a thud, followed by the crackling of fire and pitch. Smoke and heat began to seep through, as the chamber was slowly being consumed. You were trapped.

Realizing you would soon meet your demise, the strength left your legs, and you collapsed into the dirt, trembling with tears.

I would die, Ormund already did, and I have never told him.

You bitterly regretted never telling him that you were with his child.

As the heat grew unbearable, your mind drifted away to the sun-drenched rose gardens of your home, where you and Ormund Hightower had first met.

He is devilishly handsome and gentle. Your first love who had broken your heart once, but still owns it to this very day, when you would breath your last.

The black smoke filled your lungs, choking the breath from your throat. Your vision began to tunnel, the edges of the room blurring into darkness as you surrenderred to the Stranger.

Then, through the flames, a sudden, violent crash echoed— the sharp ring of steel slicing through. Through your fading, tear-blurred sight, a figure burst through the burning doorway.

You could have sworn you saw the shimmering edge of Vigilance cleaving through the smoke, its blade gleaming. That was the Valyrian steel your husband wielded.

Was it a cruel figment of your dying imagination?

But then, the heat of the fire was eclipsed by the fierce, solid weight of heavy arms wrapping around you, lifting you from the ground. And right against your ear, came a trembling voice you recognized:

“I have you,” Ormund whispered, his voice cracking with a raw emotion you had never heard from him before.

“Hold on to me. I have you, dearest.”

The next time you awoke, you were in his bedchambers in the Hightower.

The suffocating stench of smoke and pitch was gone, replaced by the familiar, comforting scent of the crisp sea breeze blowing off the Whispering Sound. The moment your eyes fluttered open, you saw him.

He was staring down at you, his dark eyes ringed with exhaustion, but shadowed with a profound relief. He was only in a loose linen tunic that showed the bandages wrapping his chest.

“Ormund...?” your voice was a broken rasp. You reached out a trembling hand, terrified your fingers would pass right through him. “Are you... are you truly here? T-they told me you were slain—”

His eyes softened, and he smiled. Not the crooked one or a smirk, but the sincere, tender smile you had fallen in love with ten years ago.

“I’m here,” he assured, his deep voice and scent wrapping around you as he took hold of your hand.

Your first tear fell, and your voice broke into a sob then. Ormund pulled you gently but fiercely into his arms, tucking your head beneath his chin, and you clung to him, burying your head into his chest, weeping for the horror you had survived and the miracle of his embrace.

Slowly, he pulled away. His hand moved from your hair to cup your jaw, tilting your face up. The sorrow in his eyes flared into something primal— and he pressed his lips to yours in a deep, passionate kiss.

He drank you in as if you were the only life-giving water in a world reduced to ash, and you kissed him back with everything you had left. You had the man you loved returned to you, and he had the sweet rose he cherished safe in his arms.

When he finally pulled away, both of your breaths coming in ragged gasps. The tender silence stretched between you, but then Ormund’s gaze drifted downwards.

His large, warm palm rested against your belly, a knowing look in his blue eyes.

“Must you hide so many things from me?” he asked softly, his gaze boring into yours with an intensity that made your heart skip.

“I... I was—”

“Would you continue to do so if I told you that now, it is you who holds my entire heart and soul in the palm of your hand?”

You didn’t even dare to blink, and he held your gaze and a bittersweet smile touched his lips.

“I have always longed for that lady amidst the field of roses,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a rough, impassioned whisper. “Even though she knows nothing of it, even though I know she is too pretty for the likes of me, and even though I have broken her heart... I still selfishly wished I could have her for myself.”

“Ormund...” Your lips wobbled, ingesting every word as the tears pooled fresh in your eyes.

“So know that even if roses bear thorns,” he continued, his thumb brushing a fallen tear from your cheek. “I would gladly suffer a thousand cuts from now on, so long as I am the only one who gets to hold you.”

That was everything you needed to hear. You surrendered yourself to his embrace again, letting him kiss the crown of your head.

Dragons might continue to dance and the kingdoms would burn, but in that fleeting moment within the walls of the Hightower, the bloodstained game of thrones ceased to matter—

Ormund is convinced that his father gave him Targaryen leftovers, for him to marry a fucking man. The heir of Highgarden to marry some Targaryen princeling, just to have one Targaryen with the Highgarden name.

The Gods, actually, must be dying with laughter.

As part of the agreement, any and all of Ormund's bastards will be legitimized, so his blood will remain in the world—in fact, he is encouraged to have bastards, encouraged to take a wife, as a Dornishman might take a paramour.

The marriage is an alliance only. Valyrian blood with a Hightower name, your bastards will take priority over Ormund's for the Hightower Seat, and someday in the future your descendants will marry for half-Hightower, half-Valyrian blood.

What a stupid idea for a ridiculous, far-off future.

But now in this ridiculous, closer future, you don't take paramours.

"Husband." You call, prancing into your shared tent.

"Husband." Ormund replies with the same enthusiasm, which is to say, none. "Where have you been?"

"Scouting. Have you missed me?" Already you make yourself at home, sprawling as if you built the very chair you sit on.

For the record, Ormund didn't build it either, nor did he carry it, but he has surely stayed in it for longer than you. The army's march is a slow one and you have been "scouting" day and night from the comfort of dragonback without so much as a check-in since departing from Highgarden.

Sometimes you infuriate him. Ever since your marriage, you have forgone your previous tendency of travelling around the world with the privilege of holding no political stakes (and no Targaryen home). Where everyone—and especially Ormund—expected you to keep your famous habit to take flight, you decided to nest in Highgarden.

It is your fault, then, that Ormund has grown rather fond of your presence and all that comes with it. It is your fault, too, that in the rare occasion that you take flight once more, Ormund grows rather suspicious.

"Scouting? And what is it, that you have discovered?"

"Nothing much." You admit, shrugging your shoulders.

The fucking audacity. Ormund pushes away his advisors and points them towards the tent exit, then makes his way towards you.

"You do not see it as a failure?"

"Not at all, as I am sure that you know already what I have found: that a pale green dragon patrols the skies and that Ser Criston Cole and your cousin march towards Harrenhall."

By now, Ormund has reached you. He plants a hand on the back of your chair and leans towards you, "And it took you weeks to figure that out?"

"What are your concerns, husband?" You do not feel threatened, not at all. You take his hand in yours and press a kiss upon his knuckles. "You have seen my dragon above the march, surely. Tessarion and our little cousin yet fly confidently, it is I who must do the scouting."

He can't deny that he has seen you fly, it would be hard to miss a dragon of your same age—what neither of you can deny is, "It is strange, is it not, that you do not sleep or land with your dragon near camp, then?"

You think on it, thoroughly, looking far off for a long few seconds. Then, "No. Dragons are large. Mine own requires a lot of water, many times that which men such as ourselves require. I rest near lakes. Tonight, so does our army."

Ormund stands up straight with a groan, but you keep his hand. "Admit it," with that hand, he tips your chin up rather forcefully, "you have taken a paramour."

"I have not."

"Then you have taken to whoring, perhaps!"

When you offer him nothing else to retaliate to, except for the quiet raising of your brow, Ormund grows silent. His anxieties remain at the surface with the ever-shifting fingers of his other hand, whilst his anger bubbles as he stares at you expectantly.

"And tell me, why would it be wrong if I took one? Last I checked, it is encouraged of us." You ask, intertwining your fingers and pulling them away from your face in the hopes of turning them softer.

Ormund slaps you across the face instead. As much as he is your prissy wife right now, he's a knight, and the slap comes with strength. "I need to know who it is so that I can know why my name becomes disgraced."

"Your name is already disgraced, darling, you married a man." You stand, meeting him at full height to stare him in the eye. "Targaryen leftovers, you say?"

He gapes. He hasn't called you that in years, and when he did, it was always behind your back. Of course you must've heard him, at least once. He should apologize, but instead he doubles down, "Yeah. Surely you see it."

You heave out a sigh then take his shoulders with firm hands, "I have taken no paramour, no secret wife, I swear it. Marriage clause or not, I have been faithful to you, husband, as you certainly have been to me too."

"I'm beginning to wonder why."

You show him why when you shove him back so hard it makes him stumble, when you take him by the collar of the shirt and throw him onto the bed, when you demand, not ask, him to undress.

You remind him why when you take off your riding gloves with your teeth, when the cape comes off, when your body becomes exposed; the body of Old Valyrian Gods, the body of statues, the body of a warrior. It's good for admiring, but even better for use.

By the time you've prepped him through, Ormund has been well-reminded of just why you stick faithful... but the mind can be forgetful of little details.

He gasps when you enter him, wraps his arms around your body tight as you do like he's clinging on for dear life, because you've made him feel so full already.

"Do you remember why now, Ormund?" The full name rolling off your tongue practically whips him into shape.

But he's not remorseful. "I need a better reminder, husband."

The softness of his "husband" begs for you to call him that too, or something sweeter, something he's used to. Although, physically he does otherwise. He kicks you in the rear as if hurrying a horse.

"Oh, darling." You laugh, giving him what he wants only because he's so clearly needy, because he cannot even wait one second after you've bottomed out inside of him. "Must you keep playing this game?"

He can deny that he is playing a game for a moment, for you steal his voice in a manner of seconds. Already, he struggles to breathe, because when you bottom out inside of him with each shallow thrust, it forces his whole body to tighten up from his hole to his chest—but fuck, isn't it good?

"I am playing no game." Ormund protests through choked out words. He lets you go so you can fuck him better, so that he can admire the harsh lines of your muscles as you move. He keeps a steady hold, still, on your shoulders. "I... cannot accept that your paramour gets to have this too."

He wasn't playing a game with you or seducing you into bed when you entered the tent. He was truly, wholeheartedly, jealous of the person, man or woman, who got to have you all that time you were away. Why else would you avoid camp like the plague? Why else did you not lay beside him all those nights?

He cannot have you fucking just about anyone. Your body is a gift he wants for himself. In fact, he is still jealous and he still thinks that you lie.

"My silly husband."

"Silly?" He huffs, nails digging into your shoulders in retaliation, which is the best retaliation he can give. He wouldn't want to disturb your hip work, not while it is only starting to get faster.

"I have not taken a paramour." You say firmly, just as firm as the new, sudden grasp you have on his hips.

When Ormund gasps, it's not because of your revelation, but because you fuck him harder and because the tip of your cock grazes his prostate—once his lips shut once more, he manages a lopsided, unconvinced frown.

"Where have you been, then?" Not sorrow, not curiosity, he's still angry.

You shake your head with a laugh, because his ire remains even as you give him pleasure. The answer isn't easy. "I have fallen back on my habits."

Ormund has grown beyond fond of your presence, he has grown used to it too: by his side, at councils, in training, in his bed. It's your fault for committing to Highgarden for the first few years of your marriage, and for being so charming too. Every time that you take flight once again without so much as informing him, your husband launches into one of his fits, always claims that you have a paramour or bastards or salt wives.

Ormund goes as green as the Hightower sigil each time you leave. "So you have taken to whoring, then."

"I have not taken a paramour, I have not taken to whoring." You assure, "We are faithful to each other, my love, for the same reason."

A reason he very much knows. "You crude man."

He struggles, then, shifts in some way that makes his back straighten and his body move away as if he's had enough of you—but you know thst to be untrue. Once Ormund has you in his clutches, he doesn't let go until he's finished. He's just throwing a fit.

"Come now," You call softly, taking the underside of his knees and pulling his body closer to you—basically, preventing him from running away from your cock. "I love your legs, love, and your ass... and your warrior muscle, your toned body."

Ormund, on the surface, plays unamused, but he can't deny your compliments. His arms wrap around your neck and his legs relax in your hold as if to say, go on.

"No hole is tighter for my cock—do not look at me that way." You lean down but do not kiss him, no; he already thinks you too crude. You near to press your foreheads and noses together in warm, affectionate contact so that he may kiss you if he wishes. "You bring me immense pleasure, Ormund, my husband; pleasure no one else can give me. You're my one and only."

He's still too petty, too green, but he surrenders eventually with a content sigh. He's too petty to let you kiss him, but he takes a handful of your hair and brings your head to his neck.

You take to it, latch on with your lips and ferocious teeth, like a wise peasant getting scraps: with great gratitude, savoring the taste.

"You're mine." Whether it's a clarification or a moan—your ministrations never seized, you fuck him exactly the way you've learned that he likes it—does not matter.

"I'm yours." You reply easily.

It's written in the marriage contract, but fucking each other was never part of it, and consummation wasn't either.

When you say you're his, it's because no one else gets to have your body, no one else even gets to see below its usual plate. No one else has their gut rearranged by your cock, no one else will know how fucking good you are at it, just Ormund Hightower.

Fuck heirs. Ormund's father forfeited heirs when he married him off to you, not just because you're both men, but because of the unprecedented attachment the two of you formed.

This is why Ormund stays faithful to you, because after weeks without having you—and yes, missing you—you fuck him the way he needs it. He doesn't need another cock, he doesn't even need a cunt, just you.

The dragon that hatched for you had come from one of Meleys’ eggs, laid in the old warmth beneath the Dragonpit stones long before your mother took the Red Queen away from King’s Landing for the last time. Corlys had called it a sailor’s omen when the egg quickened in your cradle chamber on Driftmark, because the shell had been smooth as wet pearl, veined through with red and deep violet, as if someone had trapped dawn inside a storm cloud. Your mother had only laughed at that and said dragons did not care for sailors’ omens, nor for men naming every miracle after themselves. When the hatchling split the shell, the creature came out pale as moonlit foam, with a narrow skull, long limbs, black horns, and wing membranes streaked with crimson. The scales along the spine gleamed with a nacreous luster in daylight, white at one angle, rose-gold at another, and almost bruised purple beneath cloud. You named the dragon Velaryx, a name that pleased your father too much and made your mother roll those violet eyes, but even Rhaenys admitted the sound suited the creature. Velaryx grew lean and fast, never as massive as Meleys, never as brute strong as Vhagar, but quick in the air, brutal on a dive, fond of vanishing into cloud and coming down with the sun behind those pale wings. The smallfolk of Driftmark called Velaryx the Pearl Wraith after the first time your dragon came out of sea mist over Hull and sent half the fishing boats scattering as if the Stranger had learned to fly.

By the time the Dance became more than ravens, council mutterings, and men with old grudges finding new names for them, Velaryx was no hatchling. Neither were you. Your mother had died with Meleys at Rook’s Rest, fire and blood and betrayal folded into one red ruin, and whatever soft places had still existed in you were buried with her. Men looked at Corlys and saw the Sea Snake, old and grand and still dangerous enough to make younger lords swallow before speaking. They looked at Rhaenys while your mother lived and saw the Queen Who Never Was, a woman who had outlasted insult with dignity and made the realm remember what it had denied. When they looked at you, they saw a prize before they saw a rider. That had always been the idiocy of men in war: they looked at a dragonrider and still found a way to think first of marriage beds, inheritance, hostages, and wombs. If stupidity were coin, half the lords of Westeros could have purchased Valyria stone by stone.

You had flown for the blacks because your mother’s blood demanded it, because your father’s house had been bound to Rhaenyra by marriages, oaths, ships, graves, and because there was no clean place left to stand. The Reach burned in patches beneath you that autumn. Fields of wheat and barley lay crushed under hoof and boot; hedges were torn apart for firewood; villages shuttered themselves at the first cry of wings. Lord Ormund Hightower had marched from Oldtown with his banners, his spears, his mounted knights, his pious confidence, and the green flame of Aegon’s claim fluttering over his host like a sickness. He had Lord Hightower’s wealth, Oldtown’s pride, and more Reach swords than any man needed unless the gods had cursed him with ambition. Worse, he had Daeron Targaryen.

Prince Daeron was younger than many of the men who shouted his name, but Tessarion was no child’s toy. The Blue Queen had changed the war along the Honeywine. You had heard the reports before you saw the proof yourself: cobalt wings over the river, copper claws shining through smoke, blue flame pouring down onto men who had thought Lord Ormund beaten. Daeron had been named daring after that, knighted by Ormund with the Valyrian steel sword Vigilance, and everyone from Oldtown to King’s Landing had swallowed the tale as if songs won wars by themselves. Songs did not show burned hands. Songs did not show horses shrieking with their entrails in the mud. Songs did not show boys pissing themselves when a dragon’s shadow crossed the sun. Songs did not show the rider afterward, blood at the mouth from biting his tongue during a dive, shaking so hard he could barely unfasten his gloves. Songs were cowardly little things.

You found Daeron three days after the Honeywine, when Ormund’s host moved north and east, swollen by victory and slowed by wounded men. You had meant to harry them, not break them. Velaryx could strike at scouts, supply wagons, baggage trains, horse lines. Your father had taught you that a fleet was not beaten only by sinking ships. Sometimes one burned ropes, spoiled water, lamed draft animals, and left proud men starving in their armor. A host on the march was just a fleet dragged onto land, and land made fools of sailors and knights alike.

The first pass went beautifully. Velaryx came down out of a low bank of cloud with wings tight and throat bright, and the baggage carts at the rear of the column burst into white-red flame. Oxen screamed. Men scattered. The banners of three lesser houses vanished behind smoke. You heard horns below, frantic and overlapping, and you leaned forward against the saddle, knees locked, gloved hands steady on the dragon’s spines. The wind tore at your braid. Ash hit your cheeks. Below, the Green host lurched like a stabbed beast.

Then Tessarion came.

The Blue Queen rose from beyond a ridge with a scream that cut through smoke and steel alike. Tessarion was smaller than Velaryx but viciously quick, colored like twilight over deep water, cobalt scales lit by the coppery gleam of claws, crest, and belly. Daeron rode well. That was the most irritating part. The boy did not sit Tessarion like some perfumed princeling tied to a saddle and praying not to die. He rode as if he listened with his bones. When Tessarion banked, he moved with the turn. When your dragon rolled away from blue fire, Daeron followed before you had finished cursing him.

“Up,” you shouted, and Velaryx obeyed.

The sky became teeth, flame, wingbeats, and terrible speed. Velaryx climbed hard, pale body flashing against the cloud, then snapped sideways as Tessarion lunged from below. Blue fire spilled past your left side close enough for heat to slap through leather and mail. Velaryx shrieked, not from pain but fury, a sound inherited from Meleys’ blood, and answered with a burst of fire white at the heart and red at the edges. Tessarion twisted away. For a moment you saw Daeron’s face across the gap, young and strained under soot, silver hair whipped loose from its tie, eyes fixed on you with horror and resolve tangled together. The boy knew who you were. Of course he did. Every dragonrider knew the others, if only because there were so few of you left and fewer every moon. The gods had created dragons, and men had immediately decided the best use for them was murdering cousins. Civilization, as usual, had a splendid sense of humor.

You could have run. You knew that even then. Velaryx could outclimb Tessarion if given clean air. But below, the wagons still burned, and Ormund’s rear line was collapsing into itself. Another pass could ruin his supplies for days. Another pass might starve the Hightower host before it reached stronger ground. So you turned back.

That was where the scorpions came in.

Later, men would say Tessarion took down Velaryx. Men liked clean stories. They liked a young prince with a blue dragon and a brave victory. They liked making war into a tapestry because tapestries did not stink. The truth was messier and uglier. Tessarion drove Velaryx lower with blue flame, and as your dragon swerved away from those jaws, a hidden scorpion bolt launched from behind a screen of half-burned carts. The bolt did not pierce the heart or skull. It struck the webbing near Velaryx’s right wing joint, punched through membrane and muscle, and tore a ruin wide enough for daylight to pour through. Velaryx screamed so loudly the sound seemed to split the sky. You felt the whole body jolt beneath you.

“Hold,” you snarled, as if rage could stitch a wing together.

Velaryx tried. Gods, your dragon tried. The wounded wing beat once, twice, crooked and failing. Tessarion came in too close, and Velaryx caught the Blue Queen across the chest with claws, ripping cobalt scales free in a bright scatter. Tessarion screamed in turn, blue flame spilling wild, and Daeron pitched forward in the saddle as if struck. For one mad instant, the two dragons were locked together, falling through smoke, claws raking, tails lashing. Velaryx bit Tessarion’s neck crest and tore copper-bright flesh. Tessarion’s fire washed over Velaryx’s shoulder. You smelled burned scale, burned leather, burned hair, and then there was no sky left.

The ground came like a thrown mountain.

You survived because Velaryx took most of the impact. That was the kind of debt no rider ever repaid. You remembered mud, crushed grass, the taste of blood, and the terrible silence after a dragon stopped screaming. You were still half tangled in saddle straps when men came running, though none came close at first. Even injured, Velaryx snapped at the nearest horse and bit through its neck with a wet crack. The remaining animals reared and threw riders. You cut yourself free with shaking hands and slid down the hot slope of your dragon’s shoulder, landing badly, one knee almost giving beneath you. Your sword was still at your hip. Your left arm burned from shoulder to wrist. Your ribs felt as if some giant had closed a fist around them.

“Back,” someone shouted. “Back, you fools, the beast still lives.”

Velaryx did live. Barely. The right wing lay twisted, the membrane torn, the shoulder smoking where blue fire had touched scale. The great pale head lifted as you staggered in front of it, and one silver-violet eye found you. There was pain there. Rage too. Confusion. A dragon was not a horse, no matter what maesters wrote after sniffing ink too long and mistaking themselves for useful. A dragon knew. Velaryx knew the sky had been stolen.

You turned with your sword drawn when the first Green men approached. “Come closer and feed my dragon,” you said.

Some of them believed you. A few had enough sense to look at Velaryx’s teeth and reconsider their devotion to King Aegon. Then the line parted, and Lord Ormund Hightower rode through on a dark horse with white socks, armor smoke-stained, green cloak torn at one edge, and a blade at his side that did not look like ordinary steel. Vigilance. Even before anyone named it, you knew Valyrian steel by the way it caught light, dark ripples moving under the surface as if water had been folded into metal. Ormund was not young, but not old either, a man in his strength, broad through the shoulders, with a face made stern by habit rather than ugliness. His eyes were pale and watchful. He looked less like a court lord than you expected and more like a man who had discovered long ago that command was mostly deciding which disaster should be allowed to happen first.

Behind him, Daeron had dismounted from Tessarion. Blood ran from the prince’s hairline, and one arm hung wrong against his side. Tessarion crouched beyond him, bleeding from the neck, chest heaving, bright blue scales scored by Velaryx’s claws. The young prince looked at Velaryx, then at you, and whatever triumph men would later sing about was nowhere on his face.

Ormund raised one gauntleted hand. His soldiers halted.

“You are Lady Y/N Velaryon,” he said.

“You are standing too close.”

His gaze flicked to Velaryx. “So it seems.”

“My dragon is alive.”

“For the moment.”

You took one step toward him, sword still raised. Men shifted. Spears lowered. Velaryx growled behind you, deep and ragged, a furnace sound dragging through ruined lungs. Tessarion answered from the far side of the field with a wounded hiss. The whole world smelled of blood and scorched grass.

Ormund did not draw Vigilance. That was clever of him. “Put down your sword.”

“No.”

“I would rather not have you shot full of quarrels in front of your dragon.”

“Then do not order it.”

His mouth tightened, but something like respect passed through his eyes. Not kindness. Not mercy. Those were soft names people gave themselves after the hard decisions were already made. Respect was colder and more useful. “You are beaten, Lady Velaryon.”

“My dragon still breathes.”

“And my prince’s dragon still stands. Neither of them will survive another command given in anger.” Ormund looked past you toward Velaryx again. “You know that.”

You hated him for being right. It would have been easier if he were stupid. A stupid man could be provoked, tricked, led by pride into slaughter. Ormund Hightower sat his horse and measured the field, your wound, Velaryx’s wound, Daeron’s injury, Tessarion’s lowered head, the ring of soldiers, the smoke from his own ruined wagons. He was not thinking of glory. He was counting costs.

Daeron stepped forward, pale under the blood streaking his temple. “Lord Ormund,” he said quietly, “the dragon should not be slain.”

You looked at him then, really looked. The boy sounded winded. His right hand trembled, though he tried to hide it. There was soot across his mouth. He had almost died, and the first clear words he offered were not for vengeance.

Ormund did not glance back. “No one has given that order, Your Grace.”

“See that no one does.”

Your laugh came out harsh and broken. “How noble. Shall I thank you for not butchering what you could not kill cleanly?”

Daeron flinched. Ormund did not.

“You may thank him by living,” Ormund said. “Yield your sword, my lady. I give you my word you will not be harmed if you do.”

“Your word as a Green?”

“My word as Lord Hightower.”

That should not have mattered. It did anyway. There were old houses whose words carried weight even when you despised the cause they served. House Hightower had stood before dragons came to Westeros. Oldtown had seen kings rise, rot, and become songs. Ormund was your enemy, but he was no sellsword captain pawing at a ransom prize. You looked back at Velaryx. The great eye watched you, lid flickering. Blood, dark and steaming, ran beneath those pearl scales into the trampled grass.

You lowered the sword.

A murmur moved through the Green soldiers, relief dressed up as discipline. Ormund dismounted before taking the blade from you himself. That surprised you. He did not let some hedge knight snatch it from your hand. He stepped close, met your stare, and accepted the weapon hilt first when you offered it with as much contempt as your aching arm could manage.

“If Velaryx dies,” you said, “you will learn how much trouble one unarmed woman can cause before your men finish the job.”

“I do not doubt it,” Ormund replied.

That was your first true conversation with him. Not exactly the stuff singers would choose for romance, but singers were cowards and fools, and most romance began in less honest places.

They did not chain you that day. Ormund had you carried, which was humiliating enough to make you consider biting someone, but your left side had gone numb by then and pride did not mend cracked ribs. Daeron insisted on sending his own healer to Velaryx, as if dragon wounds were something a man could stitch with linen and hope. The healer could do little, but Daeron stayed near the dragons while the Hightower beast handlers and terrified grooms cleared the field. You watched from a canvas litter as the prince approached Velaryx with empty hands and a face too solemn for his years. Velaryx hissed smoke at him. Daeron stopped, bowed his bloody head as one dragonrider to another, and backed away.

Ormund saw you watching.

“He is not cruel,” he said.

“He rides for usurpers.”

“He rides for his brother.”

“Those are not different things.”

“No,” Ormund said after a moment. “Often they are not.”

That should have been the end of it. You should have remained a hostage in a guarded tent, traded eventually for prisoners, ships, coin, promises, or some uglier bargain struck by men who loved you but still saw the board before they saw the blood on the pieces. Instead, war did what war always did. It dragged. It thickened. It turned every simple thing into a knot.

Your first days as Ormund’s prisoner were fever and pain. The healers found no deep break in your skull, but your ribs were cracked, your left arm burned, and bruises flowered across your body in black, blue, and yellow. Your tent stood near the center of the Hightower camp, close enough to Ormund’s command pavilion that no man could approach without being seen. Two guards watched the entrance at all hours. They were polite, which was almost worse than cruelty because it gave you less to sharpen yourself against. The first time one called you “Princess,” you told him that you are no princess. The second time, he remembered. The third time, he brought broth and looked as if he expected thanks, because the Reach produced wheat, wine, and men in desperate need of applause for basic competence.

Velaryx lived.

That was the first thing you asked every morning and the last thing you demanded every night. At first no one answered quickly enough. Then Ormund learned that withholding the answer made you impossible. After the fourth cup you threw, he came to your tent himself, ducking beneath the flap with the weary expression of a man who had led armies, negotiated alliances, seen dragonfire, and still discovered that one furious captive could sour his whole camp.

“Velaryx fed today,” he said without greeting. “A bullock. Half of one, in truth. The dragon would not take more.”

You were sitting upright against cushions, sweating through a linen shift, hair unbound and tangled down your back. Your arm was bandaged. Your ribs hated breathing. “Fed by whose hand?”

“No hand. We dragged the carcass within reach and then withdrew before your beast decided Hightower men were sweeter.”

“Velaryx prefers horse.”

“I will inform the quartermaster that our cavalry is now dragon fodder.”

That startled a laugh out of you. It hurt. You hated him for that too, naturally. There were only so many things a person could hate at once, but you were making a disciplined effort.

Ormund looked at you with faint surprise, then glanced at the shattered cup near the tent pole. “Must everything become a missile?”

“Bring worse pottery.”

“I will have wooden cups sent.”

“I’ll find something heavier.”

“I believe you.”

That was the second conversation.

The negotiations began through ravens. Ormund wrote first to Dragonstone, then to Driftmark, then to whatever lord or captain could reach your father fastest. He did not parade you before his host, did not force you to write begging letters, did not send a lock of hair, bloody ribbon, or any of the other theatrical garbage men performed when they wanted cruelty to look like strategy. He wrote formally. Lady Y/N Velaryon lived. The dragon Velaryx lived but would not fly soon, if ever. Lady Velaryon would be treated according to birth and honor. Lord Corlys Velaryon was invited to discuss exchange.

Your father’s first answer was short enough that Ormund read it twice, perhaps hoping more words would appear through force of irritation.

“You may tell Lord Hightower,” Corlys had written in a hand still strong despite age, “that if harm comes to my daughter, I will close the sea around Oldtown until his grandchildren learn hunger as a cradle song.”

Ormund folded the letter and looked at you across the table in his pavilion. By then you could walk, though not far, and you had demanded to hear every word sent in your name. He had allowed it because he was either fair-minded or had concluded refusal would lead to more broken objects. Both were possible.

“Your father has a gift for warmth,” Ormund said.

“He likes to make good impressions.”

“I asked for an exchange.”

“He offered you a prophecy.”

“A threat.”

“With my father, the distinction is mostly decorative.”

Ormund’s mouth moved, not quite smiling. He had removed his armor for the evening. In a dark green doublet, with smoke washed from his hair and the day’s blood cleaned from his hands, he looked more like what he was: lord of the oldest and richest house in the Reach, uncle’s nephew to queens and kings, a man raised under the shadow of the Hightower and the Starry Sept’s memory. There was power in him that had nothing to do with armies. A steadiness. A discipline that did not need shouting to prove itself.

“You speak as if you admire him,” Ormund said.

“I do.”

“And resent him.”

“I do.”

“That seems uncomfortable.”

“Family usually is.”

He nodded once, accepting that. You found yourself studying him as he turned toward the map table. Colored markers sat over the Reach roads, rivers, towns, and holdfasts. The Honeywine curled in ink. Oldtown stood marked with a tower sign, a little carved flame set beside it. Dragonstone and Driftmark lay far away on another parchment weighted down by a dagger. Men had been moving pieces across maps for the whole war, pretending carved wood could keep them from smelling corpses.

“Why show me these?” you asked.

“You know the roads.”

“I know the coasts better.”

“You know dragon range better than any of my captains.”

“Ask Daeron.”

“I do. He is young.”

“He beat me.”

Ormund turned back. “Tessarion, a scorpion hidden behind burning wagons, and your own refusal to retreat beat you. Daeron knows that. So do I.”

You did not answer at once. Praise from an enemy was a strange thing. Too much felt like mockery. Too little felt like insult. Ormund had an irritating habit of choosing exactly enough.

“You speak very gently of your prince,” you said.

“He was my ward before he was the realm’s darling.”

“He is your weapon now.”

His expression cooled. “He is a boy in a war made by men older than him.”

“That has never stopped men older than him from using boys.”

“No,” Ormund said, and the word landed with more weight than agreement. “It has not.”

You looked away first. That annoyed you too. The man was becoming a collection of small annoyances: too calm, too perceptive, too careful with your dignity, too willing to admit unpleasant truths without using them to excuse himself. A proper enemy should make hatred easy. Ormund Hightower was failing at his appointed task.

Weeks passed. The war shifted around you. Ravens arrived with reports of castles changing hands, burned mills, lords declaring too late and too loudly, towns paying for banners they had never chosen. The Hightower host moved by stages, slow but disciplined, its wounded carried in wagons, Tessarion recovering enough to fly short circuits over the column. Velaryx could not fly. That wound did not heal as cleanly as men pretended wounds should. The membrane closed in ugly ridges, but the wing joint remained stiff, and your dragon dragged that side when turning. A dragon grounded was a grief so large it made human language look cheap.

Ormund allowed you to visit Velaryx once you could walk without nearly fainting. Six guards came with you, though they kept a respectful distance after Velaryx lifted that pale head and showed teeth as long as daggers. Your dragon had been moved to a burned pasture ringed with wagons, chains, and prayers. The chains were mostly theater. If Velaryx truly thrashed, half the camp would die before anyone stopped it. Still, Ormund kept his men from cruelty. No hooks. No teasing. No brave fools with spears trying to prove themselves. The first soldier who threw a stone at Velaryx lost two fingers to Ormund’s justice before your dragon could remove anything more useful.

You knelt beside Velaryx’s head and pressed both palms to the warm scales above the jaw. “I know,” you whispered in High Valyrian. “I know, sweet terror. I know.”

Velaryx rumbled, a low sound like stones moving under tide. Smoke leaked from one nostril.

“You are a bad patient.”

The silver-violet eye narrowed.

“Do not give me that look. You are. You always have been. Do you remember when you bit the maester on Driftmark?”

Velaryx breathed hot air into your hair.

“He deserved it,” you admitted.

A soft tread sounded behind you. You did not turn. “If you brought more guards, they are wasted.”

“I brought meat,” Ormund said.

You looked back. He stood beyond the safest reach of Velaryx’s neck, one hand resting near Vigilance but not on it. Behind him, men hauled a dead horse from a cart. A mercy, or a bribe. With lords, the two were often siblings.

“You waste horseflesh on an enemy dragon,” you said.

“I waste nothing. A fed dragon is less inclined to eat men I still need.”

“Practical.”

“Always, when possible.”

Velaryx’s nostrils flared. The dead horse was dragged closer. Ormund dismissed the men before they began trembling themselves into mistakes, then remained while Velaryx burn and tore into the carcass with a wet crunch. Uncooked blood spread dark over pale grass.

“You do not look away,” you observed.

“I have seen dragon feeding before.”

“Not like this.”

“No,” he admitted. “Not this close.”

“You should be afraid.”

“I am.”

That made you glance at him.

Ormund’s face remained composed. “Only a fool would stand before a living dragon and feel nothing.”

“There are many fools in your camp.”

“In every camp.”

“You included?”

“Frequently. I try not to make a religion of it.”

The words should not have warmed you. They did. Not sweetly. Nothing about that time was sweet. It was more like finding one dry room in a flooded castle, then resenting the room for existing because now you knew shelter was possible.

After that, Ormund visited Velaryx with you when duties allowed. At first you thought it was strategy. Perhaps it was. He asked questions about dragon temper, healing, appetite, wing strain, flame after injury. You answered some and ignored others. He never pressed too hard. He had a commander’s patience, which was different from a saint’s patience and far more dangerous. Saints waited because they believed suffering improved people. Commanders waited because timing killed more reliably than force.

Daeron came too, once Tessarion could land without favoring the foreleg Velaryx had raked open. The prince approached with humility so sincere you wanted to dislike it and could not quite manage.

“I am glad Velaryx lives,” Daeron said.

“You sound surprised.”

“I did not know if the wound would take fever.”

“Dragons do not die to please men’s expectations.”

“No,” he said softly. “They die because we bring them to war.”

That silenced you. Ormund, standing beside you, looked at the prince with something paternal and pained moving behind his eyes.

“You nearly killed my dragon,” you said.

Daeron looked down. “Yes.”

“I nearly killed yours.”

“Yes.”

“Do you apologize for war, Prince Daeron?”

“No.” His voice was steadier then. “I apologize for being glad I lived when your dragon fell.”

A clean answer. Painfully clean. You had no weapon for it.

“Then keep your apology,” you said. “You may need it later.”

Daeron bowed and withdrew. Ormund watched him go.

“He is better than his side deserves,” you said.

“Most young men are better than the banners that claim them.”

“Were you?”

He breathed out through his nose, almost amused. “No. I was worse. I wanted glory.”

“And now?”

“Now I want victory.”

“That is worse.”

“Yes,” Ormund said. “It is.”

The third letter from Corlys offered exchange of noble prisoners taken at sea, ransom in gold, and the return of two Hightower cousins captured by black loyalists near the Mander. Ormund rejected it. The terms were not equal, he said. A dragonrider of your blood could not be balanced by coin and cousins. Your father’s fourth letter was less polished. Your fifth week in the camp ended with Corlys threatening to send ships against every green-aligned harbor from Oldtown to the Arbor. Ormund answered that Oldtown was well defended and that any attack on the city would put you in greater peril, which was both true and manipulative in the tidy way statesmen adored.

“You use me as a shield,” you said after reading the copy.

“I use you as leverage.”

“Prettier word. Same stink.”

“You prefer I lie?”

“I prefer you return me.”

“To what? Dragonstone? Driftmark? Another saddle? Another sky full of kin trying to burn kin?”

“That is not your choice.”

“No,” he said. “It is not.”

Yet he did not send you back.

The closeness came in pieces, which was probably how it survived. Anything sudden would have been too easy to distrust. Ormund began by letting you dine in his pavilion instead of your guarded tent, because you were a lady and because eating alone made you feel like an animal being kept for inspection. The first meals were hostile. You spoke only when necessary. He offered news without requiring gratitude. You corrected his maps when coastlines were wrong, because bad maps offended you more than silence helped you. He had the gall to thank you.

“You have marked Cape Wrath too far north,” you told him one evening, leaning over the parchment despite your sore ribs. “And that inlet is deeper.”

“You know this from memory?”

“I was raised by Corlys Velaryon. I knew tides before I knew embroidery.”

“That must have disappointed septas.”

“Everything about me disappointed septas.”

“I find that easy to believe.”

You looked up. “Was that meant to insult me?”

“No. Them.”

Your mouth twitched. His eyes followed the movement before he looked back at the map. You noticed. Captivity narrowed the world, and in a narrow world, every glance grew larger.

Another night, rain battered the pavilion roof so heavily that the maps had to be rolled away from leaking seams. The camp sank into mud. Men cursed outside. Somewhere, a mule screamed as if personally offended by weather. You sat near the brazier with a cup of watered wine, wrapped in a cloak because the damp made old bruises ache. Ormund entered late, soaked across the shoulders, smelling of rain, leather, and smoke. He removed his gloves finger by finger, slower than usual.

“Bad news?” you asked.

“Always.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the only answer war gives consistently.”

He poured wine and did not water his own. His face looked drawn in the firelight. Not weak. Never that. But tired in a way men rarely allowed women to see unless they mistook them for furniture.

“You lost men,” you said.

“A foraging party. Ambushed near a mill.”

“Black loyalists?”

“Hungry villagers, by the look of it. Perhaps both. These lines become thin.”

You watched him drink. “Will you hang them if you catch them?”

“If they killed soldiers, yes.”

“You say that as if it costs nothing.”

“It costs plenty. That does not change the answer.”

“You could choose mercy.”

“I could. Then the next village learns that killing Hightower men carries no price.”

“You sound like my father.”

“I will try to recover from the insult.”

“You sound like every lord who has ever explained why corpses are necessary.”

His gaze cut to you then, not angry, but close. “And you sound like every dragonrider who has seen men scatter beneath wings and decided the view from above cleans the killing.”

That struck. You set the cup down. “Careful, Lord Hightower.”

“I am tired of careful.”

“Then you are tired of being alive.”

For a moment, rain filled the silence. Ormund looked at you, and something changed there. Not softened. Changed. The air between you had carried anger before, suspicion, grudging humor, political assessment, the strange intimacy of two people trapped on opposite sides of a war neither could stop. This was different. Rawer. You felt it under your skin before either of you named it.

“I know what dragonfire does,” you said, lower now. “I have smelled men after it. Do not make the mistake of thinking I feel clean because I flew higher.”

His jaw worked once. “No. I should not have said that.”

“But you believe it.”

“I believe power excuses itself with height, titles, law, blood, gods, necessity. Mine does. Yours does. Your queen’s does. My king’s does. Every man in this war has dressed murder in silk and asked history to admire the tailoring.”

You stared at him. “That was almost honest.”

“It happens occasionally. I try not to let it spread.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, small and tired and real. He watched you as if the sound had done him some private harm.

After that night, he stopped pretending not to want your company. You stopped pretending not to expect his. The guards remained, because the world had not turned gentle just because two enemies had discovered conversation. Ormund still sent ravens demanding terms your father would never accept. You still watched every road for a chance to run. But he began bringing you books taken from some Reach sept’s traveling chest, histories mostly, a few volumes of Valyrian fragments copied by maesters who had never heard the words spoken aloud. You mocked the errors in the margins. He read them later, and the next day he asked why you had called one translation “an insult to goats.”

“Because goats are useful and the translation was not.”

“That seems fair.”

You spoke of Driftmark, though never too softly. You spoke of your mother only once at length, and that was after a raven brought word that men in green camps had begun using Rhaenys’ death as proof that dragons could be killed, that queens could fall, that black courage was mortal. You had gone very still when Ormund read that report aloud. He stopped halfway through.

“Continue,” you said.

“I need not.”

“Do not treat me like glass.”

“I would not insult glass so severely.”

“Read.”

He did. His voice did not flinch, which was a mercy. When he finished, you stood and walked out into the cold.

He found you beside Velaryx, though the hour was late and the guards were furious about it. Your dragon slept in fits, injured wing tucked wrong, pale body rising and falling with slow breaths. Clouds covered the moon. The campfires made dull red stars across the field.

“My mother deserved a better death,” you said.

Ormund stood a few paces behind you. “Yes.”

“She was worth ten of every man who shouted for Aegon or Rhaenyra.”

“Yes.”

“She should have been queen.”

A longer silence. Then, quietly, “Perhaps.”

You turned then. “Careful. That sounds like treason.”

“It is history. Often the same thing, depending on who wins.”

You hated that your throat tightened. Hated that he had not offered some Green answer about rightful succession, lawful kings, Viserys’ sons, Alicent’s blood, and all the other polished bones men set out when they wanted a feast of excuses. He simply stood there, cloak dark in the night wind, and allowed your grief to exist without trying to conquer it.

“She taught me not to bow my head when men mistook patience for defeat,” you said.

“I can see that.”

“She would hate this.”

“Being captive?”

“Being fond of you.”

The words came out before fear could stop them. There it was, then. Ugly, dangerous, alive. The silence afterward felt like standing in a dragon’s open mouth.

Ormund did not move closer. That restraint struck harder than any advance could have. “And are you?”

You could have lied. It might even have saved you. “Yes.”

His eyes closed briefly, as if something in him had been confirmed and condemned in the same breath. “That is unfortunate.”

“You have a gift for romance.”

“I have a gift for recognizing disasters.”

“Most men call that cowardice when women do it.”

“Most men are idiots.”

That nearly made you smile, but the ache in your chest was too large. “Do not make me regret telling you.”

“I will likely make you regret many things before this war ends,” he said. “But not that.”

He stepped closer then, only one pace, enough for the firelight from the nearest guard post to catch the silver at his temples and the hard line of his mouth. You realized you had been thinking about his mouth for days. During councils. During dinners. While reading letters from your father threatening to unmake him by sea. A ridiculous, inconvenient fixation. The world was collapsing, dragons were bleeding into the mud, and your mind had chosen a widowed Hightower lord with enemy banners as its next act of treason. The body had no dignity. None.

“You should go back to your tent,” he said.

“You should stop telling me what I should do.”

“I am responsible for your safety.”

“You are responsible for my imprisonment.”

“Yes.”

The honesty went between you again, blade-bright and cruel. You moved first. Not far. Just enough that the hem of your cloak touched his boot.

“I know what you are,” you said.

“Do you?”

“Enemy. Captor. Lord. Widower. Father. Soldier. Liar when duty requires it. Honest when it hurts enough to be useful.”

“That is quite a list.”

“I am not finished.”

“No?”

“No.” You looked up at him. “You are also not as cold as you wish to be.”

Something flickered across his face. “And you are not as untouchable as you pretend.”

You should have stepped back. Instead, you said, “No.”

His hand rose slowly, giving you time to refuse. When his fingers touched your cheek, the contact was almost unbearably careful. A thumb brushed the edge of your jaw, not claiming, not commanding. Testing reality, perhaps. Ormund looked like a man facing an army he understood far better than this.

“If I kiss you,” he said, voice roughened, “you must know I am not setting you free afterward.”

No pretty lie. No pretending desire dissolved chains. No foolish attempt to make captivity into a song.

Your breath trembled once. “If I kiss you, you must know I am not surrendering.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth. “No. You would not.”

You kissed him because you chose it, because war had taken your mother, your sky, your dragon’s wing, your father’s peace, and you would be damned before you let it take every hunger that still belonged to you. Ormund held himself still for the first heartbeat, perhaps giving you one last chance to turn this into a mistake with an escape route. Then his hand slid into your hair and his mouth opened under yours, controlled at first, then not. The kiss was not sweet. It had too much restraint breaking inside it. He tasted of wine and rain. You tasted blood where your lip had split days earlier and reopened against him. He made a low sound when he noticed, anger or want or both, and pulled back enough to look at you.

“You are bleeding.”

“You have seen worse.”

“That is not permission to ignore it.”

“You talk too much.”

He laughed under his breath, and then you kissed him again to stop it.

Nothing more happened that night. That mattered later. He walked you back to your tent himself, with the guards staring hard at anything else because soldiers were not always clever but they did possess a survival instinct. At the entrance, Ormund paused.

“Lock your tent from within,” he said.

“You never gave me a lock.”

“I will have one brought.”

“You trust me with a lock?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

His gaze held yours. “Because you should have a door no man enters without leave.”

It was such a small thing. That was why it cut. Grand gestures were easy for powerful men. They could throw gold, horses, jewels, castles, fleets, and call it devotion when it was mostly inventory. A lock in a war camp, given to a prisoner by the man who kept the guards outside, was not freedom. It was not enough. But it was something real. That was the rotten trick of tenderness. Even when insufficient, it remained tenderness.

The lock came before dawn.

After that, the camp knew without knowing. Servants always knew. Guards knew. Daeron knew, though the prince had the decency to look embarrassed rather than judgmental. Ormund’s captains suspected and became careful with your name. A few men muttered. One knight made the mistake of saying too much within earshot of Ormund’s steward and found himself reassigned to latrine pits for a fortnight. Nobody needed to tell you. The smell was evidence enough.

The negotiations worsened. Corlys offered more. Ormund demanded guarantees that could not be granted. Safe passage for Hightower ships through waters your father did not wholly command. Release of prisoners Rhaenyra’s men would not trade. A pledge that Velaryx would not be used against the Green host again, which made you laugh aloud when Ormund read it to you.

“You asked my father to chain the sea,” you said.

“I asked him to chain one dragon.”

“You asked him to chain me.”

“Yes.”

The word struck harder than denial would have. You stood near his writing table, one hand braced against the carved edge. Outside, the camp was settling into dusk, all low voices, cook smoke, clatter, and distant groans from the wounded tents. Ormund had dismissed everyone else. The pavilion felt too warm.

“And if he agrees?” you asked.

“He will not.”

“If he does.”

Ormund’s face was unreadable. “Then I would have to decide whether my honor or my king’s cause commands me more strongly.”

“Do you have an answer?”

“No.”

“You always have an answer.”

“Not for you.”

The words settled into the space between you. You could hear the brazier crackle. A moth battered itself stupidly against a lantern, because every creature in the world apparently wished to die in fire sooner or later.

“My father will come for me,” you said.

“I know.”

“He will not stop.”

“I know that too.”

“He will burn your fleets if he must.”

“I have considered it.”

“You speak as if this is a weather report.”

“If I speak otherwise, I may do something foolish.”

You looked at him. “Such as?”

His eyes lifted to you, and that was answer enough.

The second kiss was not outside beneath cold stars. It was in his pavilion, with rain threatening again and maps rolled shut, with your father’s letter lying open between you like a judgment neither of you planned to obey. You crossed the space first again because you needed that truth preserved. Ormund had power over your body in every public way that mattered. Guards, camp, ravens, road, ransom. But not this. Not the step. Not the yes. Not the hand you placed against his chest when you reached him.

“Tell me to leave,” he said.

“This is your pavilion.”

“I will leave it.”

“You are very determined to be noble at inconvenient times.”

“I am trying to avoid becoming the worst thing you could later say of me.”

That steadied you more than seduction would have. “Then listen carefully. I am not asking for freedom as payment. I am not mistaking your bed for a peace treaty. I am not helpless because your guards stand outside. I know exactly where I am.”

His breathing changed.

You continued, because he needed to hear it and because maybe you did too. “I want you. That is all. That is enough. Do not dress it in pity. Do not ruin it with guilt before it has even happened.”

Ormund stared at you for a long moment. Then he said, low and almost bitter, “You are going to undo me.”

“Probably.”

His laugh was brief and broken. Then he kissed you.

This time, restraint did not survive long. He kissed like he commanded, not carelessly, never that, but with attention so complete it felt like being studied and consumed at once. His hands settled at your waist first, then drew you closer when you did not pull away. Your fingers worked at the fastenings of his doublet with less grace than impatience, and he made a sound that might have been your name if his mouth had not been against your throat. You felt the old ache in your ribs and ignored it until he noticed the catch in your breath and stopped at once.

“No,” you said, furious with your own body.

“Your ribs.”

“My ribs are not invited to give counsel.”

“Unfortunately, they are attached to you.”

“You are impossible.”

“I have been called worse by better men.”

“Not better women?”

His gaze darkened. “No.”

That should not have pleased you. It did. You tugged him back by the open collar of his shirt, and he came this time without argument. He undressed you slowly enough to make you want to curse him, but his care was not hesitation. It was reverence with teeth. Each lace loosened, each layer eased away, each pause asking without words whether you remained with him. When your shift slipped from one shoulder, his hand hovered before touching the burn scar left by Tessarion’s flame along your upper arm. Not ugly, not to him. You saw that before he bent his head and pressed his mouth near the edge of it.

“She marked you,” he murmured.

“Tessarion?”

“Yes.”

“Velaryx marked her worse.”

His lips moved against your skin. “I saw.”

“You sound proud.”

“I sound grateful Daeron lived through it.”

There was that truth again, inconvenient as a stone in the shoe. You touched his face and made him look at you. “I am glad he lived.”

Ormund closed his eyes for one breath, and when he opened them, something inside him had yielded.

The bed was narrow for two people and too plain for a lord of his station, a campaign bed built for function rather than pleasure. Later, that would seem fitting. Nothing about the first time between you had the softness of court. There were no silk curtains, no music, no perfumed sheets, no illusion that the world outside had paused out of respect for desire. Armor stood on a rack nearby. Vigilance lay within reach. Rain began tapping against the pavilion roof. Men laughed somewhere outside, then fell silent as an officer barked at them. The war remained. It did not politely excuse itself.

Still, for a while, it did not get to have you.

Ormund learned your body as if haste would be an insult, and when patience became too much, you told him so with your hands, your mouth, the arch of your back, the blunt demand of his name. He did not smile then. He looked wrecked, which was better. His control frayed by degrees, and watching it happen gave you a fierce, wicked satisfaction. Here was Lord Hightower, commander of armies, wielder of Vigilance, keeper of ravens and terms and guarded tents, undone by the sound you made when his mouth found the hollow beneath your jaw. Good. Let the realm have that written down somewhere between battles and betrayals. Let some maester choke on the footnote.

When he finally joined you, it was with one last pause, forehead pressed to yours, breath rough, one hand braced beside your head.

“Tell me no,” he said, almost pleading. “If there is any part of you that means it.”

You took his face between your hands. “I mean yes.”

That was enough. It had to be. The rest belonged to skin, heat, the rain, the quiet breaking of names against each other. He was careful until you demanded less care. He was controlled until you took that from him too. Pleasure came not as softness but as force, a living thing that drove thought out and left only the body’s bright, merciless truth. For a little while, you were not Corlys Velaryon’s daughter, not Rhaenys Targaryen’s surviving blood, not the Pearl Wraith’s rider grounded by blue flame, not a hostage, not a bargaining piece in a civil war that had devoured sense and kin alike. You were only yourself, alive in the dark, held by a man who should have been nothing to you but enemy and had somehow become the one person in the camp who looked at you and saw the whole of the ruin, not merely the value of what could be ransomed from it.

Afterward, Ormund did not speak for a long time. He lay beside you with one arm around your waist, fingers spread over your stomach as if anchoring himself. His breathing steadied slowly. You listened to the rain and the distant restless sounds of the army. Your body felt loose and sore and strangely calm. That would pass, you knew. Everything passed except consequences.

“You are thinking too loudly,” you said.

His chest moved against your back in a quiet exhale. “I was under the impression thoughts were silent.”

“Yours are not.”

“What am I thinking?”

“That you have done something unforgivable.”

His hand stilled. “Have I?”

You turned enough to look at him. In the dim light, he looked older, but not weaker. Just stripped of the armor command put on men even when they were naked. “Do you want absolution from your prisoner?”

“No.”

“Good. I would charge too much.”

His mouth curved faintly, then faded. “I want to know whether you will hate me.”

“I already hated you.”

“Yes. You made that clear.”

“I do not hate you for this.”

His eyes searched yours. “And tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow I may hate you for several things. Your letters. Your banners. The guards outside. The fact you still have my sword. The fact Velaryx cannot fly. The fact my father will grieve and rage and threaten the sea into obedience. But not for this.”

He absorbed that as if it hurt. “You divide matters very cleanly.”

“No. I divide them because if I do not, they eat each other.”

Ormund lifted one hand and brushed hair back from your face. The gesture was so domestic it nearly frightened you. Battle did not. Dragonfire did not. Tenderness, apparently, was where courage went to embarrass itself.

“My first wife died in childbed,” he said suddenly.

You went still.

He looked past you, not hiding but not meeting your eyes either. “Years before the war. Lyonel was already old enough to remember her. The younger ones less so. Bethany barely. I had thought grief would make me gentler. Instead, it made me efficient. There were children to raise, accounts to settle, Oldtown to rule, kin to answer, ships to count, walls to maintain, men to command. Grief became another duty. That is not a noble confession. It is only true.”

You touched his wrist. “Did you love her?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. “Not as songs insist men love women. Not madness. Not worship. But partnership. Familiarity. Trust. The comfort of being known before entering a room.”

“That is not lesser.”

“No,” he said softly. “It was not.”

You nodded. Jealousy would have been childish and useless, and you had no patience for either. “I am not trying to replace a ghost.”

“I would not ask it.”

“Good.”

His gaze returned to you. “And you? Has there been someone?”

“Men have tried.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the only one worth giving.” You shifted onto your back, looking up at the tent roof. “I had offers before the war. Velaryon blood, Targaryen blood, a dragon, my father’s favor. I was a feast table men circled while pretending they had come for prayer. Some were handsome. Some were kind. A few even spoke to my face instead of my inheritance. I did not want them enough.”

“And me?”

You looked at him. “You are inconvenient enough to be interesting.”

He huffed a laugh, then leaned down and kissed your shoulder. “A devastating compliment.”

“You should treasure it.”

“I shall have it carved on my tomb.”

“You may need a large tomb. My father might send several pieces home.”

His amusement faded, but not entirely. “Your father will despise me.”

“My father despised men for breathing too close to his ships. Do not feel special.”

“I am keeping his daughter.”

The words went cold between you.

There it was, dragged out at last.

You sat up slowly, pulling the sheet over your chest. Ormund did not reach to stop you. He sat up too, bare to the waist, hair disordered, face now fully Lord Hightower again except for the mark your mouth had left near his collarbone.

“What does that mean?” you asked.

He was silent long enough for anger to wake.

“What does that mean, Ormund?”

“It means the negotiations are failing.”

“You are failing them.”

“Yes.”

“On purpose?”

“Yes.”

The word hit worse than shouting.

You left the bed. The movement pulled at your ribs, but you welcomed the pain. It gave you somewhere clean to put rage. You found your shift and dragged it over your head. Your hands were shaking, not from fear. Ormund stood, reaching for his own clothes, but stopped when you turned on him.

“Do not,” you said.

He froze.

“You do not get to touch me while saying that.”

His jaw tightened. “I know.”

“Do you? Because you were inside me less than a quarter hour ago and now you speak of keeping me like a castle you took by siege.”

The flinch was small but visible. “That is not how I meant it.”

“I am rapidly losing interest in what you meant.”

“I do not plan to return you to a war that will put you back on a dragon before the wounds close, if Velaryx ever flies at all.”

“You do not decide that.”

“No. I do not have the right.”

“And yet.”

“And yet,” he said, voice lower, rougher, “I will not hand you back to men who will use you better than I have.”

You laughed then, once, ugly and incredulous. “Better? You think this is better?”

“I think I can keep you alive.”

“I did not ask you to.”

“No. You asked me not to insult you. So I will not. This is selfish. It is political. It is desire. It is fear. It is every foul thing men mix together and call judgment. I want you here. I want you alive. I want you away from the next field where dragons tear one another apart for crowns that will sit on skulls.”

“You want.”

“Yes.”

The bluntness took some of the air from the room.

Ormund stepped closer, slowly, stopping well outside reach. “I also know what you are. Enemy. Captive. Rider. Daughter. Woman. Proud enough to walk into flame if anyone tells you the ashes are forbidden. I know that if I send you to Corlys, you may never forgive me for the delay. If I keep you, you may never forgive me at all.”

“You make it sound tragic. That is convenient.”

“It is not tragedy. It is choice. Mine. And I will bear the cost.”

“How noble,” you said, each word bitten clean. “How very lordly of you to bear the cost of my captivity.”

“I deserve that.”

“You deserve worse.”

“Yes.”

The agreement enraged you because it left no wall to strike. You wanted excuses. You wanted command. You wanted him to become simple. Instead he stood half-dressed in lamplight and accepted your anger as if it were overdue debt.

“My father will come,” you said.

“I know.”

“Rhaenyra will demand answer.”

“She may.”

“Velaryx will heal.”

“I hope so.”

“If my dragon flies again, no chain in your camp will hold me.”

His eyes lifted. “I know that too.”

“Then you are a fool.”

“With you, increasingly.”

You hated the warmth that moved under the anger. Hated it enough to pick up his wine cup and throw it at him. He moved aside just enough for it to miss his head and strike the map table, spilling red wine across the Reach.

For one heartbeat, neither of you spoke.

Then Ormund looked at the stained maps and said, “That was a very old Arbor vintage.”

“Bill my father.”

His laugh came unwillingly. Then he stopped, because you were not laughing.

“I need to leave,” you said.

“The tent?”

“No. This pavilion. Before I say something I cannot forgive myself for softening later.”

He nodded. “I will escort you.”

“No.”

“The camp is dark.”

“I know where the guards stand.”

“My lady.”

The title sounded different now. Not formal. Not distant. Almost a plea.

You looked at him from the entrance. “You had better write carefully, Lord Hightower.”

Then you left him there.

The camp air was cold enough to bring sense back in pieces. The two guards outside Ormund’s pavilion looked startled and then aggressively blank. Good men, perhaps. Or cowards with manners. Same result. You walked past them toward Velaryx’s enclosure instead of your own tent, and neither dared stop you. Behind the cart ring, your dragon lifted that pale ruined head from sleep before you spoke. Velaryx always knew.

You pressed your brow to the warm scales of the jaw and finally shook. Not crying. You refused that. Your body shook because fury needed somewhere to go and had found bone. Velaryx rumbled beneath your hands, smoke curling around your shoulders like a living cloak.

“He means to keep us,” you whispered in High Valyrian.

The dragon’s eye opened fully. In it, the campfires reflected like a hundred tiny burnings.

“I know.”

Velaryx growled.

“I know.”

The wing shifted, dragging against the ground with a sound that made your stomach turn. Not yet. Not soon. But someday, perhaps. Dragons were stubborn creatures. So were you. Meleys had given that to Velaryx, and Rhaenys had given it to you.

Across the camp, in the pavilion you had left, Ormund sat alone until the lamps burned low. He did not summon wine to replace what had been spilled. He did not call for a servant to clean the map. Red spread across the parchment roads, soaking into inked rivers and little painted hills, turning the Reach into something closer to truth. At last he dressed properly, fastened his doublet with steady hands, and sat at the writing table.

The first sheet he ruined after three lines.

The second after seven.

On the third, he stopped pretending diplomacy would save him from saying the thing plainly.

Lord Corlys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides, Master of Driftmark,

Your daughter lives and remains under my protection. Velaryx lives also, though the dragon’s wing is not yet fit for the sky. You have offered gold, prisoners, safe passage, threats, and promises in turn. I have considered each with the seriousness owed to your name, your grief, and your power upon the seas.

I will not return Lady Y/N to you.

He paused there. The quill hovered. Outside, the army muttered in its sleep. Somewhere far off, Tessarion cried out, a low blue note in the dark. Velaryx answered, rougher, deeper, wounded but alive.

Ormund closed his eyes briefly.

Then he continued.

This is not because I misunderstand the consequence. I know what insult this gives House Velaryon. I know what wrath it invites from you. I know also that any word I choose may appear as theft dressed in courtesy, and perhaps that judgment will stand. I will not insult either of us by pretending this choice is clean.

Your daughter was taken in battle after nearly killing Prince Daeron and Tessarion, and after burning my host’s supplies with a courage that would have been praised in every hall of Westeros had the banners beneath her been green. Since that day, Lady Y/N has been treated according to rank. No harm has been done by my order, nor will any be done while I command. Yet rank is not the whole of it. She is not cargo to be weighed against coin. She is not a gull to be released into a storm because the sea demands its own.

Another pause. His hand tightened around the quill.

If returned now, she will be sent again into war. You may deny this. I would not believe you. She would not allow any of us to believe it. Your daughter is too much Rhaenys Targaryen’s blood and too much yours to sit safely behind walls while others burn. That valor honors you. It may also kill her.

The words blurred for a moment. He blinked once, hard, and wrote on.

I do not ask your forgiveness. I do not expect your restraint. Send what answer you must. Send ships, curses, ravens, knives, or silence. I will receive them as Lord Hightower must. But understand me clearly: I will not trade her back to the fire.

Ormund Hightower, Lord of the Hightower, Defender of Oldtown

He sanded the letter, sealed it in green wax, and pressed the Hightower mark deep.

Only after the seal cooled did he allow himself to look toward the dark beyond the pavilion, where you stood with your wounded dragon beneath the camp’s dying stars, neither free nor broken, grieving and furious and alive.

By dawn, the raven would fly.

By dawn, Corlys Velaryon would have a new enemy.

The Gods know that losing one's wife is already a difficult situation alone. But losing one's wife, and being saddled with a wailing newborn and the responsibility of a city and its people looking to you for guidance without ever giving you a moment to mourn is even worse.

Lord Ormund Hightower knew this all too well. The last three years in particular had been difficult - between raising young Silas, governing Oldtown and dealing with whatever messes his family had created, the man had little time for love, or even any duty to himself. Very rarely did he exist outside the role he was to fulfil. Now, it is not that he did not receive marriage candidates - quite the contrary! But he often found himself rejecting them - finding some reason or the other He truly was unable to find it within him to truly move on, despite everyone around him urging him on.

"No," he would say, "I have.. responsibilities."

He would not elaborate any further.

And so, those close to the Lord would sigh, toss papers into a fire and walk away as he would be left frowning over petty disputes.

These days in particular, he took little pleasure in anything. Horse riding, hunting, reading - none really called to him in the manner that it would before. But there was a very particular bakery, located far enough from the busier streets of Oldtown to grant him a sense of privacy. Of course, he was still recognised - after all, who would not recognise their Lord? Only a fool would do such a thing. But he was not harassed, hounded and irritated. Instead, the people further out would often treat him much kinder than others.

Granted, many of them were elderly, and perhaps they looked upon him with pity. Nevertheless, it had quickly become his favourite place to be - especially when life had become far too hectic. For example, this very morning:

"NO!"

"Sila-"

"NO NO NO! I WANT OOFY! NOW!"

"Oofy.. Oofy needs a bath, Silas, please?"

"NO!!!!"

"Silas."

"GO AWAY!"

"Seven give me strength - Silas Hightower, Oofy will return to you when he is washed and clean. And you will return to me when you are washed and clean - is that understood?"

"…"

"I said, is that understood?"

"…"

"Silas-"

"NO!"

Oofy, named for the noise dogs make (except the young boy could not quite pronounce the 'w' sound, and added an extra sound on the end for whatever reason children do such things) was young Silas Hightower's stuffed dog soft toy. A gift from his late grandfather before he had passed and left the burdens of responsibility upon his son.

Unfortunately, Oofy had suffered an incident that morning (been dragged through wed mud by Silas as the two of them played outside before breaking their morning fast) and had no choice but to be rushed into an emergency operation (desperately needed cleaning before Ormund Hightower lost his mind and soul). Similarly, his owner also required a deep clean. The stench of wet mud clung to the young boy! It did not help that he kept flinging his arms around as maids wrestled him into the tub - flicking chunks of mud around the room.

Ormund pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly in an attempt to remain calm. He instructed the maids to not find him until after noon had passed, and to take good care of the young boy until he returned. And so, despite the protests of his young son echoing behind him, Ormund left Hightower for his favourite place in the world.

Whenever he travelled through Oldtown, It always stuck out to him how different people were the further away he was from Hightower. It was almost as though people were less strange, the further he was from his seat. Though, part of that was probably the clothes too. He felt no need to don exquisite silks and velvets on days like these, and so it was much easier to get by. The less who recognised him, the better.

As he rode, he felt the stress ease from his shoulders first, and then his temples, his eyebrows and finally his jaw had fully unclenched by the time he approached the bakery. The sweet smell of baked goods wafted past him, and he sighed happily for the first time in what felt like forever. Outside, the flowers bloomed - their own scents layering perfectly in a way Ormund could only describe as his own heaven. The sun beamed down quite comfortably - not too hot nor too cold, and the perfect breeze blew through the blades of grass below. Dismounting from his horse and tying him to a post, he walked inside, expecting the usual.

"Ah, good morning! You are our first customer today, sire - what is it that you will take today?"

Erm… hang on… this was a problem, no?

That was not what the baker sounded like! For a start, the baker most certainly had a deepset voice - that of a man who had lived a long life. Sure, he did not have a raspy, rugged voice - but he did not have a voice that sung of honeyed flowers and sweetened fruits either! His eyes quickly moved in the direction of the voice, where you stood behind a counter, still setting out pastries. No, no - the baker was not a young woman with soft strays peeking out from her hair, flour dusted across her apron and a warm smile that was slowly turning into a concerned frown,

"…Sire?"

"You are not the baker."

"???"

"No. Where is he?"

"I presume that by the baker you refer to my uncle, yes?"

"I.. hope.. so..?"

"You hope so..?"

"How am I to know if he is your uncle or not? I have not seen you before!"

"Ohhh, you're the dedicated customer."

"The what?"

"My uncle mentioned you! He said you would likely come visit the most of everyone else. My uncle unfortunately has a small health issue - just his back is not quite working the same as it should - and because I have the time, my mother sent me to come and help!"

All of a sudden, he felt like an ass. A complete, total ass. He had not even tried to be kind, rushing straight to suspicion. He should have asked politely, calmly - but instead he threw unnecessary anger at you. Guilt struck his chest as he tasted it - akin to a bitter liquid poured down the throat. He smoothed down his tunic, walking closer with an apologetic smile on his face. Meanwhile, you grabbed a fistful of flour - you know, just in case.

As he got close, opening his mouth to speak…

"I would like t-????"

"Do not even dare to think of attacking me!"

"What???"

"Not a step further!"

"I-?"

"No!"

"I am not attacking yo- is this flour?"

"…"

"Well?"

"You are not attacking me. I see that now."

"And my secon- yes this is flour."

"In my defence, sire, I did not know that you would not attack me-"

"You did not know that I would attack you either!"

You pause, mouth dropping open and close until you sigh and nod. He did have a point, after all. A point, and flour all over his face. (His handsome, chiselled face that you really are trying so very hard to ignore. Had the Gods carved him themselves?) Embarassment begins to creep up your face, heat rising as you feel ashamed that you have somehow attacked the customer that might have just been your uncle's best one. Oh dear. Fear begins to fill your brain as you start to spiral. Your lip begins to tremble, and tears begin to prick the corners of your eyes as you think about your sweet uncle,

"I.. I am so very sorry sire, please do not hold it against my uncle! This bakery is all he has, and if you are the customer he speaks so kindly of, then you know that he needs you, right? And, and I truly did not mean to throw flour like that-"

"Shhh now, it is only flour."

Flour, that he would have to wash aggressively out of his tunic, of course.

"But-"

One raise of his eyebrows has you quickly shutting your mouth, unintentionally pouting at him. He cannot ignore how his heart jumps slightly, but he can quickly divert attention to the matter at hand. Pastries.

"So - I presume the usuals are all available.. hmm. Today feels like something more flower-y, I should think."

"Perhaps the Lavender and orange tart?"

"Lavender and orange?"

"Yes! It is not one of the usual pastries we sell, but it is something I have personally been working on - perhaps you would enjoy it?"

You raise a tray up for him to see - rectangular tarts, filled with a soft purple cream, orange curd and decorated with edible flowers. Truly a tempting little dessert - fresh and citrus-y and a completely different type of pastry from that which your uncle would usually keep for him. Any other day, and he would have refused. Any other person, and he would have shook his head - ever-stubborn in his choices. But he glances up from the tray, his own eyes finding yours - filled with a hope that he could not ignore. So, somehow, he finds himself nodding,

"And what would you recommend to go with this? Usually, I have a plain coffee when I come by, but then I also end up having something less interesting to eat with it."

"I have a lavender, chamomile and rose tea that I could brew for you?"

"Lavender, chamomile and rose.."

As he parrots back each flavour to you, he swears he can taste it across his tongue. You wait patiently, praying he says yes, and find yourself releasing an unintentionally held breath when he finally nods,

"Perfect! In that case, you should take a seat - I'll brew your tea and bring both tea and tart together for you."

He smiles before nodding, turning and finding a seat. Not by the window, because when he had last made that mistake, he found himself busy and riddled with more work on the one day he had chosen to take to himself. Instead, he picks a table that is not quite easy to see from outside, but not too far inside either. Unbeknownst to him, it happened to be the table you could see clearest from the kitchen behind.

Was it such a bad thing to admire your uncle's customers? Surely not, right? You had already cleaned the kitchen, baked the pastries of the day and prepared for tomorrow - what else were you supposed to do as you waited patiently for the tea to brew? You allowed yourself (somewhat shamelessly too~) and your eyes to settle across his form. How his shoulders dropped with every deep breath he took, how his hair fell in just the right places - soft curls that were neither overly messy nor overly polished. You took note of how he drummed his fingers across the table - not impatient, just passing time. And your brain registered how he appeared to be aged, at the very least he must be older that you.

Not that you particularly minded.

Soon enough, the tea finished brewing. You pour out a colour that can only be described as a mix between a soft purple and pink, placing the cup and teapot onto a tray beside the tart. He would not know that you picked the most perfect slice, but you would, and that was enough for you.

The door should have swung open with ease. Yet try as you might, you would not be able to open it without letting go of the tray in your hands. The first few times you tried to open the door alone - attempting to push it with your elbow without impacting the delicacies on the tray.

You could not open it alone.

Unfortunately for you, he had noticed. Fortunately for you, he comes to help you open the door. It appears luck is not quite on your side though, as you place the tray down and push the handle down, swinging it open at the same time that he pulls. As the door swings into him (and he narrowly avoids being hit in the face), you stumble forward - tripping over your feet.

This is it.

Your uncle's best customer will never come by again, and you will fall flat on your face. All in your first week in Oldtown. Oh Gods, the rumours - you can already imagine! The old women stood in circles - gathering as they whisper unkindly about you. And then you would never bake again, forced to live a life without your favourite thing to do! Oh, the horror!

However, you do not meet and greet the floor. But you are not suspended in air either. Two hands grasp you from underneath, strong arms holding you up from the ground. In the fall you have somehow spun - allowing yourself to make direct eye contact with your saviour. Tall, with soft brown hair, chest heaving as he looks down to you - lips slightly parted.

Not only had he come to help you open the door, he had also caught you as you fell. Into his arms.

"You know, this is the kind of thing bards sing of - a maiden, falling into my arms, hmm?"

His voice does not carry the type of mean tone that you had thought it would. Nay, it is still soft - carrying the type of teasing that does not make you feel uncomfortable or weird, but pushes a heat to crawl up and across your neck instead. It does not help that you find yourself almost face to face with his gorgeous, handsome, perfectly formed face, looking down in concern as he helps you to stand back up. His eyes look up and down - checking that you have not somehow hurt yourself - before smiling at you once more,

"Thank you, sire. If I may ask, what is your name?"

"Oh, it is no proble- hmm?"

"Your name, please?"

"My name..?"

"Well, I must know the name of the kind man who has saved me from falling so ungracefully, no?"

It is then that he realises - you have no idea who he is. By nature of his position, he should be somewhat angered, filled with a rage fuelled by how disrespectful this is. He should then make a big show of who he is, proving himself to all who witness him. But an excitement fills his heart. Perhaps he could finally have a normal connection with someone - not based on his name, title or who he was.

"Erm.. Ormund."

"Or..mund.."

Ah. The way you had tasted his name across your tongue almost had him weak - but he could not give in so easily. Not when he barely even knew you.

"Very well, Ormund! Thank you kindly, I'll bring your tray to your table now."

"Of course- ah, and your name, please?"

"My name?"

"Consider it a trade of sorts?"

You think it over, nodding as you give him your name. He repeats your name after you, a smile etching across his face, and you think you have not seen a sight that is sweeter. Ormund sits back down at his table, you bring the tray over and place down the teapot, cup and tart.

As you walk away to tend to the kitchen once more, his eyes follow after you, unable to tear themselves away from you.

The bakery is never really full - this much you knew. Your uncle had insisted upon you being prepared for days of barely any customers, days where you would end up donating extra food to those who were needy at time of closing instead of handing bundles to customer after customer.

Still, it was not quite as quiet as you had thought it would be.

One woman had come in with her dog - a small, elderly woman (Harriet, as you had learned) with a large dog that almost towered her (Daisy, who was in reality just a big sweetheart. She immediately found Ormund, kneeling for pets before investigating you.). She took a tart too (upon Ormund's own recommendation, actually), and you found the food your uncle kept for Daisy. Another came in with her husband (Lyon and Jemma, who both offered sweet smiles as they asked about your uncle. The two took their pastries with teas, sitting beside the window after greeting Ormund.).

In fact, you had busied yourself amongst customers that you did not realise Ormund had left until you chanced upon his table again. An empty tray, a pouch of gold (far more than he had owed you) and a little note just underneath the plate. Your eyebrows furrowed, fingers pinching at the note.

I must say - that tart was far better than I had ever expected!

I hope I will see you again soon.

Thank you,

O x

You read the note over twice, a small smile blooming across your face as you pocketed it for safekeeping, going about the remainder of your day. Outside, you see a figure that looks close enough to him - sat atop a horse, trotting away. He leaves with a heavy heart, unwanting to return to the chaos that naturally awaited him. Every step back home had him frowning more and more, as the lightness that just blossomed across his soul begins to slowly drain away. Hightower grows taller and taller as he rides closer, and he dreads to think of what mayhem would unfurl when he returns.

As he approaches Hightower, a servant rushes out to him, already filled with a panic that he knows he must deal with,

"Milord, the young Master Silas refuses to bathe still!"

"Still?"

"Indeed. I must apologise to you, Lord Hightower, but he has caused a ruckus once more."

Once more.

He sighs, dismounting and allowing another to return his horse to the stables as he follows the servant up to where his son remains. As Ormund opens the door, there he lies - in a puddle of mud as two servants cower in a corner. A small smile threatens to break out onto his face - how could a child of three cause so much terror?

"Silas."

"Papa. No."

Ah. The young boy's voice had worn out. Not ideal, of course, but a good sign - he was tired, and much more pliable to his father's words than he would have been a few hours ago. With a hand signal, Ormund dismisses everyone else (servants immediately scurry out of the room, dashing as far away as possible) before closing the door behind him.

"Where Papa go?"

"Well, I went to go check on our friend - Oofy."

From behind his back, he brings out the now clean Oofy (luckily for him, a servant had quickly passed it to him on his way up). The boy's eyes immediately lit up, hands opening and closing as he reached out towards it. Yet Ormund holds Oofy close to his ear - pretending to hear the toy speak. Silas watches (slightly dejected, poor thing) as Ormund holds conversation with… a soft toy.

If the other Lords had seen him like this…

"Oofy says he will not come closer until you are clean and dry - is that so, Oofy?"

"Do I have to?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

He sighs. Actually, genuinely sighs. As if he had just fought a war. This time, a wider smile spreads on Ormund's face as he kneels to his son's height - patting him on the head before scooping him into his arms. He truly is grateful that he does not care too much about the clothes he wears today, and briefly thinks back to the flour incident from earlier. A bath had recently been drawn, water still warm enough for a bath (likely one of many attempted baths for the young boy today), and the two of them sit in the tub together. He would never admit it, but he enjoyed little moments like this. Moments where Silas would look up at him with big eyes as Ormund cleaned him thoroughly, only to be met with a wave of splashing water hitting him in the face.

A thorough bath followed by three waterfights with duckies leads to a very tired child, snuggled up in a soft towel as Ormund carries him back to his solar. He brings two servants in to clean up the mess that still remained, tucks Oofy into his son's arms and finally gets started on the work he should have been doing today. The sun shines into the solar, casting a warm glow into the room.

Unfortunately, he cannot help but let his mind drift off to the pretty baker who fell in his arms mere hours ago.

The Gods know that losing one's wife is already a difficult situation alone. But losing one's wife, and being saddled with a wailing newborn and the responsibility of a city and its people looking to you for guidance without ever giving you a moment to mourn is even worse.

Lord Ormund Hightower knew this all too well. The last three years in particular had been difficult - between raising young Silas, governing Oldtown and dealing with whatever messes his family had created, the man had little time for love, or even any duty to himself. Very rarely did he exist outside the role he was to fulfil. Now, it is not that he did not receive marriage candidates - quite the contrary! But he often found himself rejecting them - finding some reason or the other He truly was unable to find it within him to truly move on, despite everyone around him urging him on.

"No," he would say, "I have.. responsibilities."

He would not elaborate any further.

And so, those close to the Lord would sigh, toss papers into a fire and walk away as he would be left frowning over petty disputes.

These days in particular, he took little pleasure in anything. Horse riding, hunting, reading - none really called to him in the manner that it would before. But there was a very particular bakery, located far enough from the busier streets of Oldtown to grant him a sense of privacy. Of course, he was still recognised - after all, who would not recognise their Lord? Only a fool would do such a thing. But he was not harassed, hounded and irritated. Instead, the people further out would often treat him much kinder than others.

Granted, many of them were elderly, and perhaps they looked upon him with pity. Nevertheless, it had quickly become his favourite place to be - especially when life had become far too hectic. For example, this very morning:

"NO!"

"Sila-"

"NO NO NO! I WANT OOFY! NOW!"

"Oofy.. Oofy needs a bath, Silas, please?"

"NO!!!!"

"Silas."

"GO AWAY!"

"Seven give me strength - Silas Hightower, Oofy will return to you when he is washed and clean. And you will return to me when you are washed and clean - is that understood?"

"…"

"I said, is that understood?"

"…"

"Silas-"

"NO!"

Oofy, named for the noise dogs make (except the young boy could not quite pronounce the 'w' sound, and added an extra sound on the end for whatever reason children do such things) was young Silas Hightower's stuffed dog soft toy. A gift from his late grandfather before he had passed and left the burdens of responsibility upon his son.

Unfortunately, Oofy had suffered an incident that morning (been dragged through wed mud by Silas as the two of them played outside before breaking their morning fast) and had no choice but to be rushed into an emergency operation (desperately needed cleaning before Ormund Hightower lost his mind and soul). Similarly, his owner also required a deep clean. The stench of wet mud clung to the young boy! It did not help that he kept flinging his arms around as maids wrestled him into the tub - flicking chunks of mud around the room.

Ormund pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly in an attempt to remain calm. He instructed the maids to not find him until after noon had passed, and to take good care of the young boy until he returned. And so, despite the protests of his young son echoing behind him, Ormund left Hightower for his favourite place in the world.

Whenever he travelled through Oldtown, It always stuck out to him how different people were the further away he was from Hightower. It was almost as though people were less strange, the further he was from his seat. Though, part of that was probably the clothes too. He felt no need to don exquisite silks and velvets on days like these, and so it was much easier to get by. The less who recognised him, the better.

As he rode, he felt the stress ease from his shoulders first, and then his temples, his eyebrows and finally his jaw had fully unclenched by the time he approached the bakery. The sweet smell of baked goods wafted past him, and he sighed happily for the first time in what felt like forever. Outside, the flowers bloomed - their own scents layering perfectly in a way Ormund could only describe as his own heaven. The sun beamed down quite comfortably - not too hot nor too cold, and the perfect breeze blew through the blades of grass below. Dismounting from his horse and tying him to a post, he walked inside, expecting the usual.

"Ah, good morning! You are our first customer today, sire - what is it that you will take today?"

Erm… hang on… this was a problem, no?

That was not what the baker sounded like! For a start, the baker most certainly had a deepset voice - that of a man who had lived a long life. Sure, he did not have a raspy, rugged voice - but he did not have a voice that sung of honeyed flowers and sweetened fruits either! His eyes quickly moved in the direction of the voice, where you stood behind a counter, still setting out pastries. No, no - the baker was not a young woman with soft strays peeking out from her hair, flour dusted across her apron and a warm smile that was slowly turning into a concerned frown,

"…Sire?"

"You are not the baker."

"???"

"No. Where is he?"

"I presume that by the baker you refer to my uncle, yes?"

"I.. hope.. so..?"

"You hope so..?"

"How am I to know if he is your uncle or not? I have not seen you before!"

"Ohhh, you're the dedicated customer."

"The what?"

"My uncle mentioned you! He said you would likely come visit the most of everyone else. My uncle unfortunately has a small health issue - just his back is not quite working the same as it should - and because I have the time, my mother sent me to come and help!"

All of a sudden, he felt like an ass. A complete, total ass. He had not even tried to be kind, rushing straight to suspicion. He should have asked politely, calmly - but instead he threw unnecessary anger at you. Guilt struck his chest as he tasted it - akin to a bitter liquid poured down the throat. He smoothed down his tunic, walking closer with an apologetic smile on his face. Meanwhile, you grabbed a fistful of flour - you know, just in case.

As he got close, opening his mouth to speak…

"I would like t-????"

"Do not even dare to think of attacking me!"

"What???"

"Not a step further!"

"I-?"

"No!"

"I am not attacking yo- is this flour?"

"…"

"Well?"

"You are not attacking me. I see that now."

"And my secon- yes this is flour."

"In my defence, sire, I did not know that you would not attack me-"

"You did not know that I would attack you either!"

You pause, mouth dropping open and close until you sigh and nod. He did have a point, after all. A point, and flour all over his face. (His handsome, chiselled face that you really are trying so very hard to ignore. Had the Gods carved him themselves?) Embarassment begins to creep up your face, heat rising as you feel ashamed that you have somehow attacked the customer that might have just been your uncle's best one. Oh dear. Fear begins to fill your brain as you start to spiral. Your lip begins to tremble, and tears begin to prick the corners of your eyes as you think about your sweet uncle,

"I.. I am so very sorry sire, please do not hold it against my uncle! This bakery is all he has, and if you are the customer he speaks so kindly of, then you know that he needs you, right? And, and I truly did not mean to throw flour like that-"

"Shhh now, it is only flour."

Flour, that he would have to wash aggressively out of his tunic, of course.

"But-"

One raise of his eyebrows has you quickly shutting your mouth, unintentionally pouting at him. He cannot ignore how his heart jumps slightly, but he can quickly divert attention to the matter at hand. Pastries.

"So - I presume the usuals are all available.. hmm. Today feels like something more flower-y, I should think."

"Perhaps the Lavender and orange tart?"

"Lavender and orange?"

"Yes! It is not one of the usual pastries we sell, but it is something I have personally been working on - perhaps you would enjoy it?"

You raise a tray up for him to see - rectangular tarts, filled with a soft purple cream, orange curd and decorated with edible flowers. Truly a tempting little dessert - fresh and citrus-y and a completely different type of pastry from that which your uncle would usually keep for him. Any other day, and he would have refused. Any other person, and he would have shook his head - ever-stubborn in his choices. But he glances up from the tray, his own eyes finding yours - filled with a hope that he could not ignore. So, somehow, he finds himself nodding,

"And what would you recommend to go with this? Usually, I have a plain coffee when I come by, but then I also end up having something less interesting to eat with it."

"I have a lavender, chamomile and rose tea that I could brew for you?"

"Lavender, chamomile and rose.."

As he parrots back each flavour to you, he swears he can taste it across his tongue. You wait patiently, praying he says yes, and find yourself releasing an unintentionally held breath when he finally nods,

"Perfect! In that case, you should take a seat - I'll brew your tea and bring both tea and tart together for you."

He smiles before nodding, turning and finding a seat. Not by the window, because when he had last made that mistake, he found himself busy and riddled with more work on the one day he had chosen to take to himself. Instead, he picks a table that is not quite easy to see from outside, but not too far inside either. Unbeknownst to him, it happened to be the table you could see clearest from the kitchen behind.

Was it such a bad thing to admire your uncle's customers? Surely not, right? You had already cleaned the kitchen, baked the pastries of the day and prepared for tomorrow - what else were you supposed to do as you waited patiently for the tea to brew? You allowed yourself (somewhat shamelessly too~) and your eyes to settle across his form. How his shoulders dropped with every deep breath he took, how his hair fell in just the right places - soft curls that were neither overly messy nor overly polished. You took note of how he drummed his fingers across the table - not impatient, just passing time. And your brain registered how he appeared to be aged, at the very least he must be older that you.

Not that you particularly minded.

Soon enough, the tea finished brewing. You pour out a colour that can only be described as a mix between a soft purple and pink, placing the cup and teapot onto a tray beside the tart. He would not know that you picked the most perfect slice, but you would, and that was enough for you.

The door should have swung open with ease. Yet try as you might, you would not be able to open it without letting go of the tray in your hands. The first few times you tried to open the door alone - attempting to push it with your elbow without impacting the delicacies on the tray.

You could not open it alone.

Unfortunately for you, he had noticed. Fortunately for you, he comes to help you open the door. It appears luck is not quite on your side though, as you place the tray down and push the handle down, swinging it open at the same time that he pulls. As the door swings into him (and he narrowly avoids being hit in the face), you stumble forward - tripping over your feet.

This is it.

Your uncle's best customer will never come by again, and you will fall flat on your face. All in your first week in Oldtown. Oh Gods, the rumours - you can already imagine! The old women stood in circles - gathering as they whisper unkindly about you. And then you would never bake again, forced to live a life without your favourite thing to do! Oh, the horror!

However, you do not meet and greet the floor. But you are not suspended in air either. Two hands grasp you from underneath, strong arms holding you up from the ground. In the fall you have somehow spun - allowing yourself to make direct eye contact with your saviour. Tall, with soft brown hair, chest heaving as he looks down to you - lips slightly parted.

Not only had he come to help you open the door, he had also caught you as you fell. Into his arms.

"You know, this is the kind of thing bards sing of - a maiden, falling into my arms, hmm?"

His voice does not carry the type of mean tone that you had thought it would. Nay, it is still soft - carrying the type of teasing that does not make you feel uncomfortable or weird, but pushes a heat to crawl up and across your neck instead. It does not help that you find yourself almost face to face with his gorgeous, handsome, perfectly formed face, looking down in concern as he helps you to stand back up. His eyes look up and down - checking that you have not somehow hurt yourself - before smiling at you once more,

"Thank you, sire. If I may ask, what is your name?"

"Oh, it is no proble- hmm?"

"Your name, please?"

"My name..?"

"Well, I must know the name of the kind man who has saved me from falling so ungracefully, no?"

It is then that he realises - you have no idea who he is. By nature of his position, he should be somewhat angered, filled with a rage fuelled by how disrespectful this is. He should then make a big show of who he is, proving himself to all who witness him. But an excitement fills his heart. Perhaps he could finally have a normal connection with someone - not based on his name, title or who he was.

"Erm.. Ormund."

"Or..mund.."

Ah. The way you had tasted his name across your tongue almost had him weak - but he could not give in so easily. Not when he barely even knew you.

"Very well, Ormund! Thank you kindly, I'll bring your tray to your table now."

"Of course- ah, and your name, please?"

"My name?"

"Consider it a trade of sorts?"

You think it over, nodding as you give him your name. He repeats your name after you, a smile etching across his face, and you think you have not seen a sight that is sweeter. Ormund sits back down at his table, you bring the tray over and place down the teapot, cup and tart.

As you walk away to tend to the kitchen once more, his eyes follow after you, unable to tear themselves away from you.

The bakery is never really full - this much you knew. Your uncle had insisted upon you being prepared for days of barely any customers, days where you would end up donating extra food to those who were needy at time of closing instead of handing bundles to customer after customer.

Still, it was not quite as quiet as you had thought it would be.

One woman had come in with her dog - a small, elderly woman (Harriet, as you had learned) with a large dog that almost towered her (Daisy, who was in reality just a big sweetheart. She immediately found Ormund, kneeling for pets before investigating you.). She took a tart too (upon Ormund's own recommendation, actually), and you found the food your uncle kept for Daisy. Another came in with her husband (Lyon and Jemma, who both offered sweet smiles as they asked about your uncle. The two took their pastries with teas, sitting beside the window after greeting Ormund.).

In fact, you had busied yourself amongst customers that you did not realise Ormund had left until you chanced upon his table again. An empty tray, a pouch of gold (far more than he had owed you) and a little note just underneath the plate. Your eyebrows furrowed, fingers pinching at the note.

I must say - that tart was far better than I had ever expected!

I hope I will see you again soon.

Thank you,

O x

You read the note over twice, a small smile blooming across your face as you pocketed it for safekeeping, going about the remainder of your day. Outside, you see a figure that looks close enough to him - sat atop a horse, trotting away. He leaves with a heavy heart, unwanting to return to the chaos that naturally awaited him. Every step back home had him frowning more and more, as the lightness that just blossomed across his soul begins to slowly drain away. Hightower grows taller and taller as he rides closer, and he dreads to think of what mayhem would unfurl when he returns.

As he approaches Hightower, a servant rushes out to him, already filled with a panic that he knows he must deal with,

"Milord, the young Master Silas refuses to bathe still!"

"Still?"

"Indeed. I must apologise to you, Lord Hightower, but he has caused a ruckus once more."

Once more.

He sighs, dismounting and allowing another to return his horse to the stables as he follows the servant up to where his son remains. As Ormund opens the door, there he lies - in a puddle of mud as two servants cower in a corner. A small smile threatens to break out onto his face - how could a child of three cause so much terror?

"Silas."

"Papa. No."

Ah. The young boy's voice had worn out. Not ideal, of course, but a good sign - he was tired, and much more pliable to his father's words than he would have been a few hours ago. With a hand signal, Ormund dismisses everyone else (servants immediately scurry out of the room, dashing as far away as possible) before closing the door behind him.

"Where Papa go?"

"Well, I went to go check on our friend - Oofy."

From behind his back, he brings out the now clean Oofy (luckily for him, a servant had quickly passed it to him on his way up). The boy's eyes immediately lit up, hands opening and closing as he reached out towards it. Yet Ormund holds Oofy close to his ear - pretending to hear the toy speak. Silas watches (slightly dejected, poor thing) as Ormund holds conversation with… a soft toy.

If the other Lords had seen him like this…

"Oofy says he will not come closer until you are clean and dry - is that so, Oofy?"

"Do I have to?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

He sighs. Actually, genuinely sighs. As if he had just fought a war. This time, a wider smile spreads on Ormund's face as he kneels to his son's height - patting him on the head before scooping him into his arms. He truly is grateful that he does not care too much about the clothes he wears today, and briefly thinks back to the flour incident from earlier. A bath had recently been drawn, water still warm enough for a bath (likely one of many attempted baths for the young boy today), and the two of them sit in the tub together. He would never admit it, but he enjoyed little moments like this. Moments where Silas would look up at him with big eyes as Ormund cleaned him thoroughly, only to be met with a wave of splashing water hitting him in the face.

A thorough bath followed by three waterfights with duckies leads to a very tired child, snuggled up in a soft towel as Ormund carries him back to his solar. He brings two servants in to clean up the mess that still remained, tucks Oofy into his son's arms and finally gets started on the work he should have been doing today. The sun shines into the solar, casting a warm glow into the room.

Unfortunately, he cannot help but let his mind drift off to the pretty baker who fell in his arms mere hours ago.

Valarr looked back and forth from her to the fish. "Kirimvose (Thank you)." He tried to smile. 

"Gaomā daor hae ziry (You do not like it)," she whined. 

"Gaoman. Nyke kivio gaoman. Issa mērī (I do. I promise I do. It is only….)"

"Issa mērī…(It is only...)" she echoes and steps closer.

"Nyke daor ipradagon ziry (I cannot eat it…)," He thought for a moment of the right Valaryian word but couldn't. "…raw."

"Raw?" She asks, lips wrapping oddly around the common tongue.

"Istin bāneves ziry isse perzys (I must heat it in fire)," he explains. 

That explanation cheered her up. Her love wants to put his meal in fire. That, she knew very well. 

She moved closer and wrapped her arms around him. Her nose nuzzled into his neck, as it often did, and she purred gently. 

His own arms found their way around her. She smelled of dragon, like iron and ash. 

Her lips began to trail across his skin. She did not kiss, only trailed in a way that made him shiver. 

Then suddenly, she bit him.

It was a hot, searing pain that made him yelp and push her away instinctively. 

She fell to the ground, a bit of blood across her lips. 

Valarr was shocked. He reached up to his neck and drew his hand away to find the same blood on his fingers. When he looked back at her, he was angry. "Skoro syt gaomagon ao ōdrikagon nyke? (Why do you hurt me?)"

Her eyes welled up with tears. "Gaoman daor ōdrikagon ao. Iksan biare. Nyke tymagon (I do not hurt you. I am happy. I play)."

But the pain was still making him blind to her sadness. "Konir sagon daor skorkydoso ao tymagon (That is not how you play)!" His voice came out in a low growl, one much unlike Valarr. "Ao ōdrikagon nyke (You hurt me)."

Her tears fell one after the other. Dragons were sensitive creatures, after all. Especially one that did not interact with humans in all her years of living. 

So she did the only thing she knew to do. She left. 

She stood and ran off. She left the nest, and she left Valarr. 

It would take a while for Valarr to calm down and realize how poorly he handled that. 

How do you earn the forgiveness of a dragon?

…

Almost ten days since Valarr's last letter.

Baelor was beginning to fear the worst. The last he had heard from his son, there was a dragon on Dragonstone. 

Perhaps sending his boy was a bad idea.

Every dinner, Aerion would ask for updates. And Baelor would have nothing to give him. The family could see his growing worry, even as he tried to hide it. 

Maekar was the one to finally address it. "Send Aerion."

The entire table froze.

"Do It. Send Aerion. He knows more about dragons than the rest of us combined. He also is well trained with the sword. He can slay the thing if it will not be tamed."

"We cannot have the last living dragon slain," Baelor sighed.

"What if it killed your son?"

He pauses. "Valarr is quick. And he has blood of the dragon within him."

"Send Aerion," Maekar insists again. "So we can all get this over with."

Aerion was practically vibrating in his chair.

Daeron slurred out something, but no one listened. 

"I… I suppose I could send him, but there are rules."

Aerion's eyes were wide, almost crazed with excitement. 

Baelor took a sip of his drink before continuing. "I don't want it slain. If it cannot be tamed, so be it. But ensure my castle properly feeds it to keep it from feeding more ashore. I don't want the Ghost getting ideas."

"Done," the second son grins. 

"And listen to Valarr, should you find him. He is still the leader in this."

That annoyed him, but he didn't pause on it. "And if I cannot find Valarr?"

Baelor's eyes saddened. "Pray to the Seven that you do."

…

Valarr had not left the nest, though the dragon had been gone for a long time. 

He beat himself up about how foolish he was. She just wanted to play. She was showing affection. 

He needs to calmly teach her human affection. Not yell at her when she makes a mistake. 

But she hadn't returned. And Valarr was beginning to grow hungry. She didn't seem to want to return either. As much as it hurt, he understood. 

So he trailed down the mountain with a plan.

The servants believed him to be crazy, but would go along with his plan. 

He wanted a day's worth of caught fish to be taken to her as a peace offering. No doubt she was struggling to catch fish as much as the fishermen were. And giving her favorite food in such an amount would show that he was both listening and able to provide for her. 

The fish were delivered to up the Dragonmont to her nest and left there. 

Valarr was going to let her discover it in her own time without him there to scare her off or pressure her. She would smell his scent and understand it was from him.

"Aerion?"

The silver headed Brightflame grinned. "Cousin. I was sent to ensure your safety."

"I am perfectly safe, thank you." He shoved past him and continued moving through the castle. 

"Gods, you reek," he huffed, following behind. "Have you lost all princely duties in your haste to impress your father?"

Valarr spun around. "It is the smell of dragon, idiot."

Aerion never imagined a dragon would smell so awful. He imagined a masculine, more rich smell. Not charred meat and musk. "You've gotten close, then?"

"Something like that." He didn't need Aerion interfering with the poor girl.

"What are you doing here then? Go, take me to it!"

"Aerion, this is sensitive. I cannot tell you all of it and I cannot make you understand what I now know. I just need time."

"Time," Aerion reasoned. "I will make time for you. But I want to see it. I want to touch it."

"Soon enough."

His lips pulled in a line but he accepted that and walked off.

…

The Grey Ghost had indeed accepted Valarr's apology. 

And he only knew so because she practically pounced on him when he arrived at her nest. 

He caught her with a grunt, smiling that he finally had her back. 

She sniffed and nuzzled him again, then paused. "Ao yknagon hae rūkluni (You smell like flowers)." She sniffed his hair. "Ao gōntan daor yknagon hae rūkluni gō (You did not smell like flowers before)."

"Bona would sagon ñuha cousin (That would be my cousin)."

"Gaoman daor hae ziry.  Jaelan naejot jiōragon rid hen ziry (I do not like it. I want to get rid of it)."

He let her preen him and rub her scent into his skin. The bath he'd taken in the stream was in vain, and Aerion's perfume was soon gone from his senses. 

"Gaoman daor jaelagon naejot ōdrikagon ao.  Yn jaelan naejot tymagon (I do not want to hurt you. But I want to play)," she tried this time when she began nuzzling at his neck like before. 

"Nyke gīmigon.  Sagon gīda (I know. Be calm.)" 

Something settled deeply within her. She purred low, deep from her chest. 

"Konīr iksis mirros lovers gaomagon. Skori jaelzi naejot mate.  Lo jaelā bona lēda nyke (There is something lovers do. When they want to mate. If you want that with me)," Valarr whispered against her temple. "Se kessa daor ōdrikagon nyke (And it will not hurt me)."

She pulled away to look into his eyes. "Nyke gīmigon skorkydoso naejot mate (I know how to mate)."

"Daor, ñuha jorrāelagon (No, my love)," he flushed. "Humans gūrogon longer naejot mate.  Gaomis tolie ra ēlī (Humans take longer to mate. They do other things first)."

She studied his face. His two mismatched eyes. His freckled cheeks. "Bodmagho nyke (Teach me)."

"Jurnegon rȳ ñuha laesi (Look at my eyes)," he began, ignoring the heat rising in his gut. "Olvie sȳz (Very good)." 

She obeyed him without fuss. That was not something dragons were known for. He wouldn't take her trust for granted. 

"Iksā iā olvie gevie riña. Iā gevie zaldrīzes (You are a very beautiful girl. My beautiful dragon)."

She purred again. 

"Kostagon nyke vūjigon ao (May I kiss you)?"

She did not understand what a kiss was, nor what it meant, but she hummed.

When he began to lean it, she took it as a sign of affection as dragons do. And she tried to tuck herself into his neck once more. 

He cupped her cheeks with both hands. "Daor, ñuha jorrāelagon.  Ivestragī nyke jemagon.  Kesā shifang aderī (No, my love. Let me lead. You will understand soon)."

And thus he leaned in again, and she held still. 

His eyes closed, but she did not close hers. 

His lips met hers. His were soft and chilled, while hers were warm and chapped. 

She did not move for fear of messing it up. Human rituals were odd. 

So Valarr pulled away. "Gōntan ao daor hae ziry (Did you not like it)?"

"Gaoman daor gīmigon (I do not know)."

He smiled and brushed his thumb over her cheekbone. "Skoro syt ȳdra daor ao sylugon naejot vūjigon nyke (Why don't you try to kiss me)?"

Eager to please him, she took initiative, copying him exactly. She cupped his face and leaned in, though a bit more hasty than he had. 

It felt better the second time. And when his lips moved against hers, she pulled away. 

His smile only grew. "Iksā getting sȳrkta. Gaomagon ao hae ziry (You are getting better. Do you like it?)?"

"Kessa (Yes)," she answered immediately. 

"Bisa iksis mirros rȳ lovers.  Gaomā daor vūjigon tolie.  Iksis bona alright (This is something between lovers. You do not kiss others. Is that alright?)?"

"Jaelan naejot vūjigon ao tolī (I want to kiss you more)."

"Kosti gaomagon bona (We can do that)," he laughed. "Mirre tubis lo ao jaelagon (All day if you wish)."

She quickly learned the art of a peckish kiss. And she learned how Valarr responds to kissing so easily. "Kesi vūjigon tolī (We will kiss more)." Kiss. "Pār kesi jikagon fishing (Then we will go fishing)." Kiss. "Pār kesi mate syt hours isse se moonlight (Then we will mate for hours in the moonlight)."

When she moved to kiss again, he intercepted with a flush. "Kesi daor mate yet.  Daor ēva iksā ñuha ābrazȳrys (We will not mate yet. Not until you are my wife)."

"ābrazȳrys," she whispers to herself. "Skorkydoso gaomagon nyke prove kostan sagon ābrazȳrys (How do I prove I can be wife)?"

"Gaomā daor prove. Ao become. Lēda human rituals (You do not prove. You become. With human rituals)."

She leans in again and he decides he would be a fool to stop her. She kisses deeply, experimentally. And this time, she nips (albeit much softer than the one against his neck) at his bottom lip. Valarr groans from a place in himself he didn't know he had. It makes her shudder. 

"Jaelan naejot sagon ābrazȳrys naejot ao.  Naejot ñuha Valarr (I want to be wife to you. To my Valarr)."

"You cunning little rat!"

She jumps away at the sound. 

Aerion stands feet away, so angry a vein in his neck bulges. "You lie to all of us! You lied that a dragon was here, so what? You could be with a whore without others knowing?"

"Aerion—"

The woman looks between her Valarr and the threat against him. The Grey Ghost was known for running from danger. But now she had to protect him. 

She stepped forward, but Valarr quickly wrapped an arm around her. "Daor, henujagon zirȳla.  Issa mērī angry.  Kessa rēbagon skori ziry understands (No, leave him. He is only angry. It will pass when he understands)."

She snorts, low and angry like he'd seen her dragon form do.

"And where did you get this thing?" Aerion sneers. "Your father will be so disappointed to know his heir was so desperate for a warm cunt that he made up these lies just to keep up the facade of the perfect son—"

"You're standing in a dragon nest, cousin," Valarr defended. "Look around you. A dragon lives here."

Aerion frowned but did so. It did smell of dragon here. This was indeed where the Grey Ghost was known to hide away. "Where is he, then?"

"He?" Valarr scoffed. "It seems I know more about dragons than you finally."

"What are—" He looked to the girl and back to Valarr. To the girl and back to Valarr. "No."

"I didn't believe it myself at first. Hybrids were fables septas tell children before they go to sleep. But—"

"And it picked you? Of all the dragon blood, it picked you?"

"She," Valarr corrected. 

"She," Aerion huffed with his hands up in mock forgiveness. He stepped closer to the pair and tried to speak to her. "My name is Aerion Brightflame. I have blood of the dragon."

The woman blinked. 

"She only speaks High Valaryian."

"Right, of course. Konīr issi tolie naejot bond naejot lo gaomā daor hae ñuha cousin (There are others to bond to if you do not like my cousin)." 

She snarled at him, making him jump. 

"Are there others then?" He asked Valarr. "Other dragons?"

The thought of Aerion actually getting a dragon made Valarr's head swim. "I do not know. I have not asked her yet. She's still getting used to trusting humans."

"The Grey Ghost is a recluse. I'm surprised you were chosen at all."

"I as well." He leaned into her. "Kessa jā naejot ñuha sombāzmion? naejot ñuha nest? (Will you go to my castle? To my nest?)?"

Though she was still glaring at Aerion, she answered a soft, "Kessa (yes)."

She still had a lot to learn about human interaction before he could take her to the Red Keep. Time in the Dragonstone castle would be good for her. 

He moved to pull her along, but she rushed forward to kiss him again as she had before they were interrupted. 

Valarr had to pull her off. His cheeks were bright pink. 

He also needed to teach her not to do such things in the company of others. 

Aerion watched, more like glared at his cousin. That should be him. Was he not also blood of the dragon? Was he not just as worthy, if not more, of a dragon's affection? He had the Targaryen features to prove it. He did not look like Valarr with his father's Dornish features and his mother's pale skin. No, Aerion was a dragon, through and through.

And one dragon in human form should belong to another. 

.......................................................................................