lysia ⋆˚꩜｡

Ormund's return to Oldtown extended far beyond being just well-awaited, since the morning of his departure, you felt as though each and every fibre of your being longed for him, for his presence, for his touch. As Lord of Oldtown and Head of House Hightower, his duties led his presence to be required elsewhere, taking the role of supreme commander of the extensive host of House Hightower in loyalty to the Green faction. The Targaryen battle for the crown had expanded its impact across the Realm, dividing Houses, causing conflict, and straining those involved, including your Husband, Ormund.

He was notably away more, busied with carrying out the commands of the King and fighting against those in indefinite support of the usurper, Rhaenyra, in order to ensure the Realm remains just and in order. Even when Ormund's duties did not stray him away from Oldtown, it did stray him away from you, with late nights in his solar or in the bustles of meetings being more common than his form lying beside yours in your marriage bed.

Ormund had been gone for almost the entirety of a moon; the raven notifying his path to repatriation had been something you had been waiting for more than you cared to admit, leaving the pit of dread that had been piled in your stomach for weeks to slowly be replaced by a sense of relief and expectation; your Ormund was soon to return to the Hightower and to you. The days that followed his letter seemed far longer than any other; hours passed with a lack of haste, where all you could think about was Ormund and how far away you suspected he was from the city, and at night, you could barely sleep as thoughts lulled around in your head constantly.

Over the many months that the war had grown, you had gotten used to the subconscious feeling of worry and the foreboding possibilities of Ormund being injured or worse, if that was even possible, but the feelings that accompanied his awaited return never ceased in feeling so large and important. On the fourth day of awaiting his return, these feelings increased tenfold as a rider came ahead to announce that they were soon to arrive, and a few hours later, you could see the masses of the Hightower campaign approaching the city from one of the many windows of the Hightower, causing your heart to thunder against your ribs.

The few afternoon hours that followed between the arrival of the singular rider and the arrival of the sheaf of Hightower military forces were filled with the bustling feeling of relief that bloomed inside of you, and ensuring that everything was set in order for your Lord husband and his arrival. Water was to be warmed for your husband's bath to soothe his aching body, the cooks and kitchen staff were ordered to organise his favourite foods for a meal after his long journey, and clean clothes, as well as the finest oils and perfumes from Lys, were to be set out for him.

You were one of the first to greet Ormund; your steps were swift as you trailed through the hallways, stairwells and corridors which led towards the stables and training yard of Hightower, and your hands gripped onto the fine material of your deep green dress so as not to trip on the ends of your skirt. You arrive in the yard just as Ormund manoeuvres his horse towards the stable boy and dismounts the armoured steed so it can be tended to after its service. You watch as Ormund's jaw clenches as his gaze drifts to a few soldiers standing grouped beside their horses, still mudied with grime and whatever gifts the road had given them during the campaign, his steps heavy against the ground with a sense of pragmatism and clear fatigue as he moves towards the entrance of Hightower.

As his gaze moves from the men towards in front of him, where his dark eyes find your own, a smirk crosses his lips, his lazed pace shifting to a slightly faster one as he approaches your form. You comply by taking a few steps forward, meeting him at a short distance away from the steps, with a small, almost girlish smile curving your own plush lips. Ormund lets out a small sigh, which seemed to stem from relief, as he stood in front of you for a few moments before his armoured body moulds against your own as he pulls you into a tight embrace, his rough hands clenching at the material at the back of your dress.

The embrace, though not entirely long, allowed for enough time for his face to bury in the crook of your neck and inhale your scent, one that felt more like home than Oldtown itself. He retracts himself from you, but keeps contact with you by moving his hands to rest on the backs of your forearms. He is the first to speak up between you, his voice a mixture of calm authority and a firmness that was still present from the campaign, "I'm glad to see you", he states. You do not allow his words to lie in the air between you for too long, replying with a quickness that could only accompany the comfort and glee of his presence. "As am I.., I have missed you a great deal", you admit with a small hum, as his thumbs gently rub against the soft material of your sleeve, a contrast to what he had gotten used to at camp and campaign.

Your gaze trailed across his face and then the rest of him in search of any new injury or changes since the last time you had seen him, but to no avail; he was still your Ormund, and you could find no imperfection on him but the dirt staining his boots. After your reunion unfolded for a few more moments, you ushered him inside as the sky played hues of dark oranges and yellow, with the pretence that a warm bath and a meal were awaiting him. You walk closely beside Ormund as you follow the hallways and stairwells to your shared chambers, your hands intertwined with one of his arms, heavy with the weight of his silver armour, conversation flowed freely between the two of you, between moments of comfortable silence that lay over the sounds of your steps against the stone floors.

The bathing chambers, which were connected to your shared room by a door, had already been prepared by the servants; the bath was filled with water that steamed with the clean yet prominent scent of oils, which could be recognised from your shared chambers. A look crossed Ormund's face as he walked into your shared chambers, expressing his pleasure at the fragrance that emanated from the bath in the receding room; a clear and obvious contrast to the rancid smells that coincided with the effort of campaigns. His hands work off his armour, a duty usually rested upon the hands of a squire, for in his case, it was Daeron; you knew Daeron was well, leading you to simply assume that the boy was tired after the campaign, and Ormund had given him leave, after all, he did have something akin to a soft spot for his second cousin.

You watch as Ormund sheds the last of his armour, placing it on top of a chest to be polished and put away by the servants of the Hightower. His gaze soon drifts to you as he turns around to face, taking a few measured steps towards you before his hands find yours. "Would you care to join me?" he hums out against the flesh of your knuckle as he brings it to his lips to place a kiss on the warmth of the back of your hand, you can feel his lips curl into a knowing smile across the width of your knuckle. He doesn't give you a moment to reply, let alone think of a way to articulate your words, as he moves, his hands going to wrap around your hips, pulling you towards him, his gaze boring into yours in a way that you knew you did not need to express your answer; both of you knew you would agree.

A small sound escapes his lips as his head moves to lower against the crook of your neck, his lips coming in contact with the warmth of your skin; the sound was comparable to a knowing scoff or gentle huff of merriment. His hands move to the lace of your dress's corset, his fingers fiddling with the material to untie it as he presses kisses against the expanse of your neck and bare shoulder, causing your breath to catch in your throat. He lets out a small hum of delight as he unties the lace of your corset, his hands retracting away from it and going to rest on your waist, his lips pulling away from your skin to speak, "Come on," he murmurs against your skin, his words less of an urge and more of a welcome.

His hands stay on your waist, but they angle down so his fingers tangle in the material of your skirts while you lean into his touch fully, your hands going to rest on the mounds of his shoulders, the buds of your fingertips lazily trailing across the pattern of his tunic, gripping the material when his lips return to working across the softness of your neck. His kisses evolve to become sloppier and more depraved in nature, trailing from your shoulder, to one side of your neck, across the very top of your chest and to the other side of your neck, with gentle nips resting in between every few gentle contacts of his lips on your skin. "Ormund," you breathe out mindlessly in a way that seemed as though you just wanted to feel the weight of his name on your tongue. As your eyes flutter shut for a few moments, he lets out a hum in response to your words, the sound vibrating against your skin.

His hands tighten around your hips as he guides you towards the bed, all thoughts of bathing seemed to slip his mind as he focused on the tension that wound between you too. He urges you to sit on the edge of the bed with a small push of his hands that leads you down. His mouth moves towards yours, capturing your lips with his own in a way that threatens to swallow you whole as your hands roam the expanse of his arms, gently trailing your palm up and down the side of his arm. He only pulls away as his hands hastily bunch up the material of your dress, pulling them upwards as he lowers himself to kneel before you, as your hands drift to latch onto his shoulders.

His gaze moves towards the heat between your legs that had been building up during the encounter, and you could feel yourself clenching with need and desire for his touch to lower towards where you needed it most. His hands continued to push up your skirts, so it was bunched up around your hips until he found it to be sufficient enough for his liking. Your own hands came to his aid as you moved to hold the material from falling back down, allowing his focus to remain solely on the wetness he had been eyeing since the very moment he kneeled before you.

His hands moved to free you from any other cloth or material that was obstructing his path before his hands trailed up and down the warmth of your thighs, moving to grip them as he slowly lowered his face deeper between your thighs. You feel the warmth of his breath on you before his lips, they trail across the inside of your thigh, living kisses as small gifts before reaching the desperation of your heat. You feel him pause before his lips come in contact with your heat as he moves your legs upwards towards his shoulder, and therefore forcing your back to lower to the sheets of the bed.

Ormund's hands tighten around the plushness of your thighs; his ring and the coldness of its metal were a sharp contrast to the slopping warmth of his mouth and tongue as it trailed between your folds. His tongue moved up and down a few times, trailing the shape of your heat before focusing on your clit, slowly tracing circles and sucking at the bud of nerves, causing a gasp of pleasure to shamelessly escape your lips. At the sound, Ormund presses his face deeper into your heat, his nose pressing into you as his tongue presses flat against your clit, drawing it into his mouth and sucking on it every so often.

Your breath quickens as he continues to move his tongue against your clit, the feeling of something building in the pit of your stomach urges you further as one of your hands moves to run through his hair and grip onto his locks. Ormund continues, his movements becoming slightly sloppier due to dedication rather than desperation; it was clear that you coming undone on his tongue was something he had been craving long before his return home. "O-Ormund.." you manage between hitched breaths, "I think…I think I'm going to-", you make no effort to finish your sentence, he seemed to already know exactly what you were going to say as his movements became even more devoted to ensuring your release.

His tongue worked at the same pace that made the room feel as though it was spinning, but it felt deeper in a way; his tongue pressed harshly against as he drew circles and sucked on your bud. Your hands tighten, trapping his locks of hair between your fingertips as your legs tighten around his head, locking him against your heat as you feel yourself teasing the edge of release. Ormund adjusts your position, using his grip on your thighs to move them upwards and pressing them open to allow better access to your heat. He continues trailing his tongue around your clit until you find your breathing to become unsteady and quickened as you feel yourself coming undone for your lord husband, your thighs trembling as he continues to tongue fuck you through your orgasm until all you could gasp out was his name.

After a few moments, he pulls away, your hand falling back in your lap whilst he pushes himself upwards so that he was standing before you, his hands still mindlessly resting on your thighs. It was in this position that your guys landed on the bulge in his breaches, the material tented and poor at hiding the outline of throbbing length. He moves on top of you, standing between your thighs as his hands press against the bedding on either side of your head. His mouth goes to press against yours, pulling you into another kiss and forcing you to taste your own sweetness as one of his hands draws back down to push down his breaches to release his length.

He pumps his length a few times before he pulls his lips away, his gaze finding yours as a means of asking if he could continue, you let out a small hum that danced along the line of being a moan. Your hands find themselves back on his shoulders as you let out a small exhale, preparing yourself for the feeling of his length; a feeling that you had been craving since the day of his departure. Ormund lets out a breath himself before he aligns himself with your sopping wet entrance, before his tip slowly presses into the heat of your walls, causing a gasp to escape your lips and your legs to wrap around his waist. He takes a moment to steady himself at the feeling of your tightness before he continues to press his length into you, this time a moan escapes your lips as your head presses back against the plushness of the bed as you clench around the fullness his cock gives.

He moves from pressing his hands against the bed to his elbows, his head moving to burry himself in the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent before he begins rolling his hips. Your hands move from his shoulders to wrap around him, hands gripping at the material at the back of his tunic, while his length dives in and out of you with the movements of his hip, slightly desperate with the longing formed from being away from you for almost a moon, yet with a dominance that could only be stemmed from the authority of someone like Ormund. The pace he set was deep and even, not too slow to cause you to whine with need and not too fast to cause you to ache; it was a pace that allowed you to feel all of him as he pressed against your G-spot while causing your breath to tremble and quicken with pleasure.

You could not help the moans and gasps that mindlessly escaped your lips as you felt pleasure building in your stomach once again, your eyes shut and your mouth shamelessly agape for every sound to spill out. It seemed that Ormund was the same way, with every hushed grunt or groan that vibrated off his lips after every few measured thrusts, it was clear that he himself could feel a heat bubbling within him. It took a few moments before the first curse escaped his lips as one of his hands moved to grab your leg and hoist it over his shoulder to allow himself to thrust deeper inside of you, while the other remained clenched in the sheets of the bed.

"You…feel so good," was all he could either manage or be bothered to groan out as his hips continued to slam against your own with a pace that seemed to slowly quicken before it soon shifted to a rhythm fueled by the need for release for both of you. You could feel yourself clenching tighter around his length, your gasps insistent as you felt the similar feeling of release build within you, coinciding with the sounds that were escaping Ormund's own lips.

It did not take long before Ormund's thrusts became ragged and messy during the few moments before you both reached your peak, his hands gripping tightly onto the sheets while your fingers dig into his flesh as your hips buck against his own. You came just a moment before him, entangled in whimpers and unadulterated sounds, while he let out a trembling groan as he filled your womb with a few more disarrayed thrusts for good measure.

Oldtown was vastly different from King's Landing. Though it was territorially larger than King's Landing, it was much less populous and lacked the overwhelming malodorous odour that accumulated in many of the poorer districts. Oldtown held an elegance that King's Landing had not accustomed you to; the Honeywine River, Citadel, accompanying temples, and sacred septs only advanced this through housing the many diverse residents and rich cultures of the city.

It had taken time to adjust to what was deemed your new home; the expectations of a lady of House Hightower differed greatly from the expectations of a Targaryen Princess. These differences were viewed through values. Hightowers valued tradition and the faith of the seven, whereas Targaryens valued power and legacy.

Marriage between you and Ser Ormund Hightower had been a decision cemented by your Father, Viserys Targaryen, and his Hand, Otto Hightower, a fair few months after the union between the King and Otto's only daughter. Through the strengthening of ties between Houses and the furthering of political loyalty and strength, it was deemed as more than necessary for the Realm and the continuation of its rule.

You had heard of Ormund before meeting him; his stalwart nature and leadership capabilities were something of a legend, with many of the court and your Fathers most dutiful advisers viewing him through his military prowess and political power. The months leading up to your first meeting with Ormund consisted of hushed and excitable conversations with your ladies in waiting regarding rumours and theorisations of bethrothed and what type of a lord he was.

Rhaenyra had argued against it directly to you and your Father with an underlying grudge that bubbled under the surface and the fierceness of a loving sister who would do anything for you. She hadn't accepted the union as you had; it was fundamentally your duty to be wed to a lord for your House's gain. You knew this expectation, and you knew you had to accept it as your fate; however, you also knew that being separated from your sister, the one person who persistently stood by your side and defended you as though her life depended on it, would be one of the hardest things you would have to endure.

Rhaenyra's efforts in halting the union had been futile; your Father would never change his mind while Otto Hightower breathed promises and explanations into your Father's ear like a puppeteer controlling his every decision and move. The wedding had taken place in Oldtown, and the union became absolute as you took your Husband's name of Hightower as your own, not erasing your heritage but dictating your future. Oldtown was your home now, and your duty was no longer facilitated by your role in King's Landing, but by your role as Lady Hightower and the wife of Lord Hightower.

Ormund was different from what was expected; he was not cruel or inherently loving as theorised by your ladies in waiting, and there was no love at first sight, as you had hoped, influenced by the romance books you read in your chambers during your youth. Though he was every bit as honourable and ambitious as your Father's advisors claimed he was to be, he was often away commanding armies or busied by his duties, meaning his company was far spread and concise, leading you to feel as though he hardly knew the man you slept beside.

You craved a definitive connection that stemmed from love and not duty, which led you to move through the hallways and stairwells to his solar, pausing a few even steps away from the wooden door, debating on whether your entrance was justifiable enough to not be an interruption or distraction. Your hands unconsciously grip the fine material of your gown, one that consisted of shades of deep greens associated with House Hightower instead of the shades of black and red you had gotten used to on your figure while you think.

It had been well over a month since your first night in Oldtown, and hours had passed since you had last seen Ormund as he rose from your marriage bed and left to attend to his duties as Lord of Oldtown and of the Hightower. A small sigh escapes your lips as you take two measured steps towards the door, a moment passing before the flesh of your knuckle collides with the wooden door to produce a few hesitant-sounding knocks.

Ormund speaks up in response to the sound of the knocks; you can hear his voice and the polished cadence and authority in his tone through the gaps in the door. "Come in," he states in a way that makes you feel like he is commanding you rather than allowing you to enter. Your hands move from your skirts to the handle of the door, turning it and pushing it open to enter the room, carefully closing it behind you so as not to interrupt the quietness that lay within the room.

Your gaze finds Ormund as he sits at his desk, his eyes raising from one of the pieces of parchment in his grop amongst the books and papers scattered across his desk to look at you in a way that is more calculating than it is questioning. You feel the back of your neck heat up. He places the parchment on the deeply coloured wood of his desk, retracting himself and leaning back into his seat, his hands interlocking with one another in his lap. You watch as he nods towards one of the two chairs placed in front of his desk, telling you to sit down as he speaks up.

"What is it, wife?" He asks as you move to sit down, his gaze never straying from you as you cross the room. For a brief moment, you stay silent, unsure as to what to say; all you did know was that you wished to spend time with him, though you questioned how he would react to the simplicity of such a statement. "I was wondering if you would join me for a breath of fresh air in the gardens", you reply, your words accompanied by a small smile crossing your lips for pleasantries.

A smile crossed his lips with due time, seemingly in response to your words; it was a brief glimpse of enticement. "A breath of fresh air in the gardens, you say?" he hums out with an underlying fastidiousness, "Well, if it is at the request of my lady wife, I shall be inclined to" he continued, though you were unsure whether his words came from a place of ebullience or undisclosed mockery, but as he stood up from his seat, you did not question it. You follow his lead, standing up from your seat as he steps around from the desk, his gaze drifting to look out of the solar window, most likely towards the gardens of Hightower that could be seen from below, before his gaze returns to you.

"The gardens are quite beautiful during this time of year, are they not?" he mentions, his words an opening for conversation as he begins making his way to the garden, holding the door of his solar open for you before you both descend the stairs of the Hightower. You hum in response to his words, your hands clasping together at your front as you walk beside him, "Yes, though I must admit that the gardens here are very different from the ones in King's Landing", you add lightly.

"Many things are here different from King's Landing, more than I can name" Ormund replies, his gaze drifting from looking at the hallway in front of him to you, "How have you found Oldtown so far?" he hums out, his gaze returning to look in front of him, his hands clasped tightly behind him as you both turn the corner towards the gardens. "Well, it is.., it's very grand." You reply with a nod, a slight uncertainty underlying your words. In all honesty, you had not yet made your mind up on the city, though you had no grudges against it; the city was clean, sophisticated and welcoming, but there was always a feeling that you did not belong here, that your place was in King's Landing.

"You are yet to grow used to being here," he states evenly as you walk through the archway that leads to the steps down and into the gardens, a simple observation that carries a subtle weight behind it, the weight of expectations, not only for you but for him. As a small hum of agreement or perhaps admittance escapes your lips, "That is understandable." Ormund continues, his boots lazily cascading along the path, his tone was less restricted in the openness of the garden, a stark comparison to how it was in his solar and in more formal settings.

His head tilts towards you, his gaze finding yours and holding it as he speaks up yet again, "I do not expect you to assimilate so hastily, but the court does. Oldtown is your home now, its people are your people, and its affairs are your affairs." A small sigh escaped his lips, one that displays the weight of duty and expectation, "You will adjust, I have no doubt of it", he murmured lightly, earning a small smile to cross your lips.

A few moments of silence enwrap the two of you, though it was free of all possible subtle awkwardness and tension. It was just past midday now, the sun harboured a comfortable warmth that rested on your shoulders and the nape of your neck, which was free from the material of your gown. It was a while before you spoke up again, your gaze drifting around the scenery of the garden and the fresh blooms of moonbloom and nightshade as the words flowed from your tongue, "I would like to spend more time with you", you hummed with a sudden stroke of confidence, perhaps as a result of his prior words that seemed akin to a compliment.