niceforcum

"Not yet."

You smile. "Then you can have it."

Ormund shakes his head.

"My want should not be your strategy, but if the daughter of the crown insists."

He takes your dragon before you advance a worthless piece of rabble that he takes as well. Your elephant follows.

Ormund explains every mistake as he punishes it. Do you mean to get him drunk on the power of your sweet losses? It does not help that you lose prettily. The most comely, awful creature in all the realm, listening while he demonstrates the superior workings of his mind. He must not perish happy. He has your brother to raise.

"Abandoning your elephant was a mistake, but all is not lost---"

He halts in his lecture when you move your uselessly hidden trebuchet.

...He did not notice how your sacrificed dragon has drawn away his heavy horse. Or how the rabble forced his spearman into the pass.

Now his king is trapped between the mountain and the very pieces with which he so confidently devoured yours. No. The panic beginning to brew with him is as hilarious as it is unnecessary. No.

He studies the board. No. There must be an escape. This is...this is nothing short of impossible. To even be close to losing to a woman---to you...no. There must be---

"Can he go anywhere?"

You touch his ivory king with your fingertip.

"...No."

"Oh! And does this mean I have won?"

...Yes. It does.

He has lost. To a woman. To a---to a woman? To you. His simple little Targaryen whore, whose ignorance had been making him hard as stone just a few moments ago.

To you! He is the Lord who has guided your hand and indulged your endless foolish questions, and you have used his own appetite against him!

...You cunt! This cannot be!

His reaches for the king and closes his fist around, takes the pain that is the tiny crown stabbing into his palm.

He'd rather overturn the fucking table as is right! Losing to a lady, one of your simple mind, no less! Have the gods sent him to another realm? How he should have every right to bend you over the wreckage and fuck every trace of smug Valyrian cleverness from your sweet, deceitful head. Soft mind, softer ass, crueler fucking heart.

...But Ormund believes there is a knight to overseer your comings and goings this time around. His temper cannot be indulged without his own punishment, however invalid it would be.

Seven fucking hells!

Ormund pushes his mouth into a curl, a near smile with small eyes.

"What. An unsual...victory."

He cannot muster a congratulatory, spitful bile would find his throat if he tried.

It nearly fucking does when you reach across the board and lay your hand over his fist.

"Are you proud of me, my lord? I tried my best."

...Proud? You trollop, you have opened his dignity from throat to belly to cock, and now look to him for praise? As though defeating him with your womanly, demonic claims were merely another lesson completed by his good girl??

How fucking...dare you?! How many times has he asked that question?!

"I. Am. Surprised."

"May we play again tomorrow---"

"I will be available. I assume you have places to be, Princess."

The idea that he might lose to you again could sour his guts until they burn a hole through him, but he will not. He will correct this fluke! He requires revenge for today, for your feminine manipulation, whether you are too stupid to know it is manipulation.

You rise and curtsy in thanks. Ormund nods with all the restraint he can muster.

You turn before you reach the door.

"From my father's history, I am always taught that winning costs you something. I think Cyvasse is the only way it can cost you nothing. I leave taught and in joy. Thank you, my lord."

"...Mm. How insightful, Your Highness."

When you leave, he counts to five before overturning the table.

"That cheating cunt! Cheat with your fucking cunt again!"

A short breath through your nose. A thing you always do when you are amused or annoyed. But he can tell it's the first. “You know exactly what it is.” you reply and you are right. He smelled the dried peaches in the hall before opening the door. His nose glides over your nape, breathing you in like he could drown himself in your scent. Another peck and then an open-mouthed kiss to the point where your lower jaw fuse into your neck.

“True.” You feel him smirk on your skin as you continue to grind the splits of the peach stoned with calm. Then a confession. “I missed you. The petitioners smelled like they all pissed themselves.” he rants with venom in his voice. His fingers stroking upwards to your ribs and breasts, where they linger for a second before they knead the supple flesh underneath. The stained linen rustling under his ministration. “When I'm with you, it's like the Seven grant me absolution.” He starts to unlace your apron and with that also your focus. The shift is next. So you put the heavy mortar aside and let the pestle rest in it. Experienced hands shove the fabric down your shoulders and the night dress falls to the floor unceremoniously. When you don't turn around yourself, he does it for you. Blue eyes look down on you and you feel heat rise up in you and look away. “And when they are so benevolent to me.” he lowers himself and kneels in front of you, “I need to worship.” Tunic whispering alongside your dress on the ground. A kiss to your navel follows down your abdomen and he stops at your mound to breath in the musky fragrance that lives here. Already washed and ready for bed. But your restlessness brought you here to clear your mind and alert body. His hands push your thighs apart to inspect what the gods have gifted him with. Cool air hits your heat. Another slow inhale. And suddenly he licks a long and broad stripe through your lips. Tasting you like you are his favorite wine. Savoring the taste and smell alike. Your breath hitches faintly – soft and barely even there. But he hears it because everything you did was sharp to him. The breathing, the slight shift of weight from one foot to another, how you never seem to know what to do with your hands when being intimate.

He loves that you always try to remain silent. That you never demand attention or make noise like those shrill court cunts who flaunt themselves for favor and prestige. You stand still as a the Maiden statue in the Starry Sept – quiet, composed – and let him take. And take, it what he does.

He kisses each inner thigh like they are relics before returning to where you want him most. His lips part and seal around tender flesh gently sucking until the softest sighs finally slip past those perfect lips of yours.

A shudder runs through him at that first real sound escaping from you. The woman whose scent has saved his sanity every day since war begun, dragging its stench across their lands—and suddenly Ormund wasn't just Lord of House Hightower anymore. Right here on his knees between your legs, he is just a man starving for something pure amidst filth and rot. And you are feeding him perfectly well already.

He pulls back a bit, only enough to watch your face, while working on stroking your clit with the tip of his tongue.

Teeth grind against their counterparts to stifle any more sounds, except your breathing. There is no denying this man at the end of day... not that you want to. But...

His blue squint at your stoic expression – sharp as Valyrian steel. The suppression of sound doesn't escape him, it never does. And it undoes him. You are quiet by nature, always have been. A lady who moves through halls like a shadow, who speaks only when necessary and then in such measured and rational tone with intellect that even made his uncle Otto pause and listen to your objections. And Ormund is sure that if your House would have sided with the Queen of Bastards, you would have been an excellent Mistress of Whisperers.

But as much as he loves your tranquil character, he also despises it in moments like this. This restraint while he worships you with his face buried in your sanctuary. While you tremble under the weight of pleasure and sensations? It was unbearable in its own sacred way. He exhaled hot against slick skin, followed by a rumble from deep within his chest. And then returns once more with deliberate slowness. One soft kiss right where you throb most tenderly, then a lick from entrance to clit, circling there with pressure that should make you break completely. A test of endurance.

Would you hold? Or would you finally let go of your silence? His hands tighten on your hips. Not enough to hurt but firm – anchoring himself as much as guiding you for better access. His thumbs brush over bones, a sensation that distract your for a split of a moment. Without warning his mouth seals shut around your swollen nub and sucks fairly harsh on it.

And with that, the resolve begins to crack like wood under a battering ram. A moan fleets your lips. Not loud but audible and it makes you blush in unspoken shame.

It was soft, involuntarily and music to his ears. Shooting through his system like an arrow.

For half a breath, he stills. Not from disbelief, because he knew you would make a noise eventually, but from the sheer force of it crashing his sternum and making his heart hammer against its bone fragments. Ormund doesn't even realize how hard his cock throbs, too lost in your mimic. The faint color rising up your neck and an expression that would have made him soil his pants, if he was an adolescent. Sans breaking his gaze, he sucks again, harder this time. A punishment dressed as praise, or the other way around, and he lets out a muffled groan against you that vibrates like thunder in the Stormlands. Your broken silence – a reward for him. Another small moan. Finally hearing what belongs only to him anyway. This sweet noise? Just a melody for him to witness. And no one ever shall hear it beside him! Delicate fingers find their way into his auburn curls. Your other hand clutches at his on your hip. Something to get a grip and regain composure. A surge of something possessive and electric hums down the spine of Lord Hightower, the man who rules Oldtown with iron hands and cold calculation. No one touches him freely – not servants, not courtiers, certainly not soldiers daring to clap him on the shoulder after battle. Even his first wife had never been so bold as to brush her fingers through his locks during quiet moments at court. But you? You do it without asking. Without hesitation, once your body tips over edges sharper than Valyrian steel. And the Seven help him, he adores that about you. Even when overwhelmed by pleasure, you do not whimper or beg. You instinctively just reach out for anchor that was already yours anyway.

And it makes him want to surrender and go to another war at the same time. Throw away all control and pretense only to fetch it again and impress you nonetheless. With renewed hunger, he feasts like a King while a hand dig into your soft, fleshy thighs. He pants hot and uneven between licks and sucks, each inhale deeper than the next. Your hand in his hair tightens slightly – not pulling or commanding, just holding, like you're afraid he might vanish if you let go.

And by all what's holy. It wrecks him. Feels like his mouth is everywhere at once. Pink lips kissing soft inner skin before teeth graze lightly, tongue swirling in maddening circles where he knew from experience makes your pulse jump, sucking gently on that tender spot in the crook of your thigh and pussy before dragging down again.

Every movement is considerate. Every touch measured but feverish beneath the surface. A man who usually dictates every second of life – prayers timed precisely at dawn and dusk, meals served exactly when commanded – letting himself drown without schedule or structure for once. Just taste. Just take. Just worship what belonged to him and honoring it with his care.

Your breath comes in shallow little puffs. Belly rises and falls with every twitch of muscles. An indicator that you are close to the peak. Your husband sees it. The way your chest rises too quickly, the soft hitch before each inhale – almost hissing. The subtle tensing of your stomach and the slight tremor that haunts your thighs. All signs written plain as scripture for anyone who knew you – especially him, who studied every micro-expression on that composed face during court sessions, every blink when boredom crept up during tedious council meetings and festivities.

Now you are unraveling right above him. And he feels it coming like an arriving tide. Creeping, inevitable, beautiful.

His ministrations slow instead – not stopping completely. The relentless suction easing into something lighter. Open-mouth kisses along slick heat. Tongue gliding with smoothness rather than frenzied demand. He wants to draw this out, just a little longer to savor the climb before letting you fall entirely. This tiny, broken sound that escapes your sinful lips? The suffering of being denied release. It cuts him like a dagger flesh. Not because you complained. You never would. But because it was there. The fragile whimper, barely louder than breath. And it spoke volumes!

Body straining towards climax, poised and trembling at the very crest. And he eased off just enough to make you ache without fulfillment. Cruel? Maybe. But not unkind. Not to him.

This is his devotion in its own twisted way. Drawing out every second of tension so when you finally shatter, it would be absolute and overwhelming. Something that leaves no room for regret or restraint.

Ormund exhales sharply through his nose – a quiet sound of amusement. Pressing one last feather-light kiss right where heat and slick pools most intensely before retreating entirely for three long heartbeats. Just watching your face again. Flush now pinker than Highgarden roses, lips slightly parted, eyes half-lidded with unspoken want.

He almost pities you and leans forward once anew.

Blue eyes observing, how yours shut tight, brows knit in that exquisite tension between pain and pleasure. Divine, he thinks. No resistance. No protest. Just surrender. Absolute, silent submission to his touch. And you give yourself over like a holy artifact into sacred hands. Trust in him utterly with everything.

Lord Hightower cherishes it more than any gold or ancient tapestry hanging in the vaulted halls of the Citadel. Hells, he would throw away his pomander if it meant to never let you go again.

His eyes close for a moment. Cock throbbing. His breath turns ragged now. With agonizing slowness at first, he returns fully to your cunt. Lips sealing once against wet flesh, tongue pressing firm this time – no more teasing circles – but long strokes that mirrors what your body craved so clearly. Then he sucks your clit again, followed by quick flicks of his tongue. Each movement calculated precisely based on how you squirm before him.

Your hand cramps. Tugging on his hair lightly with each flex of sensitivity. Instinctive and unintentional. But it sends a jolt through him that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with raw lust. You're not pulling to demand control. No, just simply reacting. A wife losing herself to her husband's duty that she doesn't realize, her fingers clench tighter, every time sensation spiked. And each tug on his scalp makes his pulse hammer harder in his ears, heart and dick. He ponders with the idea to deny you twice. But he throws it aside. No more games – focus instead. His mouth works faster. Rhythmic suction paired with quick flicks and licks. One hand slides up from your hipbone over your abdomen towards your belly while the other is still clutched by yours. But it vanishes as you bring it to your mouth, biting down on your index to stifle any sound but your harsh breathing.

Ormund's jaw tightened with effort. Lips sealing harder over swollen need. The hand on your belly wanders upwards to a tit. Kneading and stroking the nipple, adding to the mind-numbing pleasure. And you cum as soon as the stimulation gets too much to bear. The moment the waves hits you, he feels it. Body going rigid for half a moment, then collapsing into trembling surrender. He knows what comes next – the quaking. Your thighs quiver before him like leaves in wind. Your stomach tenses beneath his palm as every nerve combusts. Hips trying to escape the onslaught of pleasure. But he doesn't let them. And then tears roll. Silent, shiny trails slipping down rosy cheeks that confirm the overstimulation.

Only when he hears that fragile whimper that borderlines on pain. That's when he lifts himself up. A hand rises to cup your cheek, thumb brushing away the small, wet lines with surprising gentleness for a man that commands armies and burns heretics alive.

Your watery eyes open and look immediately in his blue. Oh, the shame in your gaze. Orbs flickering away instantly like a startled, little rabbit. Ashamed for coming undone so completely, for the tears and that sinful sound he has coaxed out of you. As if pleasure itself was something to hide from him. He hates it, how quickly dignity returns to you once sensation fades. The quiet withdrawal into composure like armor being fixed after battle. The Beacon catches your chin between thumb and index. Forcing the direction to face him. He lets you unsure of his mood for a second. Then he leans forward and kisses you. Not lustful, not hungry. Just a soft kiss among husband and wife.

The soft hum you gift him that is more vibration than sound, tightens his chest. It was such a small thing, just lingering sensitivity – innocent curiosity of someone still learning how pleasure feels.

So sensitive after reaching ascension. So new to this intimacy despite sharing a bed for half a moon cycle.

His heart never fluttered like this for his first wife. Never felt this protectiveness and awe for being allowed inside this fragile vulnerability you never show anyone else. It makes him feel like close to the Seven. Not like them. That would be heresy... He kisses you again, softer than before, brushing once then twice across your parted lips. When his tongue glides against them, you squeak. Small and startled. A reflex followed by an instinctive retreat at this mild intrusion. And Ormund hesitates briefly. Then a hot and possessive feeling flares up in his broad chest. Accompanied by impatience and need.

He wants to kiss you properly now. Deep and complete. One hand shoots up to cradle the back of your neck firmly, tilting your head slightly as he crushes his mouth onto yours again.

This kiss is different. Dominant from the first breath. His lips part yours insistently, tongue sweeping forward without asking for entry and claiming entrance like conquering a territory that he already owns by right.

No room for shyness anymore. Clumsily, you try to keep up with your husband. A hand steadies yourself on his sternum, fingers flexing like before when it grasped his hair. You are responding and not pulling away nor avoiding. No, you are matching the kiss as best to your abilities. It wasn't skilled but he founds satisfaction in it nonetheless. Innocent effort that lets him lead while still attempting to participate instead of freezing up again. That should be rewarded.

He softens just a fraction but doesn't break the stance of his dominance. Easing pressure, so the kiss becomes less about conquest and more about teaching example. Automatically his leg move. Speaking about less conquest... The moment the pressure of his erection presses against your mound through his breeches, a jolt runs down your spine and you need to break the kiss. Your body just unraveled moments ago and the sensitivity still drums through your system with lasting sparks. You need air – just a quick breather without sensations crashing over you like waves on rocks.

But Lord Hightower has enough. He wants you now and he will take what's his. He doesn't voice protest over your actions. It wouldn't change a thing. Even though impatience burns hot in his guts, he gifts you minutes by undressing. Not because you asked, because he decided to. Your trembling hands wouldn't be of much help anyways.

Distance is brought between you two as he moves with purpose to the other workbench opposite of the one you were working on. There his detailed buttons come off first. The fabric of his doublet slides down his shoulders as he shrugs out of it. Undone layers revealing a fair torso. Muscled chest dusted in newly grown fine hair that he has to wax soon and strong arms that wielded swords since boyhood. With newfound patience he folds his clothes on the table and you watch him with quiet fascination.

When Ormund wasn't looking – and he rarely did not glance at others while in state of undress – you had the courage to observe him. Stoic mask washed away by something more relaxed. Tension in shoulders and jaw eased as his hands work efficiently on his belt and ties. Every piece peeled away revealed another lean part. And under all these fine clothes and titles is just a man, you muse in your head. You don't see his little smirk but he knows you're watching and it fuels his ego. Shy but snoopy. When he turns around, he knows your next move. You adjust your curious eyes. He remembers the first night with you, when he took your maidenhood, you couldn't stand looking at him. Timid but so easy to please. And you still are. And he prays that it never changes.

Your husband approaches you, barefoot now on the cold floor and reaches out. His hands are warm as they settle on your shoulder, steady but not gentle. The other glides down to your elbow and grips it. Then he guides you down from where you are sitting to stand chest to chest with him. He towers over you, tall frame casting a shadow that swallows yours entirely.

His hands wander down to your hips again. Possessive fingertips trace the bone structure like it's fine architecture of Oldtown, before sliding around to press flat against your lower back. While leaning down his lips found your ear, “I missed fucking you.” Blushing hard at the statement and low voice in your oversensitive shell, you gasp and clench around nothing. Arousal spiking deep in your core again.

A triumphant smile decorates his face. Of course he has memorized every sensitive spot on your body. The way your neck flares when kissed just below the jawline, how finger brushing just barely your inner wrist makes you shiver but your ears. Oh, they are lethal. And his words strike like lightning in them. In one fluid motion, he turns you around and guides you down until your breasts and cheek squish against the cool wood of the desk. Fingers splay for balance at the anticipated next action.

His foot urge your right ankle to move, to make room for him. You bite your lips when you feel him rubbing through slick folds, letting the tip catch on entrance just enough to make you tense. Preparation and teasing before finally pressing in. It takes a lot of his willpower not to rush and pound you like a barbarian.

He closes his eyes in bliss as you clench without thought around him like a vice, after fully sheathed. Pelvis flush against your backside and the air leaves your lungs in a shuddering exhale. Fullness so intense it borders on dizzying.

Ormund stays there motionless to let you adjust to him. He doesn't have to but he prefers to hear you cry from pleasure rather than pain. Because you are precious to him. Large hands slide from your hips up along your bare sides. Warm palms skimming and making you squirm and clench without him moving inside you. A low hum vibrates in his throat. He vocals his pleasure unlike you. And he knows, that you love to hear him groan and whisper filthy things in your ears, because it all coaxed pretty noises from you if you wanted or not. He knows what gets under your skin. Pink lips part against the nape of your neck as he bows down over your back. “So tight. You feel like heaven, sweet wife.” he rumbles with that rough voice that you love. He can see your shoulder tense at his words. The pause that follows gives you time to blush anew. Then he adds with another deep groan, “Gods, I've missed this pussy... All wet and clenching...” A nip to your pulse point, “You missed being fucked by me too, hm?” The sharp slap of his palm against your ass cheek echoes through your entire body. And you keen at the sting. A high-pitched sound slip out of you – startled and breathy. Measured thrusts follow, powerful rolls of his pelvis driving him back into you, each time after pulling out almost all the way. Each snap forward pushes your upper body an inch across the polished wood as fingers scramble for grip. Hand almost hitting the stone mortar on the side, while hips are being used like an anchor for every forceful stroke. A relentless rhythm that is not frantic as of yet, but steady which makes the furniture creak faintly beneath the shared weight.

He could never tire of this. The way your back arches every other deep stroke, how that bitten lip finally parts when a particular hard thrust hits just right, how heat radiates from both your bodies now – mixing sweat and pheromones in this thick air.

To make you sing again, he delivers another firm smack to the same cheek on the same red spot. After comes a harder snap of his hips. Muscles clamping down on him. Not only yours but also his breathing grows heavier. “Still so fucking tight...”

Suddenly he pulls your hair – tight and only light painful. Yanking you upright against his broad chest with a sharp hiss of an inhale. “Ngh.” Spine pressing tight against the hard planes of his torso. One arm snakes around your waist like a metal chain, holding you in place while the other, the one that is in your strands, curls now firmly around your throat – not choking you but letting his thumb rest just below your jaw where your pulsed hammers wildly.

Then comes a kiss. Not on your lips. No, he presses his hot mouth right behind your ear – on the most sensitive spot – and sucks hard. And that's it. Your body repels any control left. The stimulation hits you like doom hit Valyria. Hot and sudden. Silent climax ripping through every nerve without warning. Silent until everything gets too much. A sob breaks through you like a dam bursting. One second you were quiet and the next tears spill freely down your cheeks. No shame this time, just pure overwhelm. Feelings crashing over you until it hurts in the best way possible.

You cling to his hand around your throat, not pushing away but unconsciously scratching while pleasure tears you apart.

Then comes redemption – raw and urgent. “Ahh- f-fuck... ah – stop~!”

He reads it for what it is. Not rejection, not panic. It is begging. A desperate plea because his love is too much and too intense. But he doesn't stop, not even when you cry so prettily. He couldn't if wanted to and right in this moment, he absolutely did not want to stop. Because if he'd do it, he wouldn't witness.

Witness a orgasm so strong that fluids stream down your shaking sighs like you're pissing yourself. But it isn't piss. His sense of smell tells him so.

Witness a climax so violent and with such force that every muscle clench at once. Contracting so heavily that the sheer power of it pushes him out. His cock slips free from the suffocating vice like grip he reveled in moments earlier. Both pair of your thighs glisten faintly in the dim light by oil lamps and candles. Ormund should feel gross out but he doesn't. No, he has heard several stories from his men about such acts. But he is stunned nonetheless. He's seen women cry during love-making before. Although never like this. This here was something far greater. And he has caused that. Could his ego swell any larger? Every tear on your cheeks, every tremble, the mess dripping down thighs. It all was a trophy of his mastery over you. His dominance has wrung out pleasure so extraordinary that it overrode dignity. “You little slut.” Dark and laced with smug pride. A possessive insult. “Still waters run deep.” He turns you around to get a better look of the whore, that he calls wife, before him. Piercing blue eyes look at the wreckage. Swollen lips from all that biting, flushed cheeks streaked with tears, hair disheveled from being pulled, skin glowing with sweat and heat, and between your legs? Utter. sticky mess. The moment you have the courage to look at him with your glassy and dazed eyes, he kisses you hard. Lips crushing and teeth clacking. Bruising, demanding and claiming every breath. Urgently, he heaves you up by your ass onto the workbench. One arm braces behind to keep balance, the other cups your jaw while his mouth works yours. Tongue sweeping deep past parted lips, tasting salt from tears. Consumption. Next he pushes you down by your chest. Shoulders meeting the warm wood now as his body looms over yours. With determination he brings both of your legs to his waist – calves pressing in his lower back. Then he strokes himself once, twice before he rubs the tip against your soaked folds and slides in. Another gasp flees your chest as he sinks in, deeper this time thanks to the new position. You nearly choke from his deep and hard thrusts and you drape an arm over your eyes to shield yourself from his intense stare. Each stroke more insistent as muscles flex in his buttocks. The impact cause your back to arch off the wood and involuntarily give him better access. Then he slaps you across your tit – sharp and unexpected. You flinch as he barks the command. “Look at me!” You do not dare to disobey. With a quiver to your lip, you comply and remove your arm, revealing your watery eyes to his cold glance. The corner of his mouth twitch, “Hands on the edge.”

You place them flat near your thighs and he adjusts immediately. Arms hook beneath calves, lifting legs higher without slipping out of you. Fingers curl around the edge to brace yourself for what's to come. “Keep looking at me while I fuck this slutty pussy.” Filthy yet reverent words coming from him.

The moment he starts snapping his hips again, your eyes roll back for just a second. A split-second loss of focus as dizzying pleasure seems to never end.

But Lord Hightower saw it. And he did not like it. Not one bit.

A tick in his jaw. There was always power in eye contact during sex for men of noble houses. On the other hand he made you feel so good, you couldn't follow with obedience. So he allows it just once, since you quickly forced your gaze back on him. “Yes, just like that.” Simple words but they carried weight. Now he gets a good look at you. Glossy eyes lock on his despite how hard it must be for you, lips are parted lightly and body pliant beneath him. He likes what he sees.

The look in your glare, dazed and submissive. How you keep eye contact exactly like ordered? Only his faith differs him from a mindless beast.

Without breaking rhythm, a hand slides up from your thigh up along your hipbone, then over your stomach before settling on your lower abdomen. That's when he notice a little shadow moving and upon further inspection he sees a little bulge there, feels it even more under his palm. Barely visible unless you're looking for it. And Ormund always observes.

He feels it from the outside and inside. The actual evidence of your union happening right beneath his hand. Proof of how deep he fucks you. A growl evades him.

Gently he presses down on that spot as if testing. Seeing how you'd react to direct pressure. Your gaze falters, eyes shut tight as the loudest moan of the night crawls out of your throat. It surprises you that much that you even let go of the edge to cover your mouth. Loud, unfiltered and uncontrolled. Words that he never associate with you but here you are. Pleasure degrades you like this. Like it does any mortal.

Your next sound is muffled. The whimper fused with a moan that should have been his to hear clearly if you'd have obeyed

He growls as he slaps your tit again. A minor correction for not listening to him. At least you have enough sense left to keep your legs around his waist after he lets your thighs go. So he snatches both of your wrists with a strong grip and stretch your arms towards him.

And then he pounds. Fast and mean. Over wet squelching sounds he rasps, “Guess I have to fuck the disobedient brat out of you.” No more controlled rhythm. Just raw power unleashed into each thrust. Hips slamming forward with relentlessness, driving himself into you with punishing force by holding your hands as counterweight.

One second you are gasping under his ruthless snaps, the next your body is tightening like a bow string. Each pounding stroke sends jolts straight to your core. It builds fast – too fast thanks to his deep penetration and brutal pace. And all of it is the source of another inevitable climax. Finger in his tight grasp curl like your toes. Cramping and stretching in frantic spasms. No control. No way to stop it.

Thighs squeeze his narrow hips as if trying to squash him, before they shake unruly with each clench of your pussy. The sweet chant of your moans bless him. Soft and yet primal sounds that make his cock swell even more. Tears run in new little streams down your face. Chest heaving like you run up the entire staircase of the Hightower. And in the center of it all is your husband. Every convulsion, every flutter is the result of his actions, his care and his power. If he didn't already believe in the Seven he would be now at the very last. Something this heavenly can just be made by holiness, he thinks. His pace shatters in a chaotic rutting. A loud moan tears from his throat. Finally, Ormund joins you in the feeling of unfiltered and raw pleasure. He holds onto your wrists and keeps fucking you hard through it all. And moments later he comes with a deep, guttural groan as he stills. Heat floods your insides in hot pulses from his member. Each spurt intense and marking you from within. He doesn't withdraw immediately, staying fully buried to the hilt, so he could grind blissfully. Milk everything to the very last second.

He feels another wet splash. Looking down he sees you leak yet again, weaker than earlier but still. Thighs still quivering and your hands press against his chest and abdomen in a weak attempt to push him away. He didn't realize that he let go of your wrists in the meantime. How curious.

However, this time his cock isn't pushed out. No, he still throbs inside you with sparkling aftershocks, keeping his spend sealed for it to set root. Not that it's really necessary, since he already has three children but he wants another with you. Then he leans down to kiss you – slow and exhausted. Salt and sweet spit mix with any lazy movement of your connected lips. Soft sighs and hums declare the end of a great time. And after a few more loving moments, Ormund gently pulls you up by your elbows and guides you in a seating position again. A hand brush away hair from your damp forehead and you return the favor with an dazed expression.

Perhaps he does not care for the food, he did take a full moment to complain about it before you mentioned the letter, after all.

"Does he jest...often in the letters he writes to you? Particularly of the lord who has raised him in the light of the Seven and with great effort?"

"Not as often as he once did when he was a mere boy, but he still mentions you fondly. Occasionally."

Ormund flexes his hand against the table, then his other against his thigh before straightening his spine against the chair, although it was already quite rigid. He bears good posture.

"...What else did he say, Princess? Does he say?"

You think. Ormund watches you, head tilting and lifted.

There ought not to be enough material concerning Lord Ormund Hightower stored inside that pretty little head to require consideration, sweetling.

"Well, let me see. I must admit, for me, your reputation preceded you in the letters from my little brother. There is a lot to sift through. Um..."

...Why do your eyes wander up while you search your memory? Why can he practically see you counting all the times Daeron has mentioned him to you, without praise and with insolence??

"Think hard. Take your time."

Perhaps Daeron has told you of the time his sire ordered his entire chamber stripped because he knew damn well that a mouse had died somewhere. Perhaps he told you about those oranges he has sent back because he was already softening when they were delivered.

Daeron had been three and ten, then. The little shit had sat silently at the table while Ormund informed the steward of what is common sense he should expect of an Oldtown steward---that softness always precedes rot.

Thinking of the moment now, there had been something suspicious about the boy's expression.

Had the two of you laughed at his meager desire for fresh fucking fruit?

"I do not remember anything cruel. Daeron is a kind boy---"

"Yes, I would know. But I am not asking for accounts of cruelty, Princess. I merely want to see how the young prince I have raised perceives me...and how he leads others to."

Sweetling Targaryen whore, Ormund is sure you would not know cruelty unless it threw you over its lap and began striking you across your thick ass.

From the sound of it, you might need just that.

"Oh. Well, yes." You nod and try to match his posture. Lord Ormund seems to be growing cross. It must be impatience with your poor memory. How ashamed you grow. "He said you mislike unpleasant smells."

Lord Ormund stares, lips curling before pursing slightly, eyes looking away and down at the wood of the table. That must not be enough.

"He told me you mislike them immensely---"

"I am aware of the degree to which I dislike them. It is a simple sensitivity to horrendous odors. Forgive me, Princess. I am considering why my ward considers this information worthy of dissemination throughout the royal family."

You only grow more confused.

Yes, why should you understand his...distress at this revelation that Daeron mocks him in letters? You, unfortunately, never got to be his near-daughter and watch your lord raise Daeron into something disciplined and worthy of pride, correcting his endless deficiencies from his Targaryen half until something divine emerged under his hand.

All the effort...the love he's put into raising the boy, and the boy has repaid nearly two decades of devotion with what? By...by---

"This is all very...amusing."

"Oh, it was. He drew a nose wearing a crown. To put emphasis on what he meant, I think."

Lord Ormund's eyes snap up.

By drawing crowned noses for his distant, harlot sister??

"He drew what?"

He must not have heard you. You smile at the memory. "A nose. With a little crown. Quite childish, but he has quite a talent for drawing."

Lord Ormund simply looks at you, the muscles of his jaws tensing. You suppose he is trying to imagine the drawing and finding Daeron's juvenille artistry as ridiculous as you do. You will search for the letter later to aide him.

That little nose, such detail!

"My lord, you must understand, I only laugh at the drawing," Your admission is followed by a grin you cannot help. "Daeron tried very hard to make it properly---"

You are interrupted by Lord Ormund rising from his chair. Quite harshly, you think.

Harsh enough that his chair flies behind him, striking and rattling against the floor before he slams his palms into the table.

"Lord Ormund---"

It is enough that you jump back for your own to scrape under you as it bumps your legs, and for these moments, you do not understand what has happened at all.

Men have been angry in your presence, of course. Aegon is your eldest brother. Aemond is your second eldest.

"Seven fucking helllllssssss!"

But men have never shouted at you. You are a princess! None have ever struck things with rage in your presence, at the very least!

And you cannot understand what has---what is happening, because you and Lord Ormund...

You thought you were having fun with him. As his friend. You do not understand.

"A fucking nose?!" He is no longer looking at you, but for your heart that finds your throat, perhaps that is a good thing. "A crowned. Fucking. Nose? That fucking boy! After all I have done for him---"

His voice comes crashing in volume and harshened on every other syllable.

He sweeps the plate of supper from the table and, with it, his wine. It spills all over the stone floor as the ceramic plate breaks in one blow.

"That ungrateful little shit!"

You go quiet soon after a gasp as Lord Ormund continues to rage, your hand closing around the edge of your chair and other to your throat. The door is behind him. You do not think he'll take kindly to you running. You would scream if you could be sure a guard would reach you before he could do anything.

You would run, yes? You scream, yes? If you could. You're sure of it. You just...cannot decide whether calling a guard would be unnecessary. He has not hurt you. Not yet.

He has only taken to kicking his leg through a wooden dresser.

"He will sorely be punished!"

A nose.

Daeron had sat in his household, eaten at his table, gifted great masters, toys, swords, received everything Ormund thought necessary to make a scholarly, heavenly prince out of him---and gone laughing to his sister. His sweet sister.

His beautiful harlot sister.

It must be you that infests the boy's mind, or else he has failed to snuff out his Targaryen blood!

"I can overlook observations, children are stupid and enjoy letting others know. That! Is understood. But a prince, my ward, ought eventually to acquire enough fucking judgment to know what is jesting and what is insolence! What is---what is making a mockery of your elder!"

"Lord Ormund---"

"You have indulged Daeron, I'm sure---"

"No!"

Ormund runs his palms over his coat before he flicks his hands, as if he's ridding himself of the disgust for the situation at hand. "To take a private peculiarity of his guardian and turn it into court entertainment is precisely the sort of careless familiarity that breeds disrespect. Something to give his sister a laugh!"

"I have never indulged him because he is nothing to indulge---my-my lord! And it is not court entertainment if you think otherwise. He only sent it to me---"

"Yes! Exactly!"

You flinch and grasp your chair as his voice echoes. Ormund halts his pace toward you.

He knows the look on your face. Servants have worn it. Stewards as well, along with knights and messengers who carry him displeasing news.

Daeron, when younger, before he learned that his sire's occasional bouts of anger are justified and only in need of handling. Yes, this is nothing so novel in his temper. It is swift and often productive for his mental bearings.

...But his sweetling harlot of the Red Keep has never lived with it, let alone even witnessed it.

"Princess," Ormund pulls on the end of his coat, his head lowering, his eyes small, his lips pursing once more. "I think I need to explain what has taken place here. Let me find myself. My bearings."

The cold his heart is beginning to bear isn't guilt, as that would mean his outrage itself was wrong. No, never. But he, Princess, has shown you his routine ugliness before he legally possesses the right to demand that you endure it.

That he can admit. He has never been blinded by ego.

Ormund is sure it would be easier to teach you if you were his ward or wife, bound to remain when the room becomes conventionally 'unbearable', but you are not, because, as he's said many times before, the Gods send their challenges to the strongest among the realm.

Too soon. This could surely turn you away from him, and he cannot have that.

Not when you have burdened him with your savor and beauty and potential for discipline. What fault he may have here, you would be a demonic temptress to leave him in the cold at this one harsh, premature moment.

Lord Ormund closes his eyes, and for a moment, there is only his and your breathing. You try to make yours quieter. Surely he will become angrier at being feared. In all, the spilled wine reeks, and so does the meat all over the stone beneath your feet.

You watch, with the bob of his throat, Lord Ormund reaching for his pomander. You do not blame him as he brings it toward his nose---

And your heart stops when he stops to look at you.

"What?"

You're only thinking that the silver thing belongs to Lord Ormund, your friend. He may become that man again if he keeps smelling it, as he does. It always seems to calm him.

You don't know why your eyes on it seem to put tension in his muscles again.

"Nothing, my lord."

Ormund lowers his pomander. "Why are you looking at me?"

...Even in a world where Daeron has not made the mistake of mocking the lord who has cared for him greatly, you have watched Ormund use the pomander yourself. You have witnessed his...one peculiarity.

Somewhere inside that guileless head of yours, there is an assessment of him. Perhaps you think him ridiculous or have snickered beside your ladies. All in feminine gossip about Lord Ormund's delicate nose.

"Princess, what has our Daeron precisely said about me misliking odors, save for a drawing of my lordly nose?"

He has never wanted you to be his ward so badly. You need a great spanking.

"Precisely? I can-cannot remember every word."

"You will have the lord of Oldtown in your debt if you try."

Even if his presumptions are not true, the fact that the possibility exists is enough justification for punishment! Enough for his anger to change direction, at the very fucking least!

"Well...all he has said about your mislike specifically is that you notice smells very quickly, and that you also mislike spoiled food."

This stern gentleness in Lord Ormund's voice frightens you even more so. Shouting and thrashing had at least told you what his anger looked like. You do not know what answer he wants. You know only that he wants one.

Perhaps giving it correctly will return your lord to who he was before.

"He said you prefer sweet-smelling scents when there is sickness in Oldtown, and I vaguely...I vaguely remember that you ridded your household of a servant cause he smelt of onion."

He watches your face for the sneer, for the suppressed amusement of a child, and it is your luck with the Seven that he finds none. Why do they reward you for your insolence? The answer must be in the way he'll one day be allowed to feel your belly swallow his cock whole.

Look, the filth you arise in him.

"It was as if he had eaten an astonishing quantity. Did Daeron write his account as simply that, an account? Or was there a need to humiliate his uncle throughout all his correspondence with you?"

"No, my lord!---"

"And what do you think?"

...Is this still an inquiry into Daeron's supposed misconduct?

"Of...of your habits, Lord Ormund?"

"Yes."

Oh, how Ormund despises how carefully he watches you, the anger and violence within it has left his posture taut, but he feels something near boyishness in its aftermath. He needs the answer.

Gods damn you.

"I did not think anything bad, I do not know what you want me to say."

Neither does he, really. He knows only what he does not want, but he doesn't think even you are simple enough to blurt out that you find him fussy or effeminate, and if you did, he'd rather tear the room apart once more than hear those words leave your trollop lips.

...But it is his right to know if they do, and in turn, to know that you are lying to his face.

"Do you find it...excessive?"

Your eyes widen slightly. You're not sure any answer you could give Lord Ormund would make him happy again. He turns away from you, gripping the edge of the ruined dresser, his head lifting.

"Do not be frightened, Princess. I only ask a question. Do not think me so callous to ever even think of harming a daughter of the crown. I had a momentary outburst...is all."

You take a cautious step toward him. How he can sound cross with you even now, you do know. It is why you are not even sure why you come closer to him at all.

Perhaps because he has turned his back and seems less dangerous that way, or maybe because standing across the ruined room from him makes the two of you feel like enemies, and you cannot bear not knowing when that happened.

He hears you make way to him, your slow feet against the stone. Your scent closing in.

The audacity you do not know you bear is fucking unbearable. How he has lasted this long without taking you to bed is only because of the strength the Seven have given him.

"When we were children, Daeron once wrote three whole pages detailing his anger with me because I had called Tessarion ugly. I only did so because he did not answer my last few letters, and I became cross with him...he would not make jokes about you, if you think they are jokes, if he feared you would cease loving him for them."

...This is manipulation for the sake of your brother. You are trying to say the boy from punishment.

Or do you genuinely interpret the boy's jokes not as disrespect, but as the security a child would have jesting about their good father?

Simple, simple girl trying her best, either way.

And in an attempt not to give the room another lashing and lose his head from your fear making itself known to a knight somewhere, he'll find that sweet and impressive rather than a whore thinking she can soothe him.

"You presume a great deal concerning my relationship with your brother---"

"You have hurt yourself, may I, my lord?"

Ormund looks to where his knuckles have reddened and scabbed.

The insanity of you, is this another attempt to demean him? Or to convince him that you will forget of this moment before you go running to your handmaidens? No, even if this only concerns principle, he cannot have a Princess doting on him so.

...Not with her soft, pretty hands, desperate to tend to him. Are you desperate to tend to him? That shall give Ormund a laugh.

And warmth in his heavy cock.

You will be punished for the filth you make a man bear out of wedlock one day, Princess, if the Gods are just.

"It is nothing, Princess. I do not require consilation, but I thank you---"

He turns to find that at his answer, you have taken to gathering broken pieces of ceramic. The hilarity he finds himself in.

"What are you doing? Put it down."

You obey. Good. At least there is still some order left in the realm.

"You are a princess. There are servants for this. There are...who knows you are here?"

He can tell by your trembling that you are still frightened, and servants or otherwho will return soon enough and find the wine soaking a ruined room.

They will find a scared little Targaryen princess in the middle of it, as if her blood isn't rife with cunning. But you are the expection to your savage race, are you not? Yes, it his mistake to assume you could handle his anger so immediately.

"My handmaid. And my mother. She might not be aware that I am in your guest chamber, but I did tell her that I meant to ask you about Daeron."

Of course you did. Your mama's sweet, simple grace.

Ormund's thumb pokes once into the tender ridge of his knuckle.

"And what do you intend to tell her when she asks how our conversation went?"

You glance at the broken dish. It would be easy if the answer might be lying among it. But your mother tells you often, the truth is just, and it is the best answer.

"That you became angry?"

"No, no." Lord Ormund smiles, and that is a return of joy that you enjoy yourself. His tongue makes a slight, wet smacking noise. His voice is now gentle, as it usually is. You are much relieved.

You are just not sure why he would ask you if he had an answer.

"You will tell her that we spoke privately of your brother and came to an understanding."

"...Did we?"

There is no suspicion in the question, which Ormund finds amusing, even after he's become well aware of how simple you are. It is merely hope in your voice.

Ah, sweetling whore. It is as if he was meant to guide you.

"I should like to think so."

Ormund turns your hand within his and encloses it, his palm warm over your fingers. A friendly squeeze.

Relief finds your whole face. It is almost shameful how little tenderness he must offer to produce it. But mostly concerning. Who else do you allow to steer you in such a way?

"I did not mean to embarrass you."

You squeeze his hand. Ormund allows it without much irritation, a friendly squeeze it also is. It is not like he can lift your skirts and take you by the tempting cunt if it was anything else.

"I know, nor would you wish a harmless childhood jest to become a source of discord between Daeron and me. If your mother hears I lost my temper, she will question you. If Daeron hears, he will know you repeated what he wrote in confidence. He may believe you wished to make him appear disloyal.”

Your brow creases, and your lips part in confusion. "I would never.”

"Naturally. But once a private matter is carried beyond a room, we cannot govern what other people make of it. This, my dear princess, began with a confidence between brother and sister. You are sound enough to let it end as such."

You look down at your joined hands.

"Are you still cross with me?"

Oh, how that question nearly undoes all his careful work. Ormund lifts his chin, smile growing wider.

"I was never cross with you."

You glance at the table his hand struck. He tightens his fingers around yours before the evidence can instruct you differently. Do not act as you if you have any intelligence in your head now.

"My anger concerned Daeron's judgment. You merely happened to be the one who brought it to my attention. I would not have your mother distressed by some embellished account suggesting otherwise, nor your brothers imagining they must defend you from an injury you did not suffer."

...You had not considered Daeron receiving some accusing account of what happened here and discovering the old drawing he entrusted to you has caused trouble with Ormund. All because you repeated a harmless jest.

"I will tell no one, Lord Ormund. I promise."

Not even Lord Larys, though you are sure he would understand the situation much better than Aemond or mother would.

"Good." His thumb passes once over your knuckles. "Then we understand one another, don't we?"

You smile. Everything is mended. Although it doesn't feel as if all his anger was solely for Daeron, Ormund has told you the anger was never meant for you. It seems unkind to disbelieve him after he has allowed you to understand.

It does not occur to you that Ormund has apologized for nothing.

"You will not punish Daeron for a jest he made when he was a child, will you?"

"...He will be made aware that I know of his humorous nature with his sister. I have yet to see it so...vibrant with me."

The gardens of Oldtown were at their best in the hour after dawn, and you had learned in two years of marriage that you were the only person in the whole keep who believed it.

The stone paths were still dark with dew. The bees had not properly woken. Fog came up off the Honeywine in long grey ribbons and caught in the myrtle hedges, and the great tower itself stood behind you with its beacon gone dim and pale, the way a candle looks when someone opens the shutters. Everything smelled of wet earth and lemon blossom and, faintly, of the sea.

You had a basket on your arm, half-full of peaches, and grass stains on the hem of a gown that had cost more than a horse.

"Now, my lady," came a voice from the top of the terrace steps, "I have been told a great many things about you, but no one warned me you were a common orchard thief."

You did not turn around. You had known him by the sound of his boots on the steps for a year and a half now; Gwayne walked like a man who suspected there might be an audience.

"They're my peaches.”

“They are my father's peaches."

"Your father is in King's Landing," you said, choosing another, turning it in the light to check the blush of it. "The peaches have been left in my care. I am inspecting them. Rigorously."

"You've eaten two already."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"Because I've been standing here since the bell," said Ser Gwayne Hightower, coming down the steps in that ambling unhurried way of his, "watching my wife commit crimes."

You turned.

He had come straight from the yard, which meant he had come straight from the yard and then gone somewhere to make himself presentable about it, because his hair was damp and combed back off his brow and his shirt was clean and open at the throat, and no man alive had ever left a morning's swordwork looking like that by accident. There was a bruise blooming just under his jaw. He was grinning about it.

"You've been watching me for an hour," you said.

"A quarter hour."

"An hour, Gwayne. The bell rang at dawn."

He came to a stop in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your chin, and he did not deny it. He looked down at the basket instead, took out a peach, considered it with the gravity of a maester examining a wound, and bit into it.

"Well," he said, with his mouth full. "Now I'm complicit."

"You're a knight of the Reach."

"I am. And this is the finest fruit in the Reach, and my wife stole it, and I intend to eat the evidence." He wiped his thumb along his lip. "Nobody hangs for a peach."

"Your father might."

"My father would write a letter about it," Gwayne said. "Six pages. With citations."

You laughed before you could help it, and he looked so pleased with himself, the way he always did, like a boy who had just cleared a fence he wasn't sure of. That was the thing nobody told you about him, back when your marriage was still ink and seals and two families shaking hands over your head. They told you he was vain. They told you he was clever and quick and difficult to pin down. Nobody told you he would look at you like that when you laughed, as if the sound were a coin he'd found in the street.

"Come," you said, and hooked your free arm through his. "Walk with me before the fog goes."

The path curved down past the fountain and under the arch of climbing roses that your good-mother had planted before she died, white ones, heavy-headed, dropping petals into the water. Gwayne finished the peach and threw the stone into the hedge with the underhand flick of a man who had spent his life throwing things into hedges.

"That'll grow," you said.

"Then Oldtown will have one more peach tree and my father will have one more thing to be irritated by. Everyone profits."

"You're very cheerful this morning."

"I'm very cheerful most mornings."

"You are cheerful in company," you corrected. "This morning you're cheerful with me, which is different, which means something has happened. Did you win?"

He put a hand to his chest. "You wound me. You think I only smile when I've won."

"Gwayne."

"I won," he admitted immediately. "Twice. Ser Robin has developed a habit of dropping his shoulder before he comes over the top, and I have been very patient about not telling him, and this morning I collected on my patience."

"That's cheating."

"That's observation."

"It's cheating dressed for a feast."

"Which is what all the best things are," he said, and stole a second peach out of your basket without breaking stride.

You let him. You had learned to let him. In the first months you had counted every little liberty he took as a battle lost, because you had come into this marriage braced for something; you weren't sure what, only that women told you to brace and it had taken you the better part of a year to understand that Gwayne Hightower was not laying siege to you. He was just like this. He took peaches. He talked through the septon's sermons under his breath. He put his cold feet on your legs in the night and pretended to be asleep when you shoved him. He was the least dangerous man in Westeros and he was armed at all times.

You reached the low wall at the garden's southern edge, where the ground fell away and the whole of the city lay out below you in the mist: the tangle of roofs, the river, the Citadel's blunt towers, the masts down at the harbour crowded together like a burnt forest. Somewhere a dog was barking. Somewhere else, someone was singing badly.

Gwayne set his hands on the wall and breathed out.

"Say it," you said.

"Say what?"

"Whatever you climbed all the way down here to say. You've been circling it since the peaches."

He glanced sideways at you. Green eyes, Hightower green, the same as his sister's, though on Alicent they always looked like a held breath and on him they looked like a joke you hadn't heard yet.

"You're a witch," he said. "I married a witch. My father will write a letter about that too."

"Gwayne."

"There's a letter from King's Landing."

Your stomach did the small ugly drop it always did now. Two years ago the words there's a letter from King's Landing would have meant nothing to you at all. Now everyone said them the way they said there's a storm coming in off the sea; flatly, and while already looking for the shutters.

"From your father."

"From my sister, in fact, which is worse, because my father tells me what to do and my sister tells me how she is." He turned around and leaned back against the wall with his elbows on it, tipping his face up to the thin sun. "She says she is very well. She says the children are very well. She says the king's health is much improved, which is the sort of thing you write when a man cannot hold a spoon."

"Gwayne."

"I know." He shut his eyes. "I know."

You said nothing for a moment. Below, the mist was pulling apart over the river.

"Does she ask you to come?"

"She never asks. That's the trick of her. She writes six pages about the weather and the septs and how Daeron is growing, and then at the very bottom, in a hand so small you'd think she was ashamed of it, she writes, it would gladden me to see you." He opened one eye. "Which is asking. That's my sister asking with both hands."

"And your father?"

"Oh, my father asks like a battering ram. His last letter said, and I quote, I trust the pleasures of Oldtown have not made you soft."

You considered this. "Have they?"

"Grievously," said Gwayne. "I sleep on feathers. I eat three times a day. I have a wife who steals fruit for me. I am the softest man in the Reach and I intend to defend the title."

"Then we shan't go."

He was quiet. That was the thing that told you it was serious; Gwayne Hightower quiet, for the length of three heartbeats, with the sun on his throat.

"Not yet," he said at last. "Not this year, I think."

"Not this year," you agreed.

"They'll want me eventually. When my father runs out of Hightowers who'll answer him and comes back round to the one who won't stop making jokes." He said it lightly, and it landed the way a light thing lands when it's made of iron. "But not this year. This year I'm going to stand in this garden and watch my wife rob an orchard, and if my father wants an accounting of my time, he may have it."

"He'll be delighted."

"He'll be apoplectic," Gwayne said, brightening. "Write it down, would you? Ser Gwayne rose at dawn, defeated Ser Robin twice, ate two peaches he did not pay for, and spent the remainder of the morning being soft at his wife. Send it under seal. Make it look important."

"You are a terrible son."

"I am the firstborn son," he said. "It's practically a vocation."

You made him carry the basket after that, because he was there and because he complained about it in a way that clearly meant he wanted to be asked, and you walked back up through the terraces to the little walled garden your good-mother had called the Quiet Court a square of grass and old fig trees with a bench nobody ever sat on, because it faced the wrong way for the view and the right way for the sun.

You sat on the grass instead. You always sat on the grass. Gwayne dropped down beside you with the graceless thump of a man in his own home, stretched his legs out, crossed them at the ankle, and put his head in your lap without asking, as though it were a chair that belonged to him.

"Comfortable?" you said.

"Extremely. Don't move."

"I have to move eventually."

"No, you don't. I'll have your meals brought."

You snorted, and set your hand in his hair, and he made a small pleased sound in the back of his throat that he would have denied under torture.

The sun was properly up now. It came down warm through the fig leaves and made moving coins of light all over him, over his shirt and his forearms and the bruise under his jaw, and the bees had woken and were going seriously about their business in the lavender, and the whole garden hummed with it. You could hear the Citadel bells, far off. You could hear a maid laughing somewhere up in the keep.

"Tell me something," you said.

"Anything. I have a great many opinions."

"When they told you who you were marrying… what did you think?"

He opened his eyes. "That's a dangerous question."

"It's a very safe question. You're lying in my lap. I have all the power here."

"You have all the power," he agreed, "at all times, in all places, which is a matter I intend to raise with the septons." He was quiet a moment, and then, in a slightly different voice: "I thought, well, that's that, then."

"Charming."

"No — listen." He shifted so he could look up at you properly. "You must understand what it is to be the firstborn son of Otto Hightower. Everything about my life was decided by other people in rooms I wasn't in. My sister was decided. My name, my knighting, my horse was decided. So when they said you will marry her, I thought: well, that's that, then. Another thing that happened to me."

"That's worse than charming. That's tragic."

"And then," he went on, ignoring you entirely, "you came to Oldtown, and on your third night here you told me at table, in front of my septa that my hair was too long for a fighting man and that vanity was one of the seven kinds of sin, though you couldn't recall which."

You winced. "I was nervous."

"You were magnificent. My septa choked on her wine. And I sat there and I thought, oh no." He grinned. "Oh no. She's going to be the great catastrophe of my life."

"And was I?"

"You are," he said. "Ongoing. Sustained. No end in sight."

You looked down at him for a moment, at the sun-coins sliding over his stupid handsome face, and then you leaned over and kissed him, upside down and badly, and he laughed into it and caught the back of your neck with one hand as if to say yes, that, do that again.

When you sat up your hair had come loose on one side. He looked immensely satisfied about it.

"Your hair is still too long," you said.

"My hair is perfect."

"It's not."

"It is better than yours."

"Gwayne."

"I'm sorry, my love, but it simply is. The gods gave me one gift and I am obliged to be a good steward of it." He settled back down. "Criston Cole wears his cropped like a scullion and look at the state of the man's disposition."

"You've never met Criston Cole."

"I've heard about Criston Cole. That's worse."

You said nothing. You reached over, very quietly, and picked a stem of lavender.

Gwayne, eyes closed, said, "What are you doing."

"Nothing."

"You're doing something. I can hear you doing something."

"You cannot hear nothing."

"I've been married two years," he said. "I can hear nothing better than any man in the Seven King— don't."

You had already begun. You took a thin section of hair at his temple and started plaiting the lavender into it, and he made a noise of pure theatrical anguish and did not, you noticed, move his head one inch off your lap.

"This is an assault," he informed the fig trees. "This is an assault upon my person."

"Hold still."

"On the honour of House Hightower."

"You'll look lovely."

"I will look like a hedge—"

"Gwayne."

He held still.

You worked slowly, because it was slow work and because there was no reason on earth to hurry. Lavender, then a sprig of rosemary because it smelled good, then three of the little white roses from the arch, snapped off short. His hair was fine and slippery and hard to keep hold of, which he would have been delighted to hear, so you didn't say it. Somewhere in the middle of it his breathing went long and even, and you thought he'd genuinely fallen asleep until he said, without opening his eyes.

"Are you happy?"

Your hands paused. "That's a dangerous question," you said.

"It's a very safe question. My head's in your lap. You have all the power."

You looked down at him. There were fine lines at the corners of his eyes now that hadn't been there when you married from squinting into the sun, from laughing, from a life spent mostly outdoors and mostly amused. There was a white knot of a scar through one eyebrow that he claimed was from a boar and that his squire claimed was from a door.

"Yes," you said.

He waited.

"Truly, yes," you said. "Which frightens me a little."

"Why?"

"Because I've read enough songs to know that no one's happy in the middle of a song."

Gwayne opened his eyes. "Then we shan't be in one," he said.

"You can't decide that."

"I can decide a great deal. I've decided about the peaches. I've decided about my father." He reached up and caught your wrist gently, his thumb over the small bones of it and held it there against his chest, where you could feel his heart going along steady and unbothered underneath. "Listen. Somewhere out east there are dragons and there are men writing letters about dragons, and one day someone will come up that road and knock on that door and I will have to go and be a Hightower at them. I know it. You know it. My father has known it since before I was born, I expect; he's a man who plans that far ahead."

"Gwayne—"

"But that's not today," he said. "Today there's fog on the river and my wife has put a garden in my hair and I have eaten two stolen peaches and won two bouts, and if this is the middle of the song then it's the best part and I refuse to hurry it." He kissed the inside of your wrist, quick, careless, like it was nothing. "That's all. That's my whole philosophy. I've been working on it for years."

"It's a very short philosophy."

"It's a very efficient philosophy," he said. "You could have married a man with a long one and been bored to death by midwinter."

You laughed, and your eyes stung a little, and you covered it by tugging his hair.

"Ow."

"Hold still. I'm nearly done."

When you were done he sat up and shook his head like a dog, and about half of it fell out, which was frankly less than you'd expected.

"Well?" he said, turning his face to give you the good side, which was the same as the other side. "Tell me honestly. Ruined?"

You looked at him. Lavender and rosemary and three white roses, sun through the leaves, grass on his shoulder, that bruise going purple under his jaw.

"You look," you said, "like a maiden in a song."

"Excellent. Which one?"

"The one who gets carried off."

"By whom?"

"By her husband, in a moment, if she doesn't stop talking."

He grinned so wide it must have hurt. "Threats. In my garden."

"My garden. You said so yourself. You've told everyone in Oldtown it's my garden since the day I asked for it."

"I have," he admitted, "because when I say my wife's garden the maesters look at me as though I've done something worthwhile, and I've found I like the feeling." He plucked one of the roses back out of his hair and, with great ceremony, tucked it behind your ear. "There. Now we match. Now nobody can say anything."

"Everybody will say something."

"Let them," said Gwayne Hightower, and kissed you.

It was a slow one this time, unhurried, one hand at your jaw and the other braced in the grass, and you tasted peach and he smelled of lavender and clean linen and horse, and above you the fig leaves shifted and the light moved and the bees kept up their work in the lavender, entirely unimpressed. You had a fistful of his shirt. You did not remember deciding to take it.

Which of course was the exact moment that somebody came through the gate at the far end of the Quiet Court.

"Ser — oh. Oh. Ser, I— the master-at-arms says—"

Gwayne did not let go of you. He turned his head, with the rosemary sticking out over his ear, and regarded his squire with the calm of a man who had been interrupted in gardens by squires his entire adult life.

"Yes, Willem."

"The master-at-arms says you're wanted in the yard," said Willem, aged fourteen, magenta from the collar up, examining the sky. "He says. He says you promised him. He says you swore."

"Did I swear?"

"You swore on your sword, ser."

"That does sound like me." Gwayne sighed and let his forehead drop against yours for a moment. "The trouble with being charming," he murmured, "is that you make so very many promises."

"Go," you said.

"I don't want to."

"You'll want to in ten minutes. You'll want to enormously. You'll come back at noon and tell me about it at extraordinary length."

"...That's true," he said, wounded by the accuracy of it, and got up.

He brushed the grass off, and put a hand up to his hair, and stopped; you watched him remember what was in it. You watched him weigh it. You watched, delighted, as Ser Gwayne Hightower, first born son of the Hand of the King, decided.

"Willem," he said. "How do I look?"

The boy, trapped, said: "...Very well, ser."

"Very well," Gwayne repeated. "You hear that? Very well. The lad has an eye." He pointed at you as he backed toward the gate. "Noon. Don't eat all the peaches."

"I make no promises."

"You never do. It's the worst thing about you." He was at the gate. He turned, one hand on the stone, sun in his eyes, lavender in his hair, and for a moment; a small one, a moment you would take out and hold a great many times in the years that came after, on the road, in the dark, in rooms full of men shouting about dragons; he just looked at you across the grass, and didn't say anything clever at all.

Then he said, "I love you, my wife," in the offhand way he said everything that mattered, and was gone down the steps two at a time with his squire trotting after him.

You sat back in the grass with the basket in your lap and the rose behind your ear.

The bees went on. The fog burned off the river. Above you the Hightower stood white and enormous against a sky going properly blue at last, and somewhere far away in King's Landing a sick king was being helped to sit up in bed, and a queen was writing six pages about the weather, and none of it, this morning, had reached the gardens.

You ate another peach.

“Lies.” You smirked. “Thought I would not insult you and pretend that I do not appreciate the sentiment.” 

“I am glad that my promise suits you.” Gwayne’s hand shot out, pulling you close to him. Your stomach flipped, wrapping your leg around his waist. “How fares the babe?” 

“She is eager, as always.” You grabbed at his wrist, guiding his hand to your stomach. “She wants her father.” 

“Soon, my love.” He kissed the corner of your mouth, smiling when your eyes fluttered shut. “Soon.” 

“My lady.” 

You hummed, your hand shooting out to Gwayne’s side as you attempted to bury your face into the pillow. So he was gone. You frowned, another terribly life-like dream. Your maid, Lila, completely unaware of your melancholic state, laughed before attempting to wake you once more. “I hate to disturb you, but it is urgent. From Lord Hightower.” 

You shot up, heart beating faster than it should. “Gwayne has written?” 

“No, my lady.” Lila frowned. “It is from the Lord Hightower.” 

You huffed, letting yourself fall back into the comfort of your warm bed. “Read it to me then.” 

“He requests your presence in Tumbleton. He says he wants to-” She scoffed, and you pretended not to hear. “He wants to present a united front for the future king, Daeron.” 

You shot up once more. “Daeron? King?” 

“That is what he says, my lady.” 

“Is there anything else?” 

“He- he asks that you arrive as quickly as possible.” 

“I do not see how that will be possible, seeing as the roads are thick with thieves and Hightower enemies.” Your hand gravitated toward your swollen stomach. “I will not put my child in harm’s way for Ormund Hightower’s sake.” 

“He says that Daeron will come fetch you by Dragonback.” 

“Seven hells.” Your heart sank. “How will I bring my things-” 

“I will ensure everything is taken care of, my lady.” Lila rushes to rid you of your worries. “You must rest, and prepare yourself.” 

“Well said, Lila.” You stood, rounding your bed to don Gwayne’s robe. It still smelled ever so slightly of him, bringing you comfort in his absence. “I will break my fast in the gardens today.” 

“An excellent choice, my lady.”

 Daeron had grown since you last saw him.

Since Ormund took him away from the one home he had ever known to risk his life for the sake of glory. When you had last seen him, he had been three and ten, nearly four and ten. 

His voice was deeper, his eyes were sadder.

You wanted to kill Ormund. 

Ever the gentleman, Daeron helped you on and off of the Tessarion, his hand providing proof of you and Gwayne’s guidance, to always be kind, to always stay true to his heart.

You kissed his cheek, smiling brightly when his face turned bright red. “Have I embarrassed you, nephew?” 

“Compared to Uncle Ormund’s actions, it is nothing.” He quipped, linking your arm through his as he escorted you into the Tumbleton estate. “I have missed you.” 

“And I you, sweet boy.” You pulled him closer. “How have you fared since your departure?” 

“Well enough.” His smile was tight, secretive. “Others have it far worse than I. Others in this very city-” 

“I am well aware of other’s troubles, Daeron. We shall remedy that soon enough.” You stopped just before the door you assumed would lead you to Ormund, whispering. “I asked how you fared?” 

“I am fine.” He nodded, straightening his posture as if that would comfort you. It did not. “All is well.” 

“If you insist.” You huffed. “Shall we face the beast?” 

“Aunt!” Daeron’s eyes widened, collecting himself before he motioned to the guards to open the door.

“Cousin!” Ormund stood behind a great oak desk. “How good of you to join us.” 

“My lord.” You curtsied quickly. “How could I refuse such a kind invitation from the Lord of Oldtown?”

“Still…” Ormund had caught your obvious disdain for him the moment you entered the room. You were glad of it, if he had not, he would have been far stupider than you thought him to already be. “Is the babe-” You almost laughed at his attempt to show care. 

“Fine. Thank you.”

“I am sure after such an arduous journey, that you would like to rest.” 

“That would be most appreciated, my lord.” You squinted, wary of his sudden kindness. Ormund was not known for his consideration of others. 

“I have had the maids fix the finest room they could find. Daeron shall escort you.” He sat at the table, plopping a grape into his mouth casually. “And I shall see you in the morrow.” 

You curtsied once more before bidding him goodbye. “Good evening.” 

“Good evening.” 

Had Ormund broken? 

Yes, he had. 

This very morning, he, in the same breath, denied Lord and Lady Footling their bedchambers, threatened to end their lives, and swore that his men would be on their best behavior, all whilst bare as the day he was born.

Now, he asks that you come along to deal with a diplomacy issue. 

Lady Footling is as fierce as she is proud, stepping forward to confront the intruder of her home once more. “You said your men were honorable. This one-” She pointed to the Hightower knight standing to her right, his face bloodied and beaten. “Has sinned.”

“I was billeted at the smithy, my lord. But the smith didn’t like it. Mayhaps he resents the imposition or mayhaps he is loyal to Rhaenyra. But he struck me.”

“My lord.” The smith stepped forward. “Now, if it please you, we bear you no ill will. But this man went to ravish my sister and then broke my wife’s arm when she tried to stop him. She is a weaver. We need what little she earns.”

“Is this true?” Ormund looked at the Hightower knight with a look of neutrality. You do not trust him for a moment.

“No, my lord.” The knight replies.

Cries break out as a result. The women look utterly fearful, on the verge of tears when Ormund raises his hand. “I will have calm. What is your name?” 

“Garrick, my lord, of Whitegrove.” 

“Garrick of Whitegrove. You have violated guest right. You have debauched yourself upon a woman and injured another. Your punishment will fit your crime. You will be gelded, and you will have your own arm broken. You may remain in my service, but trespass again, and you will hang.”

The knight’s face was white. “My lord. I have a wife.” 

“You should have thought of that then,” You stepped forward. “Before you attempted to defile a woman’s virtue. The House of Hightower will not allow this dishonorable act to go unpunished.”

Ormund said nothing, simply signaling the knights to take him away. “See them home. Have a maester tend to their wounds.” He waited until their ears were out of reach to address Daeron. “We must keep a firm grip, tensions are high. Lawlessness and disorder claw at our gates.”

“Yes, sire.” 

“And your aunt is right.” He smiled firmly. “House Hightower will not allow its honor to be questioned.” 

“She is quite beautiful.” You whisper, caressing Tessarion’s snout sweetly. “Sweet too.” 

“Is she much different from the dragons you have known in the past?” Daeron pressed his forehead against her scales. “I have none to compare her to, it would seem.” 

“In stature, no. She is very similar to your-” You gulped, wondering how you might rephrase your answer. “To your sister’s dragon.” 

“Dreamfyre?” Daeron’s eyes lit up. “Yes, I have heard she is of a similar color. Kind too.” 

“Yes.” You pursed your lips. Thank the gods you did not mention Syrax. “Has she been out since you escorted me here?” 

“No.” He frowned. “She longs to fly. We hardly ever have the chance as of late.”

“She will feel the wind beneath her wings once more, I am sure of it.” 

Tessarion purred from the loss of his touch. He smiled, leaning his forehead against her once more.  “Patience, my girl. It won’t be long.”  

A high screech left the dragon’s mouth, startling you. “I have warned you against indulging in affection for that beast.” 

Tessarion grew restless, bellowing at the Hightower lord. You fought the smirk that was forming on your lips: even the dragon could sense how dismal his presence was. “Lykiri.” 

“Have you come down here to try and dull his longing to ride?” Ormund addressed you.

“Quite the opposite.” You smiled tightly. “He is a Targaryen, he should want to bond with his dragon.” You stepped forward, pulling your robes closer. “Or would you deny him his birthright?” 

Ormund chose not to respond, simply ignoring your act of defiance. “You are a good boy. You speak kindly, and you say your prayers. I have raised you in the light of the Seven, and the Father smiles upon you. But there is a taint in your blood. The Targaryens are a savage race, poor in intellect, but rich in cunning. With dark spells, they created abominations to subdue what was rightly ours. We are the superior men. But against that, we could not stand.” Tessarion growled as Ormund placed, or at least tried to, his hand on Daeron's shoulder. “The gods have put you to divine purpose, my boy.” 

“What purpose, sire?” 

“The brutes raise a woman to the Iron Throne. A desecration!” You held your tongue, deciding not to remind the man that Alicent had sat the throne for years in Viserys stead. “It was a blessing that you came to ward in Oldtown. Your brothers are lost, but you remain a Hightower, raised in the shadow of the Citadel, in the light of the Starry Sept. Now, you must be king.” 

Amongst other unfortunate virtues, your cousin (by marriage) was overbearing and intense. He could not lose, and he could not admit any wrongdoing. When his mind was set on a path, there was no changing it. You had witnessed many a passionate speech from the man, and this was shaping up to be one that you wanted to leave. 

And you would have, if not for Daeron’s sake. 

“You would not wish, surely, for me to turn cloak against my brothers.”

You stepped forward, grabbing Daeron’s hand and giving it a comforting squeeze as Ormund walked up the stairs and motioned towards the door.

Your eyes widened as Ormund’s right hand man dragged in the smith from earlier, whose wife had been assaulted. A hand subconsciously fell to your stomach, fear coursing through your veins. “I thought you let him go.” 

“A righteous king must demonstrate he upholds many virtues. Honor, wisdom, justice.” 

“He only acted when our man attacked a woman.” 

“He laid hands on a Hightower.” 

“You speak of justice yet you punish this man for something you yourself condemned.” You stepped forward, putting yourself between Daeron and the madman. “You are committing a grave mistake.” 

“Quiet, woman. That soldier is an extension of you, of the crown. Justice must be done.”

“Is not mercy a kingly virtue?” Your heart swelled with pride at Daeron’s argument. 

“That sounds like something your father would say.”

You pushed Daeron back, glaring as Ormund took a step closer, and drew his sword. “He is a boy, Ormund.” 

“He is the king.” 

“He is not the king!” You yelled. “He is sweet, and he is kind, but he is not a king. You cannot force him to carry out your ventures. It is not right.” 

“What is not right is you speaking out of turn-” 

“I beg your pardon?” You clenched your hands into tight fists. “He will not do it.” 

“Aunt-” Daeron whispered. “It is alright, truly.” 

“I will do it in his stead-” Your eyes welled up. “He’s just a boy. My boy.” 

“Aunt-” Daeron stepped around you, grabbing the sword from his uncle’s hands. “It must be done.” 

“Daeron, please-” 

He stood tall, his hand shaking ever so slightly as he stared at the smith. “Do not look. It will only upset you more.”

Your sleep was plagued with visions of Gwayne, both real memories and falsified. Your longing for your husband had gotten to the point where you considered sleeping forever so you could at least see him there.

You lay on your lounge chair, staring out the window of your chambers. If you could not sleep, perhaps you could daydream. Tumbleton was loud, louder than Oldtown ever was, even on its busiest day. You could not leave the estate, courtesy of Ormund’s lockdown. Not leaving the estate ruined your plans to explore the city, hand out food to those less fortunate, and roam the woods. 

All things you could do freely in Oldtown. All things you could be doing with Gwayne if his cousin had simply bent the knee and left this mess alone.

Instead, you were stuck here, like a prisoner in a dank cell.

A cell that had its own maid and delicious food, courtesy of the Footly’s chef, Mrs. Allen.

You were much more well off than most, you reminded yourself.

That didn’t stop you, however, from storming out of your room, your skirts swishing side to side, as you prepared to confront your cousin. Ormund sat behind his obnoxiously large desk, staring at a paper like it had personally offended him. 

“Ah, you’re awake.” 

Daydreaming would have to wait for another day. “I’ve been awake for hours, thank you.” You scoffed. “If you must know, I have been avoiding your presence.” 

“What have I done to upset you this time?” He sat back in his chair, smug as ever. 

“Other than refusing to let me return home and be at peace?” 

“Yes.” 

“You treat that boy-” You pointed to Daeron, who was dead silent, most likely in fear of being punished by his tyrant of an uncle. “Like a prize to be won. Not like the child that he is-” 

“He is six and ten.” 

“I believe you yourself were nine and ten when your father finally let you enter a tourney. Interesting, how you are permitted to shy away from the complexities of court, yet Daeron is forced to entertain your kingly notions.” 

He glared. “Get to the point.” 

“You must see reason and relinquish this city. Go back to Oldtown in good faith, and try to reach an agreement with the Queen.” 

“The Queen?” Ormund smirked. “Are you implying that Aegon, and by association, his younger brothers, are not the true line?” 

“I am implying that she is currently the Queen. Aegon and Aemond have fled.” You crossed your arms. “Do not twist my words. Surely, you see that-” 

“Uncle Gwayne!” Daeron's face lit up. “You've returned!”

Your breath catches as you whip around. Perhaps, you reason with yourself, this is all part of another of your terrifyingly realistic dreams. You pray that the auburn-haired knight in front of you is not a trick of the light. He looks worn to the bone, but you do not care. Your eyes well with tears, and Gwayne's face falls into an ever deeper pit of despair. “Are you alright, my love?”

Stalking forward, you grab his face in your hands, squeezing his cheeks lightly. “Are you real?” 

“My girl.” His hands grab at your hips, pulling you close. “I have missed you so-”

You pull your hands from his face, shoving at his chest between each word. “You left me!” 

“What is the meaning of this?” A deep frown forms on his weary face.

“You left me with him!” Tears threaten to fall from your eyes. “Do you have any idea the things-” 

Ormund cannot help but glare. “Watch your tongue, woman-” 

“Shut your mouth, Ormund.” You hiss.

Gwayne grabs your wrists, halting your attack and perhaps, in the process, saving everyone from the wrath of his cousin. “I have craved your touch for two moons now. Surely, you can wait to reprimand me until after I have bathed.” 

“You-” The tears released in steady streams. “I worried you were dead.” 

He pulled you close, kissing your lips gently. “Do not cry, my love, please.” 

“I cannot help it.” You huffed. “You did this to me.” 

“Did what exactly?” He laughs. You stepped back, motioning to your stomach. He raised an eyebrow, visibly confused. “I-” 

You turned to the side, letting the shape of your gown give him an indication as to what you could be implying. “Gwayne-” 

“Are you-” He grinned, stepping forward. “Are you with child?” 

“As much as I hate to interrupt this touching reunion-” Ormund cleared his throat. “You must tell me why you are here. I believed you to be in the woods with Criston Cole.”

Gwayne’s smile faltered, and you frowned, caressing his cheek gently. “Are you alright, my love?”

 “Ser Criston stayed to fight the Tully army with our remaining men.” 

“And so, he fights on, and yet you have returned. Because…” 

“Because fighting on is madness.” When you really look at your husband, you see sadness, a broken man whose values had been proven extinct long ago.

“Do you think me mad, Your Grace?” Ormund looks at Daeron expectantly. 

“No, sire.” 

“You mean to fight on?” Gwayne scoffs. “With what? There’s a dragon sitting on the hill above us, and five more not thirty leagues away.” 

“Rhaenyra will not burn her own subjects. She is a woman, squeamish.”

“If your host leaves these walls, they burn.” Gwayne’s jaw tightened. “Aemond has fled, and Rhaenyra holds my sister hostage. The River army draws closer by the day. You have put these countless peoples lives in jeopardy, my wife and unborn child’s lives in jeopardy. What possible course is there to remedy this?” 

“Your uncle lacks imagination as well as courage.” Gwayne squeezes your hand, noticing when your eyes ignite with a dangerous look. Daeron smiles at the quip, and you can’t help it when your heart breaks just a little. “I would take one Hightower sword over three Tully mudmen. When the usurper’s host comes here, we will fight on our terms, our grounds. We have the clear advantage. The great houses cannot help but come to our side.” 

“Have any yet come?” A laugh leaves your lips, and you slap a hand over your mouth, looking away. 

“The patient hunter gets the kill. Something our most craven must learn.” 

“I have marched a long road, fought and killed, and suffered my comrades to be killed about me.” 

“Yes, you have endured much.” Ormund leans against his desk, a sly smirk etched on his lips. “I’m sure you found solace in your brothers at arms.” 

“I am fatigued.” Gwayne does not give way to his cousin’s taunts. “It’s been weeks since I’ve seen a feather bed, and months since I’ve held my wife. By your leave.” 

“You might escort your Aunt and Uncle to their quarters, Your Grace. Make sure he bathes.” He laughs, calling out after you. “Oh, and mind yourself. Keep your back to the wall.” 

You see red as you reach out, gripping Daeron’s wrist. “We’re leaving. Do not listen to that craven man.”

Gwayne waits until they’ve turned the corner to speak. “He calls you Your Grace?” 

“I’m sorry, I had to get through it.” 

“And this is your way? Fawning?” 

You whisper, wary of being watched. “Daeron knows how to deal with the man. Ormund has reached a new height of madness, one you and I have never seen.”

“He has styled you the bloody king,” Gwayne grumbles.

“Well, you left me alone with him. You know what he is. I do what I can.” 

“You have done as well as anyone can, my boy.” You kiss the back of his hand. “But you know as well as I that your Uncle had no choice but to leave.” 

“It certainly didn’t grieve him to ride away.” Daeron ripped his hand from your hold, standing in the middle of the hall. 

Gwayne scoffed. “Mind yourself, Daeron.” 

“Gwayne-” 

“I hate who I am with him, and you- you don’t understand. He wants me to be the king. It is his greatest ambition.” 

“Then tell him you won’t do it.” 

“Who will protect me then?”

“You could cast him down.” Gwayne smiled. “If you were king.” 

“A merciful and noble king. You would be even better than your father.” You reassured. “I know it.” 

“I will never be king, Aunt.” 

“I must-” Gwayne groaned. “I must bathe. Bath and lie down.” 

“You will stay?” The boy sounded hopeful for the first time in months.

“And do what? Bear witness as Ormund marches our house to its doom? I’m second in line. I shall return to Oldtown and prepare to pick up the pieces.” 

“Don’t leave me again.” Daeron cried. “Please.” 

“You would be more than welcome to come with us, my sweet.” You look at Gwayne, whose face is blank. 

“He’s Ormund’s treasure now. He’ll be safer here.” 

You scoffed. “Surely, you do not mean that. Daeron, do not listen to-” But Daeron had left, and all the joy you’d felt when you’d seen your husband turned to anger. “Why would you say that to him?” 

“Darling-” 

“I cannot begin to describe the anger I feel towards you at this very moment.” You hissed, stalking around him. 

“You must understand-” 

You whipped around, your eyes fiery as you spoke. “I understand nothing. And seeing as you refuse to talk to me about the hardships you have faced-” 

“I have not had the chance.” He stepped forward. “If you recall, I’ve only just arrived.” 

“And what an impact you have made.” You scoffed. “Destroying what was left of that boy’s happiness.” 

“You cannot meant to imply-” 

“And yet I have.” You shoved past him. “Do not speak to me for the rest of the evening.” 

Gwayne’s eyes had not left you since your disagreement, bearing into your soul. You hated him for it: he had found the loophole in your request. 

You never said he couldn’t look at you. 

It didn’t help you in the slightest that, as angry as you were with him at the moment, your heart screamed for him, your skin craved his touch. Still, you glared. “Could you look elsewhere?” 

“I seem to recall a time when you begged for me to look upon you.” 

You stared at the ceiling. “Do you think me vain?” 

“Not at all.” The water splashed as he sat up in the bath. “I find you to be a perfectly well-balanced lady.” 

You squinted, wary of his kindness. “Do not try to blind me with your false niceties.” 

“You know as well as I that the things I tell you are not false.” He pauses for a moment, trying to catch your eyes. When you refuse to look at him, he continues. “Do you know how miserable it truly is to be fighting, to be away from one's home?"

You shake your head, and he nods. "I thought as such."

"That does not serve as an excuse to- to act a villain."

"Is that what you think of me?" When you do not respond, he looks away, eyes dark. "What a sad revelation."

"Gwayne-"

"Do you know what I thought of when I was away?” You shrug, your heart pumping wildly. “I thought of you. Only you-” 

“I cannot-” Your voice gave out, and so you stood, leaving his side to give yourself some respite. 

“I thought of-” His voice broke. “You in the morning,  when I’d wake before you and watch as you laid there, not a care in the world. The peace you had, the soft smile your lips carried. You turned your back to him, staring out the window as silent tears fell down your cheeks. “I would remind myself of that image, of your image, every time we went into battle. I love you so intensely that it hurts my soul.” In the middle of all the emotion, he had left the bath, appearing behind you with the stealth of an assassin. 

You leaned your back against his chest, eyes shut as his hands wrapped gently around your waist. “You are my whole world, my whole life. Do not think for a moment that I too did not want you by my side every waking moment you were gone. When I learned I was with child, I sobbed for days. All I did was wail for you from our bed, wishing that you would survive this bloody war.” You turn in his hold. “Never doubt my love for you. Never.” His forehead fell to lie against yours, his eyes falling to your lips with every breath. “I am upset with you because I know the man you are. And the man you are would never address that darling boy the way you have today.” 

“I am sorry-” 

“It is not I that you must apologize to.” Your hands shamelessly drifted up his bare chest, heat rising to your cheeks. “Please talk to him. Before it is too late. Before we-” You gulped. “Before we inevitably-” 

“I swear on the old gods and the new that nothing will happen to you or the babe. You will be safe from whatever we face here.” His chest heaved as his hands drifted up and down the side of you. “I made a vow to protect, and I would rather die than see you breathe your last breath.” 

“You are terribly dutiful.” You stretched your neck, delicately kissing the corner of his mouth. “But you do admit that you were callous with Daeron.” 

“I will apologize to him on the morrow; this I swear to you.” He nudged his nose against your jaw, tilting your head to make way for his affection. Slowly, his lips leave feathery kisses down your jaw and neck, stealing your breath away. 

“Gwayne-” You gasp. “I- you-” 

“What?” He teased, knowing your mind was struggling to form coherent thoughts. He knew this because he reacted the same way whenever you touched him. “I cannot begin to decipher what you are thinking if you cannot tell me-” 

“You are cruel.” Your voice sounded utterly wrecked. “So terribly cruel.”

“I hoped my wife would never utter those words.” He laughed. “But under these circumstances, I will allow it.”

The sun shone through the curtains, and you hummed. Your hands rose to your eyes, rubbing the sleep away. They slowly opened, an immediate sense of dread settling over you, the worst racing through your mind.

Had Gwayne truly returned, or had you dreamt it in order to deal with the pain that came with being apart? Your head whipped to the other side of the bed, a soft laugh leaving your lips.

Gwayne looked utterly exhausted. His mouth was open ever so slightly, his hair a mess from tossing and turning. You slide his tunic up, planting sweet kisses on the bruises that were still blooming on his perfect skin, still in disbelief that he was really, truly with you.

His hand wrapped around your waist, his eyes still closed as he pressed a kiss to your temple, grumbling a quiet good morning.

Thank the gods this is not a dream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your maid confirmed it the moment you stepped inside.

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

The room grew strangely still.

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

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

By midday, the whispers had reached even the maester.

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

"Lady Y/N." He bowed.

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

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

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

His demeanour alone told you this was no routine visit.

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

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

The maester would not meet your eyes.

Your own narrowed on his face.

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

The question hung between you, thick and unmoving.

"My lady..."

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

You waited.

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

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

The room went still.

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

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

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

It did not take long to understand what he implied.

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

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

He did not need to finish. You already understood.

Your voice was quiet, level when you finally spoke.

"You believe he took me against my will?"

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

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

There it was.

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

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

He simply thought you had survived him.

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

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

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

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

A strange kindness; a strange cruelty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The news did not spread loudly.

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

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

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

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

You had not returned until morning.

You had refused the moon tea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But no one resisted a mere assumption.

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

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

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

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

"My lady."

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

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

She hesitated, hands folded tight before her.

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

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

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

You could only blink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Influence was simply assumed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The castle had reached a dangerous conclusion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But inconvenient did not mean useless.

You did not speak. You did not point.

You only looked.

Once.

Then again.

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

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

"The southern road."

The room stilled.

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

One lord frowned, confused. "My lord?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

You said nothing. You did not need to.

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

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

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

Young Daeron cleared his throat and reached for his goblet.

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

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

"It did."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daeron's gaze moved between you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lord Ormund laughed, low and genuine.

Daeron could only stare.

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

This was something else entirely.

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

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

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

A sharp knock struck the door.

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

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

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

Lord Ormund sighed. "What is it?"

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

Silence stretched.

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

"Uncertainty?"

"The Lady's Hall, my lord."

Your heart gave a single, hard beat.

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

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

"Where does this question come from?"

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

Lord Ormund's brow lifted.

His voice was very quiet. "Recent circumstances."

It was not a question.

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

The room went still as death.

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

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

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

You only frowned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He rounded the table.

Every step brought him closer.

"My lord, I only thought-"

"Do you know what you have done?"

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

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

"My lord, I meant no harm."

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

His voice sharpened, cutting like a whip.

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

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

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

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

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

"My lord?"

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

Silence - absolute and breathless.

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

"My lord."

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

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

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

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

He merely paused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Let them whisper."

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

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

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

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

You offered him a small, polite smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You turned to the young Targaryen ward.

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

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

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

I have this.

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

Daeron hesitated a moment longer, then inclined his head.

"Very well, my lady."

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

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

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

You suited him.

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

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

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

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

He did not smile back.

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

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

Something in your tone made him narrow his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That caught his attention.

"Grateful?"

You nodded. "Yes."

He lifted a brow, though he did not smile.

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

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

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

"Perhaps."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A low, warm laugh rumbled beneath your ear.

You hesitated before speaking, quiet and sure.

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

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

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

Your heart gave a wild, sudden beat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Curiosity flickered in his eyes, dark and intense.

Your next words were a prayer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something in him broke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One sure, decisive stroke.

Fabric and lace fell away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes were crazed, pupils blown wide.

Reverence and ruin in equal measure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were feral.

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

"Out!"

The sound cracked through the room like a whip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your head fell back, breath hitching in gasps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you enjoy watching me, my lord?"

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

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

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

And you smiled.

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

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

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

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

"Surely you do not wish to disappoint me."

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

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

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

A sharp knock came at the door.

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

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

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

Another knock - louder, more insistent.

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

"What is it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The patient hunter gets the kill.”

It hit him harder than any touch ever could.

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

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

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

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

___________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your maid confirmed it the moment you stepped inside.

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

The room grew strangely still.

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

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

By midday, the whispers had reached even the maester.

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

"Lady Y/N." He bowed.

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

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

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

His demeanour alone told you this was no routine visit.

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

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

The maester would not meet your eyes.

Your own narrowed on his face.

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

The question hung between you, thick and unmoving.

"My lady..."

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

You waited.

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

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

The room went still.

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

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

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

It did not take long to understand what he implied.

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

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

He did not need to finish. You already understood.

Your voice was quiet, level when you finally spoke.

"You believe he took me against my will?"

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

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

There it was.

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

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

He simply thought you had survived him.

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

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

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

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

A strange kindness; a strange cruelty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The news did not spread loudly.

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

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

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

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

You had not returned until morning.

You had refused the moon tea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But no one resisted a mere assumption.

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

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

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

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

"My lady."

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

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

She hesitated, hands folded tight before her.

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

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

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

You could only blink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Influence was simply assumed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The castle had reached a dangerous conclusion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But inconvenient did not mean useless.

You did not speak. You did not point.

You only looked.

Once.

Then again.

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

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

"The southern road."

The room stilled.

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

One lord frowned, confused. "My lord?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

You said nothing. You did not need to.

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

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

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

Young Daeron cleared his throat and reached for his goblet.

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

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

"It did."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daeron's gaze moved between you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lord Ormund laughed, low and genuine.

Daeron could only stare.

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

This was something else entirely.

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

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

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

A sharp knock struck the door.

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

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

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

Lord Ormund sighed. "What is it?"

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

Silence stretched.

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

"Uncertainty?"

"The Lady's Hall, my lord."

Your heart gave a single, hard beat.

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

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

"Where does this question come from?"

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

Lord Ormund's brow lifted.

His voice was very quiet. "Recent circumstances."

It was not a question.

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

The room went still as death.

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

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

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

You only frowned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He rounded the table.

Every step brought him closer.

"My lord, I only thought-"

"Do you know what you have done?"

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

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

"My lord, I meant no harm."

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

His voice sharpened, cutting like a whip.

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

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

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

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

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

"My lord?"

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

Silence - absolute and breathless.

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

"My lord."

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

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

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

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

He merely paused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Let them whisper."

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

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

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

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

You offered him a small, polite smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You turned to the young Targaryen ward.

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

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

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

I have this.

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

Daeron hesitated a moment longer, then inclined his head.

"Very well, my lady."

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

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

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

You suited him.

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

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

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

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

He did not smile back.

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

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

Something in your tone made him narrow his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That caught his attention.

"Grateful?"

You nodded. "Yes."

He lifted a brow, though he did not smile.

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

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

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

"Perhaps."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A low, warm laugh rumbled beneath your ear.

You hesitated before speaking, quiet and sure.

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

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

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

Your heart gave a wild, sudden beat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Curiosity flickered in his eyes, dark and intense.

Your next words were a prayer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something in him broke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One sure, decisive stroke.

Fabric and lace fell away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes were crazed, pupils blown wide.

Reverence and ruin in equal measure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were feral.

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

"Out!"

The sound cracked through the room like a whip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your head fell back, breath hitching in gasps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you enjoy watching me, my lord?"

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

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

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

And you smiled.

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

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

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

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

"Surely you do not wish to disappoint me."

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

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

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

A sharp knock came at the door.

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

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

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

Another knock - louder, more insistent.

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

"What is it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The patient hunter gets the kill.”

It hit him harder than any touch ever could.

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

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

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

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

___________

TAG LIST

Gwayne gives you nothing in response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ormund scoffs out a laugh. “Whoring?”

“Idle hands.”

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

His hands go stiff beneath yours, forgetting how to move them for a moment. And though his breath catches at the foreign contact, he does not step back from you, not even when a faint red flush begins to climb up the column of his throat. His mouth parts softly as his pale eyes go lidded, and your smile sharpens at the sight of it.

“You can touch me if you like, my lord,” you tell him, smoothing your hands over his green-leather coat up towards his shoulders. “I promise I don’t bite… Unless you’d prefer that I did.”

Gwayne watches your arms curl around Ormund’s shoulders with his stomach in knots. He feels suddenly very nauseous, watching his brutish cousin rest his undeserving hands where Gwayne has lain his own a thousand times over. Even now, knowing exactly what game you’re playing and why, he wants so desperately to pull you away and take you back to the Honey Inn and drown in your silk sheets forever.

But the gods aren’t that kind, and you are far too stubborn to come with him, so he clears his throat and bids his final goodbye. “Well…” he calls into the quiet, forcing a lightness into his voice as he folds his hands behind his back and moves towards the door. “I guess I’ll leave you to it…”

“Stay,” Ormund commands in a flat voice, without once taking his eyes off yours.

Gwayne freezes mid-step. His eyes widen right before an awkward laugh sputters from his mouth. “What?” he chuckles, forced from a half-strangled throat. “You’ll surely not have much fun with me standing about, cousin—”

Ormund turns finally to face him. A hint of a pleasant smile sits on his mouth, though his eyes carry a much icier glare in comparison. “Stay,” he repeats. “It’s only fair, isn’t it? You’ve been keeping her to yourself all these years, I’ve heard. Now you’ll have your turn to watch. I find I rather like the idea of you learning what that feels like.”

A flicker of anger passes over Gwayne’s face.

Ormund’s smug grin widens. “Do sit, cousin. You’ll want a good view, I expect.”

Gwayne does not move from where he stands but does not close the scant distance between him and his escape either. He has seen what Ormund does to people who do not abide by his every command, and he is less inclined to witness it himself now — or, worst of all, have that cruelty brought upon you.

You watch the exchange with an unreadable expression and file the encounter in the back of your head for later use, should you need it. One hand drags from his shoulder to his neck, coaxing him to look your way again with gentle fingers splayed along his shaven jaw.

“Fond of an audience, are you, my lord?” you murmur to him. “I confess, I wouldn’t have guessed that about you before now.”

Ormund nods, almost pleased. “There’s a great deal about me that you couldn’t possibly guess,” he retorts in a low voice.

“Good thing I’m a quick learner then, isn’t it?”

You urge him further down and tilt your chin to meet him halfway, slotting your lips in a lingering kiss. He’s warm and firm pressed against you, though his tongue tastes of nothing more than mint leaves and well-water when you lick into his mouth; as clean and sterile as all the rest of him. So much so that you think he could probably get drunk on the Dornish wine stained on your tongue alone. And you figure that he must, the way he relaxes against you with a slow breath, planting one hand along the back of the couch to brace himself and urging you backward along with it.

Your lips part with a quiet click. You smile to yourself when Ormund attempts to chase your mouth, nudging the tip of your nose against his broader one. “Let the poor boy go,” you coo softly to him. “I don’t suspect you’ll want an audience for the things I have planned for you, my lord.”

Ormund’s broad chest warms at the promise in your words, but his stubborn will never wavers. “No… I don’t think I will.”

You try not to let your face fall completely as you scramble for another excuse that might set Gwayne free. The auburn-haired man scoffs a faint laugh from across the room. “Cousin, I—”

“You will stay,” Ormund commands. “And learn exactly how it feels to stand apart and watch.”

Something cold and heavy settles in the pit of your stomach at his words — at Gwayne’s previous warning come to life right before your eyes. “He’ll want it now,” he’d told you. “He’ll want it simply because it’s mine.” You hadn’t understood the true weight of his meaning until now, with both you and Gwayne trapped beneath the man’s easily irritable, if not dangerous temper; and watching the promise of freedom slip through your fists like grains of sand.

You replace the distant look of worry on your face with another small smile the moment Ormund turns back to you, and try hard to kiss him back without reservation when he presses his mouth to yours again. There is little restraint in him now — in the tongue he licks between your parted lips, or in the ringed hands that trace the neckline of your dress.

His fingers curl beneath the thin fabric, urging it down down down until your bare breasts are exposed to the firelight and your delicate nipples pebble in the cool air. They’re sensitive within his rough hands as he cups them in his palms. You sigh hard in place of a moan, and feel Ormund grin softly into his kiss at the sound of it. His wet mouth smears across your skin as he trails his kisses from your mouth, to your jaw, and down your neck, before planting them to your left breast.

You sit back on your haunches and cradle the back of his hand, whimpering quietly when his tongue flicks across the sensitive nipple. Your eyes fall to Gwayne’s on instinct, where he remains across the room with his jaw locked tight, his hands balled into fists, and his pale eyes flaming with a withheld rage. He feels every inch of the late hour slipping away from you both — Daeron is still waiting for him at the stables now, and soon it will be too late to flee. And somewhere beneath his fear is a simmering jealousy, as he’s forced to watch his cousin’s undeserving mouth caress your body.

Your eyes dart to the door just beside him; a silent plea for him to leave with Ormund now distracted, as his mouth trails to your right breast. Gwayne answers with a curt shake of his head, to the left and back again. He wouldn’t make it down the hall before Ormund would realize he’d gone, and the both of you would likely suffer far worse for it.

So he suffers the sight before him instead, watches Ormund’s swollen mouth pluck off your breast and kiss the breath from your lungs once more.

He pulls off of you with a rosier grin. “Alright,” he pants. “Undress me.”

And though you’ve undressed many men over the years, your fingers tremble around each clasp of his leather coat for a reason you can’t name. You struggle now to meet his gaze with as much confidence as you had moments ago, as you urge the heavy fabric from his shoulders. His tunic goes next — the lace unknotted and the hem pulled from his trousers. You tug it up and over his head until the golden canvas of his body is revealed to you, toned from years in the training yard and unblemished from years of hiding from battle.

You run your hands down his shaven chest to the sparse at his stomach, a line that leads down into his pants. You unbuckle his scabbard next and then loosen the knot at his trousers, urging the fabric down his scruffy, muscular thighs. He sighs through his nose when his cock meets the cool air of the solar. He’s a few inches shorter than Gwayne, but thicker where it counts, with veins that trail in jagged lines from the base of his cock to the soft pink tip.

“Go on…” Ormund coaxes with a nod. “Kiss it.”

He’s half-stiff and smoother than velvet when you take him in your fist. He twitches harder in your palm when you duck your head to press a languid kiss to the satin head of his cock, right before swirling your tongue under the ridge of it.

Ormund watches you from the bridge of his nose, laughing through a low moan in the back of his throat. “Look at that… She is a good whore,” he hums with a smug smile, as he cradles the crown of your head in his wide hands. “And I didn’t even have to pay her…”

His head swivels in Gwayne’s direction, where he finds the younger man still scowling by the door, mere inches away from his escape. Ormund’s grin only widens at the sight of it.

“Careful now, cousin, or I’ll start to think you’re jealous… She said it herself, didn’t she? She doesn’t belong to anyone. Bad for business… Right, dove?”

You nod with your lips still wrapped around him, suckling the sensitive tip of his cock and using the remnants of your spit to jerk the rest of him in a slow, firm fist. Ormund grumbles a moan in the back of his throat and tips his heavy head back. His toned stomach tightens as a pleasured feeling coils in the pit of it, wound tight by your expert mouth upon him.

He tries to even his wavering breaths in a feeble attempt to make the moment last — if only to make his cousin watch a little while longer — but the wet sounds of your mouth are enough to undo him. And when you reach a hand to squeeze softly at his heavy balls, he nearly bursts entirely.

“Enough—” he hears himself blurt, pulling you off by your hair. Your lips part from him with a smacking sound. The thin string of saliva connecting you to him pulls thin until it clings to your bottom lip. You peer up at him with wide, glassy eyes. His broad chest heaves with every panted breath as he fights to regain his slipping composure.

“Get out of that dress,” he commands breathlessly, lips quirking into a grin. “And get on your hands and knees.”

You feel your heart thrumming hard in your throat when you reach for the sleeves of your dress, having long slipped from your shoulders now. You slide your arms out and roll the remaining fabric down your torso. The silk pools like water at your feet when you rise to take it the rest of the way off. The air feels cool against your flaming skin, and leaves chills pebbling in its wake. When you turn to plant yourself on the couch, just as he commanded, you feel Ormund swat your ass with a less-than-kind hand.

“Facing him,” he scolds in a gentle voice. “Give him a show now, shall we?”

You settle on your hands and knees along the lush cushions, angling yourself to face the door — to face Gwayne. Your bare chest heaves at the sight of him, pretty face etched with an anger you haven’t quite seen from him before. The quiet wretchedness of a man watching a thing he loves be claimed by a hand that’s already taken so much from him, and knowing that he cannot save you from any of it.

You want so badly to tell him that this is only a means to an end — that you do still love him — but you cannot risk Ormund hearing the words aloud and cannot hide the slick of primal excitement going sticky between your thighs.

So for now, you can only hold Gwayne’s wet-eyed gaze, and hope he can read the apology written in yours.

Gwayne cannot seem to look away from it, not even when Ormund settles in just behind you, with one leg bent on the cushion and the other still planted on the floor. Not even when the man presses two long fingers at the entrance of your weeping cunt, and hums in satisfaction when they slide without friction within your sticky walls.

“Mm…” he laughs beneath your whimpering. “You are lovely, you know— wasted on this trade, if I’m honest…” He curls his fingers and feels you clench around them when he pulls them back out again. “Perhaps I’ll wash some of that sin off you tonight… Make you clean… Make you mine… Would you like that?”

He reaches around to press his pointer and middle finger to your bottom lip, still glimmering with your slick. Your mouth parts for him on instinct, and he presses them to the pad of your tongue. You nod wordlessly with his long fingers in your mouth, salty-sweet with your honey, and imagine their Gwayne’s instead.

“You’ll agree with anything I ask, won’t you?” He laughs when you nod and slides his fingers out of your mouth again. “Like I said… Good whore…”

He grabs himself in his fist and presses the head of his cock to your pulsing entrance. He pierces you slowly, and feels your eager cunt spread around him inch by inch. Your airy sigh mixes with his rumbled groan when he buries himself to the hilt, with his hips pressed flush to your ass.

“Are you watching, Gwayne?” he calls proudly to his cousin, smoothing his rough hands along the canvas of your back.

Gwayne’s fingers curl and loosen into fists at his sides as his features flicker with a choked-back rage. “I’d prefer to take my leave now, cousin,” he answers, half-strangled.

“No…” Ormund coos with a sympathetic shake of his head. “Not until she cums, anyway. So… best work quickly, dove.”

He fucks into you a second later with a sort of precision you’d expect from a man like him. His thrusts are shallow and rhythmic and methodical. His balls smack your leaking cunt with every pass, creating a lewd symphony of sex all around you — of skin clapping against skin, of panted breaths entwining. Gwayne figures the sounds of war must’ve been far less cruel than this.

Ormund braces one hand along the back of your neck, like you’re a hound to be forced into submission, while his other slithers around your hip. The pads of his fingers press hard to your clit and a cry falls from your mouth before you can help it, filling the otherwise quiet solar.

“Rather sensitive for a whore, aren’t you?” Ormund chuckles from behind you. “Because you’ve never been fucked by a man before, I’d wager. Isn’t that right, cousin?”

Gwayne’s eyes burn under the weight of his unshed tears. He has faced death a thousand times over in the past few weeks, yet none of it was quite as heart-aching as this. His rage simmers to a boil in his throat, and it feels like fire when he swallows it down again.

Ormund’s thrusts grow sloppy thereafter, led purely by the pursuit of his own pleasure. But his fingers remain merciless on your swollen clit, and a white-hot pleasure begins to swell in the pit of your stomach accordingly. You grit your teeth and clench your fingers hard around the gold arm of the lavish couch in a feeble attempt to fight it — for your own pride, and perhaps for Gwayne’s, too.

“You’re mine now,” you hear Ormund say from just behind you, choppy between his faltering thrusts. “You’ll answer to no one else’s bed but mine. From this night forward. Is that understood?”

You nod wordlessly in response, if only to appease him for the moment, and feel his hand tighten on the back of your neck.

“Say it.”

“…I understand,” you just barely manage to squeak out.

“Then cum for me.”

He presses harder on your clit. Your face twists with a pleasure you can no longer fight away. You squeeze your eyes shut when your gaze falls instinctively to Gwayne’s, and when his pained features make your chest sear with a burning feeling. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan as your cunt gushes around Ormund’s twitching cock. He thrusts into you once, hard, and shudders just against you. His rough groan mixes with the sound of your quiet whimpering as he spits ropes of warm cum into your fluttering pussy, milking him for every drop of it.

“That’s it…” he spits through gritted teeth, fucking you sloppily through the rest of his high. “Take it all— There you go…”

He swats your ass once he’s finally spent himself inside you, gripping hard at the plush skin there and forcing you flush against his scruffy thighs. A satisfied grin sits crooked at his mouth when his lidded gaze falls once more to the man across the room.

“Oh, don’t sulk, cousin,” Ormund calls to him, flushed chest still heaving. “I’ll have another whore sent up for you, if you wish.”

Gwayne flinches instantly at the very thought of it, at being with anyone else but you — at some other woman’s hands being where only yours have been, at having some other stranger’s mouth on him instead of the only one he knows by heart. His features flicker with an involuntary disgust before he can hide it.

“Oh…” Ormund grins wider. “Did you… Did you think you could have this one?”

He punctuates his question by thrusting hard into you once more. You make a pained noise in the back of your throat at your growing sensitivity; head bowed and shoulders heaving as your weeping cunt clenches around his softening cock. Ormund chuckles through another moan at the sensation.

“No. No, no— See, this one’s mine now…” Ormund continues, pale eyes icing over into a glacial sort of look. “And you’d do well to remember it, cousin… Because I’d hate for anyone to come to harm over… so small a misunderstanding, wouldn’t you say?”

Gwayne’s blood runs cold at Ormund’s promise, because he knows his cousin far too well to mistake it for anything less. And he knows now, too, that whatever escape he, Daeron, and Tessarion might’ve made tonight has long since closed in on itself, and will surely not open again while you remain under Ormund’s dangerous, unforgiving hand.

So he will stay. And he will wait for Rhaenyra’s army to march through these gates. And he will make certain that his cousin does not live to see the end of it, so long as it means that Gwayne gets to have you to himself when the ashes finally settle over Oldtown.

The laughter doubles and strangles Gwayne accordingly, who is completely and utterly out of his element now. He swallows hard through a tightening throat and draws a slow breath through his nose, trying once again to steady himself — because it was not for himself that he was out here in the first place. It was for Daeron, and for the dozen other boys just like him that Ormund had lined along the front ranks to take the war’s first bite. 

So Gwayne presses on, forcing an evenness into his voice that he doesn’t exactly feel beneath the death glares all around him. “My cousin, Ormund, has taken leave of his senses. As I’m sure you’re aware. He’d rather die than admit defeat—”

“And you?” Daemon lilts lazily, resting his arms along the hilt of his sword.

Gwayne’s eyes cut across the men arrayed before him, still only a fraction of the true Black host. “Well, I’m not blind… I know we will not survive the day if you attack. So… As a token of good faith… I return your Hand.” 

He drops Corlys’s shackles with a heavy clinking sound, but does not take the blade from his side. The silence that follows seems to last for an eternity, until your pretty voice breaks it at last.

“Can he be a Hard with only four fingers?” you joke, tilting your head towards the old lord’s bandaged fist.

The laughter returns again. Gwayne’s icy blue eyes flits once more to you in a quick, assessing pass; he does not mean for his gaze to linger upon you, but he can’t quite manage to look away. Your armor catches in what little light breaks through the clouds overhead, carved with the intricate detailing of your house. And beneath all that heavy steel is your much softer face — beautiful and unbothered by the promise of war simmering in the heavy summer air.

There is something very wrong about you, Gwayne knows; something he can’t quite decide to be afraid of or intrigued by. A bit of both, perhaps.

“I’ve come to sue for peace,” Gwayne announces, louder now, forcing the words out over the laughter. ‘To plead with you at the behest of Daeron Targaryen.”

The amusement in Daemon’s pale eyes flickers at once, a distant warmth running cold as his thin mouth curls into a sharp grin. “The war will end when all the traitors’ heads are mounted on spikes about the King’s Gate,” the older man answers. “And not before.”

“Listen to Daeron’s entreaty,” Gwayne pleads, eyes growing wide behind the silken auburn tendrils swaying over his brows. “Divide the realm. Let the Queen rule over the Crownlands, the North, the Vale, all the lands watered by the Trident… And let Daeron rule from Oldtown—"

“Oh, gods…” Roderick groans in disgust from his left.

“He’s boring me, Daemon,” you tell the silver-haired man standing on foot before you, voice flat with a theatrical ennui that borders on girlish. “Just kill him already.” 

“Do you hear that?” Daemon laughs as he turns back to Gwayne. “You’re boring her… And trust me, Ser, you do not want to see how she gets when she’s bored—”

“You jest?” Gwayne spits as his composure splinters all at once. The words seem to spill from his mouth before he can stop them, as he approaches the older man on instinct alone. “You would rather callously cast aside the lives of thousands—”

He does not get another word out before Daemon’s hand closes suddenly around his throat.  The world tilts sideways as the man drags him downward in his fist. His metal glove digs hard into Gwayne’s milky white neck, cutting off just enough of his air supply to keep him conscious, though Daemon does not so much as blink at the show of strength.

“No one will rule but Rhaenyra,” Daemon tells him in a casual voice, even as Gwayne’s hands scrabble uselessly for purchase at his wrist. “The ordained Queen of the Andals, of the First Men, of beggars and thieves and cowards, like you. A new Valyria will rise from the ashes of her usurper half-brothers. And of the Hightowers of Oldtown.” 

Gwayne can hardly hear him over the thunder of his pulse in his skull as black spots begin to speckle in his vision, like so many drops of ink spreading through water.

“But…” Daemon trails off. His grip on Gwayne’s neck does not loosen, but something in his eyes does. The cold burn of rage melts away into a distant look of calculation. “Since you came under the banner of peace… Perhaps I’ll give you a choice…” 

Daemon turns slowly to you, peering up at you from behind the wisps of white hair blowing across his face. Gwayne’s watery, unfocused eyes follow in turn and find you watching the whole ordeal with your head tilted gently to one side. There is no horror in your face, nor an ounce of pity either. 

“You said you wanted to live in a pretty castle, didn’t you?” Daemon calls to you, with a sort of fondness creeping into his voice while Gwayne turns purple under his fist. “To twirl around in pretty silk dresses, with a pretty silk husband?”

You had said it half in jest a few months past, in a hall far too to the north for anyone to remember its existence, except for when they needed its sword. You were the last living heir to a name older than most in the realm, ruling alone with more soldiers under your command than servants, when Daemon had come with his dragon asking for whatever men you could spare.

You’d given him what he asked, and when he’d wondered in turn what you wanted for it, you answered him evenly. “A castle… And a few dresses… And perhaps a husband to warm my bed— all the pretty, useless shit people like you worry about.”

You hadn’t expected to be repaid so soon, and certainly not on the battlefield on the very eve of war, with a dead man crumpling to his feet before you.

“What of it?” you say with an arched brow.

“Here’s your pretty husband,” Daemon nods his silver head down toward the man gasping in his grip. “Right here… If you want him, of course.”

Gwayne’s bleary eyes flit back to you. Through the black in his vision, he finds you studying the whole of him as if he were livestock to be appraised at market. He comes to the rather humiliating realization that he wants very badly for you to say yes — both with a primal despair of wanting to live and with the distant desperation of wanting your approval.

You scrunch the bridge of his nose. “He’s a bit puny, isn’t he?”

“A bit?” Ser Rodrick scoffs.

“Well, what he lacks in height and muscle, he makes up for twice over in wealth,” Daemon tells you. “Far wealthier than you’re like to find anywhere else, to be sure… What do you say?”

You consider for a long moment, then, despite watching Gwayne slowly slip from consciousness. He can no longer tell if it takes you one minute or one hour to decide, which you finally do with one lazy bounce of your shoulder. 

“Alright.” 

Daemon’s fingers loosen at once. Warm, summer air rushes back into Gwayne’s body as he crumples to his knees onto the dried grass below. The oxygen burns in his throat, his shoulders heaving as he retches. It takes a long moment for the world to come back into focus. And when it finally does, Daemon’s voice finds him again as he looms a long shadow over the kneeling man.

“Do you hear that? I will spare your life — and that of your precious nephew’s, should he bend the knee to the rightful Queen — and you will live out the rest of your days as lord husband to the new Lady of Oldtown… How does that sound?”

It sounds nothing like what Gwyane had walked out here to discuss, to be sure. He’d only meant to save Daeron’s life, and somehow bartered his own for a marriage to a woman he had known for the length of one terribly humiliating conversation. But he is still breathing, at least, and his nephew is too. And for now, that’s enough.

He nods wordlessly in response, and feels an aching in his throat when he does so.

“Thank her,” Daemon scolds like a parent would their child. When Gwayne’s bowed hands snap in his direction to make sure he’d heard him right, he feels the man take a sudden fistful of his auburn hair, wrenching him towards you again. “That was not rhetorical, Ser Gwayne— Thank your new lady wife for saving you. It’s only fair.”

Gwayne swallows hard through a raw throat and peers up at you with bleary eyes from where he kneels on the ground before you. “Thank...” he attempts to speak, but the word comes out strangled. “Thank you...”

“My lady,” Daemon reminds him.

Gwayne coughs. “M-My lady…”

You look down at him from where you idle on horseback. A small smile hints at the corner of your mouth as you hum in satisfaction. “Mm… You’re welcome, lord husband.”

You turn on your horse without so much as a backward glance, gathering the reins in your fist and looking instead toward the gates of Tumbleton — where Ormund’s men prepare their archers for the first wave of battle. “Now…” you say, grinning over your shoulder at your house’s men gathered just behind you. Your voice carries across the length of the plain. “Let’s go win this fucking war!”

The ranks roar a wordless answer in response — a ragged, joyous, bloodthirsty sound as swords beat against their shields. Gwayne hears the battlecry swell all around him, and wonders if his death would’ve been a kinder fate than what is sure to await him when the fight is done.

The wedding was done by evenfall, while smoke rose from the ashes of Tumbleton; the air still thick with the scent of blood and rot. 

You exchanged vows while your armor was still splattered with the blood of the Green Army and your hair was still matted with sweat. There had been no sept, no godswood, no seven blessings, no ribbon tied around clasped hands. There was only a shaded tent, a Tumbleton septon kept alive for the very purpose of ceremony, and a scrap of parchment to sign your names — though Gwayne’s hand was still a little sore from the heavy chains wrapped around them.

No feast follows. No song, no celebration, no bedding. Because too many people had died on both sides — Ormund among them, burnt and buried in ash. And though Daeron breathes still, safe and unbloodied by sword, Gwayne wears the cost of that safety in the shackles around his wrist and waist. He was lord now, and a husband, and he did not ask to be. 

He only wanted his nephew to live to see sixteen.

“So… That’s it then,” Gwayne said on an exhaled breath while a worse-for-wear Daemon shoved the old septon out by his neck. His pretty face was softened by the candlelight of the war tent, even despite the soot streaked across his face and the flaming tendrils clinging to his forehead with sweat. “Husband and wife, are we?”

“Seems that way,” you said beneath the quiet glugging of the ale you poured. The watered wine spilled slightly over the maps scattered there when you turned briefly to flash him a smile over your shoulder. “Congratulations, my lord.” 

Gwayne felt a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, right before a sharp breath escaped him in a sad sort of laugh. “Aren’t you concerned?” he said, pale eyes fixed on your armored form. “I’m not sure how a marriage such as this can be held up by law…” 

“Oh, I’m not worried,” you assured him with a shake of your head.

“No?” 

“No…” you insisted and turned back around to face him, sporting an old goblet in your bloodied fist. “Because I know you have no interest in being killed— or your nephew, besides… It’s righteous of you, really, so… You’re not going anywhere, Ser Gwayne.”

Your lips curled into a slow, sharp grin as you brought the cup to your mouth, chugging the whole of it until the soft purple wine started to drip down to your chin.

Gwayne still could not yet decide what you had planned for him — if you meant to love him truly or kill him the second you arrived at Oldtown. And a distant, disgusting part of him could not wait to find out.

Oldtown, as you’ve come to find it, smells nothing like the wet cobbles, and horse dung, and rotted wood of the half-forgotten manse you grew up in. Here, everything smells of salt and lemon trees and sun-warmed stone. It is everything you’d asked Daemon for — a large castle, enough silk to drown in, hands that tended to your every want, and a husband to warm your bed. Though you still spend most of your days in the fighting yard, tearing and sweating through whatever fine silk you’d dressed in that day.

Gwayne is still getting used to the presence of you and your men in his ancestral home, and his newfound position within it. Daeron, too, spends many weeks wary of the very sight of you — the reason for the death of his uncle, and simultaneously, the reason for his freedom. You do not ask for his forgiveness; you just put a sparring sword in his hand and ask him to give you all the brunt of the anger you know he keeps hidden. 

You and your men put the sweet boy on his back more often than not, but he keeps coming back for more anyway.  And somewhere in that routine, gratitude creeps in where the resentment used to live, and Daeron comes slowly around.

“Well… You’ve made a fine swordsman out of him,” Gwayne sighs without turning from the window overlooking the courtyard, where his nephew continues to spar with the northern knights. He hears you waltz by somewhere behind him, your pretty silk gown rustling at your ankles and clinging at the sweaty small of your back. “Ormund would never let the boy train this hard…” 

“Daeron has good enough instincts, it seems,” you answer, tugging lazily at the lace in your bodice. “Which I find rather surprising, considering the company he grew up with…” 

Gwayne finds himself smiling at the jab, far wider than he realizes. You’ve never run short of witty, merciless quips, he’s found throughout his time with you; and he finds himself taking a strange liking to the way you so effortlessly cut him down. 

“And what is that supposed to mean exactly?” he says as he turns away from the window. 

Whatever quip had been sitting on his tongue then, turns to ash in his throat at the sight of you — with your gown abandoned in a pile on the cobbles, and you slouched at your vanity stool in nothing but the thin slip beneath it. The fabric rises from your knee, revealing the soft canvas of your thighs. You’ve slid one arm free from the thin sleeves to bare a shoulder painted a darker shade from the fresh bruises blooming there.

Your skin is littered with scars from battles past, and he struggles to look away from any of it. His chest stings with the thought of you ever being hurt, then warms twice over at the sight of your breast threatening to spill over from where the slip had gone askew.

“You needn’t look so scandalized, husband,” you laugh as you reach for the clay pot of healing ointment, which never strays too far from your side. “Surely, you’ve seen worse than a woman’s shift… Handsome as you are.”

Gwayne’s face flushes at the compliment, and he hates how boyish he feels.

He clears his throat and averts his gaze, folding his clammy palms behind his back. “I only find myself surprised, I guess, at how… little you seem to mind it, is all.”

“Mind what? The bruises?” you scoff, dabbing the ointment along your shoulder and hissing at how tender the skin has gone. “I’ve had far worse from far better fights, I assure you. Maybe one day I’ll show you the scar on my—”

“Modesty,” Gwayne blurts before you can finish. “I meant modesty…” 

“Oh…” you hum, face screwing faintly as you work the earthy salve in slow circles. “I never had much use for modesty, I suppose… A keep with more soldiers than servants doesn’t have much of it, in truth…”

You reach back then, trying hopelessly to work the balm into the worst of the bruise along your shoulder blade, but the angle is not so forgiving. You huff and twist and achieve nothing but a fresher ache for the trouble. 

Gwayne exhales a sympathetic sigh from across the room. “Here…” he huffs as he crosses the distance between you, reaching out an expectant hand when he looms just behind your chair.

You consider arguing for a moment, if only out of habit, but place the clay pot into his pale palm regardless. “Try not to enjoy it too much,” you joke with a small grin tugging at your mouth.

“I make no promises, my lady,” he quips in a low deadpan. 

But even his sarcasm cannot mask the tenderness he holds in his hands when they find your shoulder, working the ointment in with a care you didn’t know he was capable of — a care you didn’t know you were deserving of. The pad of his thumb smooths slowly over the worst of the bruise, and you feel something soften in your chest.

“You’re better at this than I would’ve guessed,” you tell him, if only to fill the suffocating silence pressing hard on either side of you.

“I’ve had ample practice with bruises of my own,” Gwayne confesses, lifting his eyes to peer at you through the smudged looking glass. “I didn’t come into this marriage entirely unmarked, if you recall…”

“Mm… I do recall,” you croon lowly, as though amused by the memory. Your head tips back to grin up at him with a fond reminiscence. “You were very purple. And very sore… For weeks… It was delicious…” 

Gwayne shakes his head. “Well, you’ll forgive me if I don’t find the memory as amusing as you do…” 

“I find everything amusing,” you scoff.

“I know you do,” he huffs a not-quite laugh. “Honestly, it’s among the things I’ve come to… appreciate about you, I suppose.” 

Your eyes narrow in suspicion of his compliment. “Careful, Ser Gwayne… A lady could get ideas, hearing you talk like that…”

“Really?” the man hums, still working gently at your bruised skin. “And what ideas are those, I wonder?”

You do not answer him with words. Instead, you rise slowly from the creaking vanity stool until you’re stood just before him. Then you reach for the remaining sleeve of your slip and trail it down your arm until you’re free of it; until the thin fabric falls to your feet in a forgotten piece of cotton; until you’re stood utterly bare before him — made of warm skin, soft curves, and faded scars. There’s one at your sternum, a longer one at your hip, and a darker one along your ribcage.

Gwayne’s breath catches audibly in his throat. The composure he’s spent weeks holding onto — full of dry wit and careful distance and a week’s worth of telling himself this was a political arrangement and nothing more — seems to abandon him all at once. His glassy eyes drift over your naked form, and he feels some warm, boyish feelings sparkling somewhere deep in his chest. 

It takes everything in you not to cower — not because you are ashamed at his staring, you’ve never been ashamed of anything, but because you have never once been looked at with so much reverence.

“Do you get the hint now, Ser Gwayne?” you quip drily as you close the scant distance between you. Your palms splay over the chest of his emerald coat and drift slowly upward until they settle cold along his warm neck, dragging him down with a little more force than necessary. 

You kiss him then like you’ve kissed him a thousand times over, like you’ve kissed a thousand men a thousand times over. There is little reservation in the way you slot your lips against his, or in the way you lick into his mouth and sigh hard through your nose at the taste of him — like mint and wine and whatever fruit he’d been snaking on before you found him here. 

His mouth is far softer than your own, you realize, a far gentler touch than you think you’ve ever felt before. He spreads one wide hand along your back, pressing your bare chest flush against his clothed one, while his other trails down down down the ladder of your spine. 

Your breath nearly catches when his calloused palm settles warm along the plush of your ass; you lose it completely when he grabs a fistful of the skin to pull you closer. 

You rise onto the tip of your toes, curling your arms around his neck while your noses knock under the weight of your searing kiss — which breaks only when Gwayne’s knee slots between your thighs, and when the rough fabric of his trousers brushes the most sensitive part of you.

His rosy mouth curls into a slow grin at the pretty sound you make for him then.

“Yes. To answer your question…” the man quips through panted breaths, with the tip of his nose brushing the bridge of yours. “I believe I am starting to get the hint, my lady.”