Untitled

His hand reached automatically toward the bedside table, searching for a weapon that had not been there in years. His fingers found only the folded black balaclava, placed precisely where he always left it, and he dragged it over his head as he crossed the room. The fabric settled over his face with the familiarity of skin. There had been a time when he had worn it because anonymity was useful, because a man became something else when his features disappeared and all that remained were his eyes. Now he wore it because being seen without it felt more naked than undressing.

Another crash sounded from across the hall.

Wood splitting.

A man swearing.

Then your voice, sharp with panic. “Get away from me.”

Something inside König went silent.

Not calm, calm was human. This was the absolute stillness of an animal lowering itself into the grass before it struck.

“Liebling,” he breathed, though there was no possibility you could hear him through the wall.

He opened his apartment door.

The corridor beyond was narrow and dim, lit only by the jaundiced bulb near the stairs. Your door stood partly open, though not because you had invited anyone inside. The frame had given way around the lock, splintered wood hanging from the wall in pale strips. A crowbar lay near the threshold and one of your shoes had been knocked into the hallway.

The man inside your apartment had his back to König.

He was average in every way that mattered—average height, average build, the kind of man who had probably spent his whole life mistaking women’s fear for proof of his own power. He had one hand twisted into the sleeve of your shirt and the other raised in warning while you fought to pull away from him.

“Stop moving,” he snapped. “I said stop.”

You struck at him with your free hand.

It was a poor blow, clumsy with terror, but it caught the edge of his cheek. His expression changed instantly and whatever he had come there to steal became secondary to the humiliation of being resisted.

“You little—”

The floor creaked behind him.

The man turned.

At first he looked irritated, then his gaze travelled upward.

And upward.

The corridor seemed to contract around König’s body. He stood barefoot in black sweatpants and a dark shirt, shoulders so broad they nearly filled the doorway behind him. At over two metres tall, he had grown accustomed to making rooms feel inadequate, but in that cramped hallway his size became something obscene. The ceiling seemed to lower over his head and the walls appeared to close behind him, sealing the only way out.

The balaclava erased his face completely.

There was no mouth to reason with and no expression from which to measure mercy. Only two pale eyes remained, fixed without blinking on the hand gripping you.

He looked less like a neighbour awakened by noise and more like the thing the noise had summoned.

The intruder released your sleeve.

“What the fuck?”

König said nothing.

He stepped inside.

One step. Slow and measured.

The man stumbled backward.

There was something deeply wrong about the quietness of him. A man of König’s size should have moved heavily. He should have announced himself in groaning floorboards and laboured breath. Instead, he crossed the apartment with the silence of something that had spent years approaching sleeping men without waking them.

“Stay back,” the intruder warned.

König’s gaze moved briefly to you.

You stood beside the kitchen counter in a thin sleep shirt and bare feet, one hand pressed against your throat. There was a red mark around your wrist where the man had held you, and a thin line of blood at your temple.

You were alive.

But you had been touched.

The distinction mattered terribly.

“I’m here, Schatz,” König said, and the tenderness of the words was made monstrous by the way he continued staring at the intruder. “Look at me. Not him.”

Your eyes found his.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Keep looking at me, mein Herz.”

The intruder reached down for the crowbar.

König crossed the room before the man’s fingers touched it.

The years of violence had taught him that speed was not frantic. Real speed was economical, that there was no wasted movement, no flourish, and no warning. One moment the man was bending toward the floor and the next König’s hand had closed around the back of his jacket, gathering fabric and flesh together in a grip so complete the man’s breath left him before his feet did.

König lifted him.

A grown man came off the ground as effortlessly as if gravity had chosen not to apply in König’s presence.

“What—wait—”

König drove him into the wall easily.

The plaster cracked outward behind the man’s shoulders and a framed print fell and shattered. Somewhere in the apartment your cat hissed, but König barely registered the sound.

The intruder clawed at his wrist.

König’s arm did not tremble.

It was not simply that he was stronger, strength implied a contest, but that this was something else entirely. The difference between them was so complete that the man’s resistance became embarrassing, the frantic kicking of an insect caught beneath a glass.

“You broke into her home,” König said.

His voice was quiet beneath the balaclava, almost gentle.

That was what finally broke the man’s nerve.

“I didn’t—”

“You put your hands on her.”

“Listen, man—”

König slammed him into the wall a second time.

“I am listening.”

The bulb above them flickered and for half a second König disappeared into darkness, and when the light returned he seemed to have moved closer without crossing the space between them.

The man began to choke.

He was beginning to realize that whatever rules governed ordinary violence did not apply here. There would be no shouting match, no exchange of threats, no opportunity to run while anger made the larger man careless. König was not angry in any recognizable way. He was attentive, deliberate and horribly present.

“Please,” the man whispered.

König tilted his head.

“You did not stop when she said that.”

Then, he threw him.

___

Later, when König caught you before your knees struck the floor, the violence vanished from him so suddenly it might never have existed.

One moment he had been kneeling over a ruined man with blood soaked into the fabric of his shirt and pants; the next his arm was around your waist, holding you with such restraint that even his fingertips seemed afraid of leaving another mark on you.

“I’ve got you, Liebling.”

“I can stand.”

“No.”

“König—”

“No, mein Herz.” His voice dropped until it was meant only for you. “You have been brave enough. Let me carry you now.”

He slipped one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back. Your body left the floor without effort. There was no grunt of exertion, no need for him to adjust his grip. He simply rose, unfolding to his full, impossible height with you held securely against his chest.

Your cat brushed against König's boot, purring quietly before following a step behind him.

König glanced down briefly. "Persistent."

"So is he."

His eyes lifted to yours.

"Let's go."

____

When the officer told him to put you down, König’s arms tightened almost imperceptibly around you.

“Sir,” the officer repeated, his hand hovering near his holster, “put the woman down.”

König looked at him.

The officer was not a small man, but beneath König’s gaze he seemed to become aware of every vulnerable part of his own body. His throat, his wrists, the unprotected space beneath his ribs.

“She cannot stand,” König said.

“We have paramedics coming.”

“Then they can examine her inside.”

“You don’t give the orders here.”

König took one slow step forward and the officer’s hand closed around the grip of his weapon.

You felt the change move through König’s body. Not tension, but readiness. Beneath your cheek, his heartbeat remained unnervingly slow.

“König,” you whispered.

His eyes lowered to yours at once.

“Please.”

That single word did what the officer’s weapon could not and König stepped back.

“Of course, Liebling.”

The officer stared at you, then at the giant masked man who had obeyed you without hesitation and something like unease crossed his face.

Not because König was out of control.

Because he clearly was not, but because everyone in the corridor had just learned who controlled him.

____

The couch was comfortable.

More comfortable than you had expected, actually. König had argued against it the moment you insisted, standing in the middle of the living room like a dark, immovable monument while you pointed out the obvious.

You fit on the couch.

He did not.

Even sitting, his knees nearly reached the low table in front of it, and the thought of all six-foot-ten of him folded awkwardly beneath a blanket had been enough to make the decision for both of you. He had protested anyway, of course, his voice low and stubborn behind the balaclava, but you had refused to let the man who had already thrown himself through your front door and nearly beaten someone to death for you spend the rest of the night twisted painfully across a sofa half his size.

Eventually, he had given in.

Reluctantly.

Now, lying beneath one of his blankets with your cat curled against the bend of your knees, you almost regretted winning.

The fabric smelled like him.

Clean soap, something earthy, and the faint trace of gunpowder that seemed to cling to him no matter how many times he showered. It should have been comforting. Instead, it made you painfully aware that he was only down the hall, behind a half-closed door, separated from you by a few metres and every feeling neither of you had dared to name.

You stared at the ceiling until your eyes began to burn and the ache between your legs only spread hotter.

It was no use.

You shouldn't have been thinking about him like this, not after everything that had happened. But every time you closed your eyes, you saw him standing between you and the man who had broken into your home. You remembered how effortlessly he'd lifted you into his arms, how easily he'd carried you to safety, and the memory sent a slow wave of heat through your body that you couldn't bring yourself to fight.

Carefully, you eased your legs out from beneath the cat and stood. He lifted his head, blinked at you once, then tucked his nose beneath his paw and went back to sleep.

The hallway was dark, lit only by the weak silver of rain slipping through the windows. You moved quietly, though you knew it was pointless. König seemed to hear everything. A shift in breathing, the smallest catch of fabric, the soft press of bare feet against hardwood.

His bedroom door was open.

You paused outside it.

He was awake.

Of course he was.

König sat against the headboard with one knee drawn beneath the blanket, a book open in one hand and the lamp beside him casting a low, amber glow across the room. He had changed into a black T-shirt and loose sweatpants, but the balaclava remained in place like it always did.

The moment your shadow crossed the doorway, his head lifted and the book closed immediately.

“What’s wrong?”

There was no sleep in his voice. Only a quiet, instant concern that settled over you more completely than any blanket could have.

You curled your fingers against the doorframe. “Nothing.”

His eyes narrowed slightly at your unconvincing answer, and both of you knew it.

“I can’t sleep,” you admitted.

Something in his shoulders loosened, though not entirely. “Come here.”

The words came so quickly that for a second you wondered whether he had been waiting for you.

You looked at the bed, then back at him. It was large, made larger still by how little space he seemed to occupy despite the impossible breadth of him. He had kept himself confined to one side, as though some part of him had already imagined making room.

“König—”

“Liebling.” His voice softened. “Come here.”

That was all it took.

You crossed the room and slid beneath the blanket, keeping a careful stretch of mattress between you. The bed dipped beneath your weight, barely noticeable compared to the deep pull of his body beside yours.

König watched you settle.

Then he looked at the space between you.

“You can come closer.”

Heat climbed into your face despite the coolness of the room. “I’m fine here.”

“You came into my room because you couldn’t sleep.”

“That doesn’t mean I need to be on top of you.”

A pause.

“No,” he said, quieter now. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

Something in the way he said it made your stomach twist. You turned onto your side, facing him. “Were you reading?”

“Trying to.”

“You were waiting.”

His eyes shifted back to yours, but he did not bother denying it.

The silence that followed was different from the ones before. It was no longer empty. It felt full to the point of breaking, crowded with the weight of everything that had happened and everything that had nearly happened with it.

König set the book on the nightstand.

“I heard you moving around out there,” he said.

“You could have told me to come in.”

“I wanted you to choose it.” The words settled somewhere deep in your chest.

Outside, rain dragged slowly down the glass. Inside, the room felt too warm.

You moved closer before you could think better of it, not enough to touch him, but enough that the distance between you no longer felt deliberate.

König went still.

His breathing changed. Barely, but you noticed.

“You look at me like that,” he said after a moment, “and then you wonder why I cannot sleep.”

Your pulse fluttered. “Like what?”

“Like you do not know what it does to me.”

His voice was rougher now, stripped of the careful steadiness he usually held onto so tightly.

You swallowed. “What does it do to you?”

For a long moment, he only stared.

The mask hid almost everything, but his eyes had never learned how to lie to you. Not when he was angry, not when he was frightened and certainly not now, when they dragged over your face with a hunger so controlled it became more intense for all the restraint wrapped around it.

“It makes me want things I have spent a very long time trying not to want.”

Your breath caught.

“König…”

“I have been careful with you.” His hand shifted against the blanket, fingers curling into the fabric. “More careful than you know.”

You looked down at the movement, at the tension running through his knuckles.

“Why?”

A humourless breath left him. “Because once I start touching you, I do not think I will want to stop.”

The room seemed to narrow around you.

He turned his head away, as though the confession had cost him something.

“I have imagined it too many times,” he continued, each word quieter than the last. “What you would feel like beneath my hands. What sounds you would make if I touched you properly. How long I could keep you there before you forgot everything except me.”

Your whole body went warm.

He looked back at you then, eyes sharpening as if searching for any sign that he had gone too far.

“I should not be telling you this.”

“Why not?”

“Because tonight frightened you.”

“You didn’t.”

His gaze dropped.

“You saw what I did.”

“I saw what he did first.”

“That does not make me gentle.”

“No,” you whispered. “But you are with me.”

Something in him broke at that.

Not loudly, not completely, but just enough. His hand lifted, hovering near your face without touching. Even now, even after everything he had said, he waited.

You leaned into his palm.

The contact was immediate and careful. His hand cupped your cheek, warm and impossibly large, thumb resting just beneath your eye. The tenderness of it stood in brutal contrast to the memory of those same hands bloodied in your kitchen.

König’s breath left him slowly. “You should not make this so easy for me.”

“I’m not.”

“No?”

You shook your head against his palm, pressing a kiss to the calloused and rough skin. “You’ve been making it hard for both of us.”

For the first time that night, something almost like a smile softened his eyes before it disappeared again, swallowed by the weight of everything that had happened.

His thumb brushed lightly across your cheek, careful enough that you almost wondered if you'd imagined it.

"I've been trying very hard not to cross this line," he said quietly.

You searched his face, finding only your own reflection in his eyes.

"What line?"

"You."

The word barely rose above a whisper.

"You've been my neighbour for months." He let out a slow breath. "Every morning I'd hear your door before mine. Every evening I'd wonder if you'd made it home safely. I told myself it was nothing."

His gaze drifted away for a moment.

"It stopped being nothing a long time ago."

Your heart stumbled. "And tonight..." His jaw tightened beneath the balaclava. "When I heard you scream..."

He didn't finish the sentence, not that he had to.

"I thought I was too late."

The confession settled heavily between you. Before you could stop yourself, you closed the distance without thinking, your hand finding his where it rested on the blanket.

His fingers twitched beneath yours but didn't move.

"You weren't," you whispered.

"No."

"You found me."

His eyes closed briefly, as though hearing those words eased something that had been holding him together by sheer force of will. When he looked at you again, the guardedness he'd worn since carrying you out of your apartment had finally begun to crack.

"I don't want anything from you tonight," he said. "Not an answer. Not an explanation."

His thumb turned beneath your hand, carefully lacing your fingers together.

"I just needed to know you were alive."

Emotion tightened your throat.

"I am."

"I know."

His voice was impossibly gentle. "I've been repeating that to myself for the last two hours."

Silence settled between you again, softer this time and you shifted a little closer, until your shoulder rested against his arm. He looked down at the point where you touched, then back at you.

"Is this alright?" he asked.

You nodded. "It's more than alright."

Only then did he lift his hand to your face again, resting it lightly against your cheek as though he was still afraid you might disappear before moving down to cup your jaw.

You moved closer again, until your knee brushed his beneath the blanket and König’s fingers tightened lightly at your jaw.

“Liebling.” The warning in his voice was thin.

His eyes searched yours before the words that broke his composure tumbled from your mouth.

“Touch me.”

The air shifted and for one suspended second, neither of you moved.

Then König’s hand slid from your jaw to the side of your neck, his palm covering nearly all of it. His thumb rested beneath your jaw, feeling the frantic beat of your pulse. He drew you closer slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away.

You did not.

His forehead pressed against yours, the fabric of the balaclava rough against your skin.

“Tell me if I frighten you.”

“You don’t.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“You don’t frighten me.”

His eyes closed.

It was the closest thing to relief you had ever seen from him.

His other hand found your waist beneath the blanket, settling there with such restraint that it almost hurt. He held you as though he had imagined this exact moment so many times that reality had become something sacred, something too fragile to rush.

“I want to touch every part of you,” he murmured. “I want to learn what you like. I want to know what you sound like when you cum.”

Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt.

“König…”

Your fingers caught the front of his shirt, tugging him toward you as you swung one leg over his lap. König's hands found your hips almost instantly, steady and impossibly warm as he guided you the rest of the way until you were settled against him. From where he sat, he had to tilt his head back to meet your eyes, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands as he kept you securely in his lap.

"This is better than I have ever imagined." He whispered.

Your hand slid from his shoulder to the edge of his balaclava, your fingers catching the worn fabric between your thumb and forefinger. You held his gaze the entire time, giving him every opportunity to stop you.

He didn't.

Slowly, you folded the fabric just high enough to uncover his mouth.

His lips parted on a quiet breath, but there was no hesitation in his eyes. If anything, they darkened.

"So," he murmured, his voice lower than before, "this is what you've been thinking about."

Heat rushed to your face.

"I..."

A corner of his mouth lifted into the faintest hint of a smile.

"I was wondering how long it would take."

Your fingers were still resting against the fabric when his hand closed gently around your wrist. Not to stop you, just to keep it there.

"You should know something before you keep looking at me like that, Liebling."

Your pulse hammered beneath his fingertips.

"If you kiss me..."

He leaned in until only a breath separated the two of you.

"...I'm not going to pretend it doesn't mean anything."

You searched his eyes for even the smallest hint of doubt, but you found none.

"Kiss me," you whispered.

"I was planning to."

The words had barely left his mouth before he closed the distance.

His lips found yours with quiet certainty—unhurried, deliberate, as though he'd imagined this moment enough times to know exactly how he wanted it to happen. One hand settled firmly at your waist while the other remained around your wrist, his thumb brushing absently over your pulse as he held you there for a heartbeat longer before finally pulling back.

When he opened his eyes again, they hadn't left yours once.

"...There," he said, his voice rough with satisfaction. "I've wanted to do that for a very long time."

You moaned softly when he rolled his hips up against yours. Shit, you thought, there was no way. He felt impossibly big under you, but the thought of being spread open like that, cunt stretching around him, only made your panties even slicker.

There was no turning back now. The look in König's eyes made that abundantly clear.

With effortless strength, he shifted your weight beneath him until your back met the mattress. This close, there was no mistaking the heat of his cock pressed against your core. He didn't say a word—he didn't have to. His mouth found the curve of your neck as one hand settled against your hip.

"Are you going to let me take care of you now, Schatz?" he murmured against your skin.

"Yes," you breathed, the word barely more than a whisper.

He barely looked human like this.

His eyes were dark with restrained desire, the balaclava still concealing most of his face, leaving only his mouth exposed. His jaw was tense, one sharp canine catching his bottom lip as though he was holding himself back by sheer force of will.

The thin fabric of your sleep shirt disappeared in one swift motion, leaving your skin exposed to the cool night air. A shiver ran through you as his hand settled at your waist, his fingers catching the waistband of your underwear while his gaze roamed over you with quiet, unmistakable hunger.

"I need to see you, Liebling," he murmured, his voice rough. "I need to taste you."

A low, restrained sound rumbled in his chest before he settled between your parted legs, staring at your begging cunt with nothing but greed in his gaze.

"Scheiße."

Then his mouth found you with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. He lingered there, relentless and unhurried all at once, as though he couldn't get enough of you, as though every second only left him wanting more. Your body trembled beneath him, your fingers twisting the sheets while he held you there with unwavering focus, utterly consumed by you.

"You are," he licked a stripe up your pussy, "trembling" He sucked on your clit, popping it from his mouth only to look up and witness just how fast you were falling apart.

The laugh that left your lips was humourless. I'm going to die, you thought, when he slid two fingers into you and began pumping them in and out while hooking them deep inside of you.

You barely had time to recognize you were going to come, your walls clenching around him, legs shaking on his shoulders.

"That's it," Oh God, he was going to talk you through it.

Tears welled in your eyes, almost burning as hot as the knot in your core was.

"Stay with me." He said against your spasaming pussy. "I've got you, Liebling. I'll catch you."

You came apart beneath him, a broken sob catching in your throat as you bit down hard enough on your lip to taste blood. The intensity left your head spinning, every coherent thought slipping away while he kept you firmly beneath him, completely at his mercy.

"You have no idea what you've unleashed," König growled.

In one swift motion, he pulled his shirt over his head before discarding the rest of his clothes without ever taking his eyes off you. The balaclava remained firmly in place, concealing everything but his mouth as pale moonlight carved sharp lines across his broad shoulders and powerful frame.

"Fuck," you gaped at him.

His cock stood tall, proud at the way it twitched when his eyes focused on your dripping cunt. Big was an understatement, he was massive.

When he settled over you, his forearms braced on either side of your head, holding you effortlessly beneath him, you realized there was nowhere else you'd rather be.

"Will it..." you stumbled awkwardly, "fit?"

A faint smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth, followed by a low, amused chuckle.

"I will make sure it fits, Liebling."

With one hand at the base of his cock, he pushed the head through your folds, collecting the remnants of your orgasm and slick before you felt him prodding at your entrance.

"Breathe," was all he said before he inched in.

You forgot how. Every muscle in your body locked tight as tension swept through you. A low groan escaped him, and he let his forehead fall against your shoulder, lingering there for a moment as he fought to steady his breathing.

"Schatz," he nearly begged. "I won't ask twice. Breathe."

You exhaled the breath you were holding, willing yourself to relax and he pushed further and deeper in. The stretch burned, but the fullness was otherworldly.

When he bottomed out, his eyes met yours again.

"I knew I'd fit here." His voice wrecked as he applied the slightest of pressure on your lower belly.

Then, his hips snapped against yours. A brutal pace that cause his headboard to knock against the wall with such force you thought you'd end up in the apartment next door.

But you couldn't bring yourself to care—not when König looked as though he was hanging on by the thinnest thread of self-control. A mix of English and German falling from his lips while his eyes were locked on where he disappeared inside of you.

"König," his name fell from your lips naturally and you noticed how his rhythm stuttered when you did.

He liked hearing his name.

So you spoke his name again.

And again.

Until it became less a name and more a prayer, whispered into the darkness like a hymn neither of you deserved to hear. Each repetition unraveled another thread of his restraint, until the man who had survived battlefields and bloodshed sounded as though he was pleading for a salvation only you could ever grant.

"I'm yours, tell me, Schtaz. Tell me I'm yours." He begged as his hips bore in and out of you at a bruising pace and fuck how could you deny him.

"I'm yours. All yours."

A raw, broken sound escaped him as the last of his composure gave way. He sank his teeth against the curve of your neck, holding you with a fierce, almost desperate tenderness, as though he feared that if he loosened his grip for even a moment, you might disappear.

His cum came leaking out of you almost immediately, coating your thighs and the sheets as he barely held himself up over you, breath fanning over your face.

He looked at you for a long time, saying nothing. Whatever storm had lived behind his eyes all night had finally settled into something far more dangerous—certainty. There was no hesitation left, no doubt, only the quiet acceptance of a man who had reached the end of one life and stepped willingly into another.

It was a silly thing, made with wood and carved with little symbols symbolizing love and unity. Your younger self had carved the busk, the younger self who believed that you'd have a chance to marry for love. After all, it was tradition to carry a carved busk with your beloved's name close to your heart.

How foolish.

And yet you'd kept it. Rubbing out the name of Mason, your former beloved, with a rasp (you would not be so stupid as to have another man's name next to your breast), covering the spot with the name of your soon-to-be husband. But you knew that even with all the scratching and scraping, the wood and your heart would still bear the scars left behind by Mason's betrayal. How could it not? You'd loved… and now you were to be wed to another. Mason? He would stay in Lannisport with your sister Cassandra, the bride he sullied. Until you carved another busk, you would sense his name there, beneath the scratchings. After all, he'd left scars behind on your heart as well as your underpinnings.

The wedding dress was next. You held your arms up above your head like a child as another lady helped you shimmy the dress down, down, down, over your form. Laces were tied, sashes knotted. Effectively, you were secured into the dress that would see you bound in marriage to Ormund Hightower.

Your eyes met your own in the mirror of your chambers. The dress you wore was a pale silver shot silk, a heightened version of the popular gray worn around Oldtown. The dress was laced down the arms and back with similar coloured ribbons. A simple outfit but stunning nonetheless. It showed the wealth of House Reyne had been blended in with the religious morality of the Hightowers. You'd been laced into a gown that represented your family's salvation. And yet you were not happy. How could you be when your family betrayed you for protection, taking happiness from you and the man you would be marrying in a few short hours.

~

Ormund

The day had finally arrived. His betrothed, the Lady Reyne, was one of the most sought-after heiresses in the kingdom, and today, he would place his family cloak over your shoulders and make you his second wife. His patience was to be rewarded very soon. He had planted the seed of this plan only a short while ago, and now it would bear the most delicious fruit. You.

A few months earlier…

The visit to House Reyne's stronghold at Castamere was one of business, not pleasure. Ormund had been dreading the ride through the Westerlands, as it meant many days among men who refused to bathe, inns with low standards of cleanliness, and days smelling of sweat and horse. Disgusting. He wished to be at his home in Oldtown, where the air was fresh, and bathing amongst peers was strongly encouraged.

Part of him wished he'd taken his ward's offer to ride over on dragonback. But only a part of him. He'd only done that once before and found the smell of animal and the scent of smoke, sulphur, and animal sweat to be overwhelming. An executive decision was made thereafter that Ormund would ride with Daeron on Tessarion only for absolute emergencies. This was not an emergency. For now, Daeron could stay in Oldtown while Ormund did his negotiations.

The visit to Castamere was meant to bolster relations with one of the richest families in Westeros, next to the Lannisters. Richard Reyne, the Lord of Castamere had invited Ormund as a gesture a good will and to build a better connection between his family and Oldtown. And by connection, Ormund expected that the visit would probably involve Lord Reyne throwing a daughter at Ormund in exchange for extra funds for the Crown and influence for the Reyne family in return.

Ormund would make considerations, but he was not to be swayed by money. He would not get married without making the decision himself. He had money, if anything, marriage would be for power and power only. He'd been married before, companionably if not happily, to Lady Samantha Tarly. She'd given him four children before dying in childbed. He had no need for more heirs, as he had three sons and his cousin, Daeron. If Ormund was to remarry, and that was a big if, he would have a say in who he married.

Castamere was an ugly-looking castle. Built into the rock of the Reynes' old mine, the castle jutted out like a prominent chin over the lake for which the castle was built, with two towers that stuck out like a large pair of ears.

The gates of Castamere opened like a mouth, swallowing Ormund and his men inside greedily. Ormund thought it fitting, considering how the Reynes' home was built so large, simply out of greed. Yet, he could not fault them. Given the chance to mine enough gold and silver to enrich himself and his family, Ormund would take it.

Richard Reyne met him in the courtyard of the castle, a beaming smile, eyes glimmering like hot coals, arms open wide, as though Ormund was a friend and not a stranger.

"Lord Hightower! It is most excellent to make your acquaintance and to have you here as a guest."

Ormund bowed and faked a smile in return as they both made pleasantries. A couple of members of the Reyne household had come out with Lord Richard, including a daughter.

"This is my eldest, Cassandra. I do not know where my other daughter is, but I am sure that you will meet her eventually," Lord Reyne shrugged. Clearly, Lady Cassandra was the prize, not the other daughter.

Ormund kissed the hand of Lady Cassandra out of politeness. She was pretty, but there was a falsehood to her appearance. Everything about her appearance seemed to have a layer of falsity. He found it irked him. Liars and cheats already surrounded Ormund; hells, he knew himself to be one of them. Yet having a potential wife who'd shroud herself entirely in falsity? Ormund would not have it.

Ormund greeted the other members of the household before entering the building. Inside was just as gaudy and ugly as the exterior; the lower levels growing larger and more cavernous towards the bottom. If not for the extensive renovations and improvements, visitors would probably be unable to tell that the building was housed in a mountain that was once a mine. Ormund, however, could tell. He disliked the building greatly. The air was filled with the cool, dank smell of the lower part of the building, even though the Reynes and their servants clearly tried to cover up the smell with beeswax candles, resinous incense, and perfume. The result gave the essence of a poorly bathed courtier who chose to hide his stench with rosewater. Ormund lifted his silver pomander to his nose and took a sniff, breathing in the familiar scent of cloves, orange peels, and sandalwood; a much-needed, momentary form of relief.

Lord Richard and his eldest daughter bid Ormund adieu in this space, claiming the need to prepare for supper. A servant was called to take Ormund to the guest's quarters. When the servant arrived, he silently began to lead Ormund to the upper levels, thankfully. The passages within the castle wound upwards, and Ormund followed behind. His jaw was clenched, fingers wound tightly behind his back as they walked up the stairs. Ormund found himself glaring at the nameless servant's back simply because he was there. He found himself doing this as he was guided down a hallway, and then suddenly, there you were.

You were beautiful. That was the first thing he noticed about you. Then he noticed how you dressed in finery, your shining hair adorned in a simple yet elegant style that accentuated your delicate features, with a pearl net at the back of your head. You had come from a room with a fragrant bouquet of what Ormund thought to be peonies.

"Oh!" You exclaimed with a startled gasp, steadying yourself with a hand on Ormund's arm, "Forgive me. I was not looking where I was going."

Ormund was so struck by her beauty that he put aside his earlier annoyance, the tension leaving his body.

"That is quite all right. I was not aware of my surroundings either."

The woman smiled shyly, gesturing to the bouquet in her other hand, "The peonies are in bloom. They look like massive snowballs, don't they? I admit I was rather struck by the similarity that I got distracted."

Ormund nodded, struck by her candour.

"I understand, peonies can be distracting. Especially the scent."

"Exactly!" She grinned, "I was in the gardens and saw that they're in bloom. I had been hoping to place some around the castle before our guest arrived—but I guess that is you, is it not?" She bit her lip.

"I am. Lord Ormund Hightower at your service," he bowed.

You gave him your name as you curtsied. As he had begun to suspect, you were the younger daughter of Lord Reyne.

"Forgive me, I would've greeted you with my family, but I have a habit of getting distracted," You blushed, pushing a loose curl behind your ear.

Ormund's mouth parted slightly before he replied, "Do not worry. I am glad to have met you here."

"Likewise." You looked over his shoulder to the waiting servant, "I should not keep you from going to your quarters. I can have one of the other servants send up some hot water for a bath if you would like."

Ormund smirked, "Do I smell that much?"

You tilted your head back and laughed heartily before replying, "No. Actually, you smell better compared to most people who would after a couple days of riding."

"I am glad I meet your approval." He was, Ormund had been adamant on ordering a bath every time they stopped at an inn.

"But in all honesty, I figured that you would probably want to bathe after travelling. I know that I would."

"Then I shall accept your offer." Ormund smiled, the real smile that he saved for private moments before bowing towards you.

You curtsied in return before traipsing away, leaving the scent of peonies, lavender and cedarwood behind. Ormund took a sharp breath in. He tried to memorize that scent, the way you looked when you moved. In that moment, he realized that while he may not have wanted Lady Cassandra, he did want another Reyne. You, with your honest apologies, and guileless speech about peonies. You could be his wife. Yes. You would do very well indeed.

~

Ormund was summoned for supper long after he'd washed and rested. Another servant was sent to bring him down to the grand dining room. Ormund noted that the damp, metallic smell of the castle got worse as he marched down to dinner. At times, he was overwhelmed by it, feeling the urge to gag. His sensitive sense of smell had always been both a gift and a curse. It meant Ormund could better appreciate the pleasures of the world, but it also meant he was sensitive to its displeasures.

The Castle of Castamere may have looked beautiful, but there was a rot beneath it. A dankness that repulsed Ormund. He wished to leave as soon as possible, hopefully with you in tow as his bride. He would not take Cassandra as his wife. Only you would do. Cassandra was symbolic of all the showy displays covering the rot at Castamere. You, were honest and good, and Ormund found himself infatuated with you from one meeting because of those attributes.

The dining room was large, filled with some of the family members Ormund had been introduced to earlier, as well as some other guests. Ormund's keen eyes scanned the crowd to see where you were, only to find something that displeased him.

You were in attendance, wearing an ethereal gown made of light green shot through with threads of pale purple. Your hair was kept in the same hairstyle as before, which Ormund found pleasing to the eye. What he did not find pleasing, however, was the fact that your hand rested gently on the arm of a man of medium build with dark hair. The man was attractive, dressed in a fine outfit of yellow velvet with slashes of bright blue. It was well made, if a bit dandyish. As he watched from afar, Ormund could not help but notice how the man whispered into your ear, causing you to laugh in response.

Ormund seethed, his teeth grinding and his fists tightening into fists. He wanted to be the only person who could make you laugh like that. Ormund wanted to be in charge of your joy and pleasure. This oafish dandy did not deserve even an ounce of your attention.

'No, I'll have to remedy this issue.' Ormund thought, his tongue poking against his cheek as he considered his next move, staring at the couple.

"Ah! Lord Hightower! Glad you could join us," boomed Richard Reyne as he gave a friendly pat to Ormund's back.

Ormund straightened, fastening his fake smile in place before thanking his host. A servant brought over a ray with crystal cups of arbour gold. Both men helped themself to a goblet before continuing their conversation.

"Who is that, I wonder, with your younger daughter? I was so lucky as to meet her on my way to my quarters. I do not recognize the man she is with," he inquired, gesturing in your direction before taking a sip of his wine. It was effervescent, sweet on his palette, an excellent vintage that Ormund would have enjoyed more if he was not so jealous.

Richard Reyne cast his eyes over to his daughter, "That is Mason Coldwater. He's the son of a wealthy textile merchant in Lannisport. They met last year while my daughter was visiting the Lannister sisters," he gave a shrug.

"Ah, I see." Ormund did not see. You were the daughter of one of the wealthiest families in Westeros, did your father not notice how Mason Coldwater dressed? How his showy display of wealth was meant to entice as well as ensnare? "Are they to be married?"

Richard Reyne laughed, "Oh no, I am sure that wedding bells may be in the future for them, but my younger daughter has always believed that a bond of friendship is important to foster before making any sort of wedding arrangements."

Ormund could agree, but not every person had that luxury, "Do all your children believe this?"

"No, my sons are all too young to marry anyways. They need to sow their wild oats before any sort of decisions are made. Cassandra, however would happily have an arrangement."Lord Reyne's eyes glimmered again with greed, now that he was letting Ormund know his true intentions.

'Good. Better to be honest, rather than to keep skipping over the subject with small talk. But if I had my way, I would have an arrangement with the other Lady Reyne, not Cassandra.'

Ormund sipped his wine and nodded peaceably. Outwardly, Ormund continued his conversation with Lord Reyne, speaking of crops and mining, inwardly he was scheming. Perhaps he could look into the Coldwater boy's past. Ormund knew a few people in his retinue who could be trusted to investigate your beloved with discretion.

When everyone was called down to dinner, Ormund found himself not shocked that he was placed across the table from Lady Cassandra. Luckily, you had been placed in a spot next to Lord Ormund, with Mason Coldwater sitting next to Lady Cassandra. Ormund was pleased by this update, even if it meant that he would have to associate himself with your beloved and your elder sister. The annoyance would be worth it if he could be near you.

The dinner was extravagant, meant to show the wealth of the Reynes as well as the abundance of gold and silver in the Westerlands. Ormund could swear that he could make a gold bar from the amount of gold leaf placed on top of the dishes served at the feast. The table was loud, in raptures of the opulent display of wealth: fresh roast venison, candied lemon cakes, gold covered gingerbread coloured with sandalwood, and other such delicacies were gasped over by all.

You did not seem to care for it, turning your head to whisper to Ormund, "I swear, my Lord, we do not often eat like this. I would much prefer a trencher of stew to some of the dishes on this table tonight."

"What dishes displease you?" He asked, curiosity peaked.

"I'm afraid I'm not a fan of eating gold as I am of wearing it. It feels wasteful. Aspic and jellied eel are also not on my list of favourites," you admitted, looking up at Ormund through your lashes while you cut your food.

"My sister is picky, it is most ungrateful of her to be so in your presence, Lord Ormund," sneered Lady Cassandra as she pointedly licked her spoon clean of aspic.

"Let her be picky, leaves us more to enjoy," guffawed Mason, gesturing at the table before taking a large bite of venison.

You looked embarrassed, shyly going back to eating your food, tucking your head down for the rest of the meal. Ormund felt a strong hatred in that moment for Mason Coldwater and your sister. Because of their sneers, Ormund was denied the pleasure of your conversation, being forced to listen to the other guests' droll words. Tightening his grasp on the silver cutlery, Ormund vowed this situation would not repeat itself.

After dinner, the guests were allowed to mingle around the building before music and dancing occurred. Ormund's eyes found you quickly, sitting on the edge of the room by yourself, Mason Coldwater nowhere in sight. You had your hand pressed against your breastbone as though you were catching your breath or holding something to you. Ormund decided to approach. If he planned on making you his wife, he needed to have some rapport with you. Already, you seemed to like him as an acquaintance, but Ormund wanted more. He wanted for you to burn as hot as he did for you.

"Why are you sitting by yourself? Are you alright?"

"Oh yes, sometimes I find father's gatherings to be rather overwhelming," you pulled your hand from your chest and rubbed the back of your neck sheepishly.

"I understand. My daughter, Bethany, she does not enjoy parties. She may like the dancing but… the parties themselves do not provide her much pleasure."

You tilted your head up towards him as you listened before replying,"She and I have that in common then. Do you have many children?"

"Four. Poor Bethany is the only woman in a household of boys."

You laughed, eyes closing as you did so.

"Forgive me, but you do not look old enough to be a father of four."

"I married young," he grinned.

"Still. You bear it well. The stress of parenthood does not seem to have aged you," you held your hand over your mouth, "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that. Not that you're old, I mean."

Ormund cackled, "I'm happy my appearance meets your approval," he leaned down to whisper, his mouth almost caressing the shell of your ear, "and I do not mind being called old. Because age means experience."

You shivered. He knew he shouldn't have said such things in your presence, but he couldn't resist, especially seeing your reaction. From his vantage point on the bench, he could see the hairs on your neck standing up on end, goose flesh pricked up in anticipation.

Good. You were receptive to his presence. He could work with that.

You straightened your back and turned to whisper back, "In what? Being old? I'm afraid I have a few years yet before I gather as much experience as you then."

Ormund pretended to wince before changing the subject, "Did you manage to put more peonies around the castle?"

"Only a few bouquets. I did not wish to rob the plant of all of its flowers. I can pick other plants to decorate the home if need be," you rambled.

"Do you enjoy floristry?"

"Yes! Indeed I enjoy everything about plants. While flower arrangement is enjoyable, I love other aspects of botany. In fact, recently I have been experimenting with enfleurage."

"Perfumery? I might have to smell your experiments. I'm afraid my sense of smell is exceedingly strong, so I often have to use pomanders to assist me. Perhaps I can be one of your early customers," he crooned, his voice low beneath the hubbub of the party.

"I cannot imagine how hard it would be to be constantly aware of the smells of one's surroundings. And as for being a customer, I can gift you some as a token of friendship, if you would take it," you offered, eyes twinkling.

If only you knew how much he longed to possess you beyond friendship. For now, he would make do with this. But he took your interest in perfumery and floristry as a sign from the Seven. If they did not wish for you to be his, why were your interests and humor so aligned with his own? Ormund had to find a way to break your entanglement with the stupid fop, Coldwater.

A couple ladies from the party called out your name, forcing you to stand up and make your excuses to Ormund.

"I thank you for your company, my Lord. I will have one of the servants bring some of the perfume to your rooms."

Ormund thanked you, watching as you sashayed away, leaving behind the scent of lavender and cedarwood. Ormund wished he could bask in it. But he knew that with patience, you would soon be his.

~

The moment Ormund was waiting for came not long after the dance had started. Claiming exhaustion from his travels, Ormund left the party to retire to his quarters. He did not dance with you, even though it was one of his dearest wishes. Ormund wished to feel the warmth of your lithe body against his own. He yearned yo smell the scent of your skin. He felt eager to press his hands possessively against the small of your back.

'In time, Ormund. In due time.' Patience was a virtue that the Seven revered highly. Ormund could be very patient when he had a goal in mind.

Having remembered his way to his quarters, Ormund allowed himself the leisure of a slow walk before bed. A walk would clear his mind and allow him to formulate a plan. Yet, Ormund did not need to wait long for an idea to come to him.

Not long into his walk, Ormund passed a shadowed alcove. There were many of them in Castamere's castle. Ormund was not sure but he thought that the alcoves may have once housed candles for miners, the curved shape of the rock allowing for light to reflect off of the cavernous walls. And reflect the light did, onto the writhing bodies of Mason Coldwater and Lady Cassandra Reyne. The couple were kissing passionately as Coldwater rucked up the older Reyne daughter's skirts, rutting himself rhythmlessly into her like a green boy.

'Ah. Now, this is something I can work with,' thought Ormund with a smirk before clearing his throat.

The couple's lips quickly separated, still bound by a string of spit. Ormund felt repulsed at the sight of such a small thing but tried to hide it. When the two saw who Ormund was, they split apart. Lady Cassandra fumbled with her crinkled skirts, while Coldwater tucked his minuscule member back into his trousers.

"Tsk. Lady Cassandra, your father was telling me how faithful and dutiful a daughter you are earlier. I'm afraid this sight has put me in the opposite opinion. What would your sister think, knowing that you ruined yourself with the man she believed to be her beloved—"

"My Lord, I—" butted in Coldwater, his lips quivering.

"I am not done, boy," Ormund snarled, throwing out the word boy as if it was an insult, "You come here as a guest and openly flaunt yourself with your host's daughter? Have you both no shame? No idea of guest friendship?"

The young couple gulped, shuffling their feet awkwardly, cowering beneath the glare of Lord Ormund. He liked that. He was glad to see the two get a dose of the medicine they'd given to you. He ran some of his fingers through his auburn curls before drawing his attention back to the couple.

"Perhaps, then it is good thing that I caught you both."

"My Lord Hightower? What could you mean?" Asked Lady Cassandra, her full lips quivering dramatically. Ormund wanted to roll her eyes.

"As a cousin to the Queen and as a Hightower, I can pull some strings with the local septons."

"Septons—"choked Coldwater.

Ormund waved his hand casually. "A special license will be procured for you both tonight. In the morning you will be married in a quiet ceremony before you leave for your honeymoon in Lannisport. As I am an unwilling witness to this disgusting display, I can say your marriage is already consummated." Ormund rambled off.

He felt quite pleased with himself for coming up with a plan that benefited all parties.

"Now to prevent scandal, I'm afraid the hasty marriage will still prove to be quite shocking to the masses." Ormund's eyes once again fell to Lady Cassandra, who was beginning to understand the formidable man Lord Hightower was beneath the green velvets of his doublet, "However, I will speak to Lord Reyne about a solution that will protect the Reyne family from ruin caused by your moral failures."

"Yes, my Lord." Bobbed Lady Cassandra in a curtsey, her face blanched.

"You are most kind, Lord Hightower," thanked Coldwater through gritted teeth.

"Excellent," Ormund smiled wolfishly, his teeth bared like a predator, "I will go make the arrangements. You both should get some shut eye. If you're prepared to fly with the owls at night, best be prepared to soar with the eagles in the morning," he rubbed his hands before turning back to the ballroom, "and by the way, don't expect a massive wedding attendance. I'm afraid that most of these partygoers will not wish to associate themselves with you both from now on," he bit out over his shoulder.

This was proving to be a productive evening.

~

"My eldest daughter did what!" Lord Reyne yelled out in the privacy of his office.

"I am just as shocked as you, Lord Reyne, believe me. I was just trying to head back to my chambers when I came upon the couple."

"The scandal of this…I don't know how I can—" Lord Reyne grunted as he slumped in frustration into a nearby chair.

"I can make arrangements with the local Septon. We will have the couple leave to Lannisport after their vows are said."

Lord Reyne wiped his sweaty forehead, "but what of the rumours."

Ormund pretended to pace in thought, enjoying the theatricality of the moment. He was finding quite a lot of pleasure in this. Who knew that when his Uncle sent Ormund to Castamere that he would have such fun.

"Ah. I think I have a solution that may work, but I'm afraid it may be disagreeable to you," Ormund turned his face away from Lord Reyne, feigning reluctance as he leaned his hand on the mantle of the office's fireplace.

Richard Reyne straightened in his seat, his knuckles paling as he gripped the arms of his chair, "Tell me, my Lord Hightower. Your guidance is extremely helpful in this matter."

Ormund looked over his shoulder, "I could marry your younger daughter, in exchange for your investment in the kingdom, as I'm sure you hoped for your other daughter."

"But she was so set on marrying Mason Coldwater," Lord Reyne responded.

"Could you wish to bind your younger daughter to the man that sullied your other child? I would not bind my daughter to such a man. But to protect your family, I would bind myself to your younger daughter, give her the courtly wedding she is due, and cherish her better than any husband would."

Lord Reyne looked up at Ormund, his eyes glowing with unshed tears of stress, face filled with hope, "Would you do that for my family?"

Ormund smiled, his eyes lowering to Lord Reyne, feeling himself pull in the snare he had set.

"Of course."

Hook, line, sinker.

~

The marriage was held at first light, with only Lord Reyne and Lord Ormund to witness the hasty ceremony. A carriage had been packed with all of Cassandra's worldly goods, dowry not included.

Ormund had expected your reaction to both the wedding and to your new betrothal. Clearly, you had some affection for the Coldwater boy. Ormund imagined the conversation revealing your sister's betrayal had been utterly devastating. He'd wanted to comfort you, to hold you in his arms, stroke your soft hair and tell you that all would be well. But he could not. You had hidden yourself away in your chambers, where the only sign of life within was the sound of your sobs.

"She will come around, you'll see, my lord." Richard Reyne said, trying to appease his daughter's affianced.

He did understand. Even though he wished to wring the necks of your sister and her new husband, he understood that you needed your time. What made him angry, was the pain that they'd caused you. For that, Ormund would despise your sister and Mason Coldwater for the rest of time. Especially since now he had been robbed of extra time with you before he left for Oldtown. Ormund had planned to woo you, to shower you with gifts, honied words and hidden caresses, but no. You had hidden yourself away because of the pain and humiliation you'd experienced.

When he eventually left, as his duties in Oldtown could no longer be delayed, you did not even come to say goodbye. Your father gave your excuses, claiming you had a headache, but that you looked forward to seeing Ormund in Oldtown ahead of the wedding.

"Oh! Before I forget," Richard Reyne reached forward and pressed a small glass jar into Ormund's hand, "She said that this was for you. That you would know what it meant."

Ormund opened the jar. A wave of delicate scent cascaded over him: peonies, lavender and cedarwood. The scent of a first meeting, of the kindling of friendship. He grinned.

~

You

A little part of you died the day your sister got married. One part was because you were not there. You may not have been every close but you wished to at least attend her wedding. But perhaps it was for the best, since the moment you heard who the groom was, you collapsed to the floor of your father's office.

"Your sister has put our family in danger of social ruin. You know you will have to help us rebuild our reputation, don't you?"

You shook your head, not from lack of understanding, but from disbelief

Your father sighed with exasperation believing you to be ignorant, "Lord Ormund has made the sacrifice of offering for your hand. I had hoped he would be married to your sister but…"

Your back straightened with realization, "I'm the leftovers at the feast. I'm what remains," you remarked sardonically.

Your father's eyes widened, "Now, now, my dear! It's not like that. Lord Ormund is—"

"A good man who's been forced to help us because my sister could not let me have one thing for myself. One thing. And she stole him, like she's stolen everything," you hissed, feeling years of anger bubble up.

Cassandra had always been harsh to you, yet your father's favouritism had spared her from the world's cruelties. And now you and poor Lord Ormund were to be placed as human shields. What must he think of your family? You could only begin to imagine. An elder sister who gave herself publicly to a man considered to be her sister's betrothed? The Hightowers were a religious lot. Their ties in the Faith of the Seven were numerous and strong. By marrying Lord Ormund, you would benefit your family with connections and protection from ridicule. But him? He would only have you and the dowry you brought. What a pitiful pittance for such a sacrifice.

"I know this new engagement is a bit shocking but eventually you will see that everything is for the best."

You bobbed your head in acknowledgment, "Can I leave now? I wish to retire to my chambers."

"Of course, my child," your father cooed as you exited the office.

The next few days of Lord Ormund's visit flew by in a blur of depression and an ocean of tears. You did not leave your chambers for anyone or anything. Not even your beloved flowers. You felt bad, of course, that you did not give Lord Ormund much in the way of hospitality, but you did not have the energy to do anything other than cry.

On the day of his departure, you remembered the promise you'd made to Lord Ormund: the offering of the perfume. Your current experiment had been put aside in your time of grief but… you looked towards your dressing table where there was a pot of perfume pomade that you'd made the previous year. It still bore the fingerprints from when you occasionally applied it. You would give Ormund a fresh jar before your wedding, but for now, this would have to do.

You pressed the jar into your maid's hand, ordering for it to be brought to your intended before he left, with the understanding that he would know what it meant. You did not watch him leave from your room, nor could you have done so anyways. Cassandra's rooms had the better view, and while she had gone to live in Lannisport, her rooms remained untouched. You were still set aside in favour of her, even though you were making a sacrifice because of her folly.

~

You did what you could to plan the wedding from a distance while still taking time to heal at Castamere. You'd never made such arrangements before and found the whole situation overwhelming.

"You must push yourself out of this sadness, my child. Lord Ormund will expect your assistance in ruling Oldtown. If you cannot handle a wedding, how can you help him?," Your father lectured you one morning over breakfast.

You put down the cup of tea you were drinking delicately back on its saucer, but you could still imagine the sound of porcelain sounded like swords clashing in the quiet of the room.

You poked your tongue in your cheek, restraining yourself, "I can run a household fine enough, father. I cannot simply just learn to plan a wedding without assistance. Did you plan your wedding to mother?"

"No. I had her do that. She had help from your grandmother," he shrugged.

"Exactly. I have neither."

It was eventually decided that you would go to Oldtown to assist in preparations. You had never been farther than Lannisport, so the journey down south provided you with much diversion. Throughout all of this, Lord Ormund wrote to you. His letters were well written and eloquent, showing you his scholarly and artistic nature. You never knew how to reply. How could you? He was only being kind to you as he had been when he visited. You imagined that in another life, you might've come across Lord Ormund at court, rather than during his disastrous visit. Maybe then you both could have a marriage built on something other than the ruin of a reputation. From what you gathered from your few experiences with him, Lord Ormund and you had much in common. Surely, that could lead to happiness in marriage, even if he'd initially come to Castamere to court your sister.

You could not be positive. Your father made a massive show of lecturing you throughout your travel to Oldtown about the importance of deference and obedience. He saw Lord Ormund's proposal as an opportunity for advancement. Richard Reyne did not see how he was pushing you away for the sake of his greed. That is what hurt you the most. The betrayal of your sister and Mason, your arranged marriage by your father, all of it came down to greed.

~

Ormund

Now

Everything was running according to his plan. The guests were on time, people were sat according to station and rank, the Sept had been decorated with fragrant flowers according to Ormund's orders, and his children were all behaving. His cousin and squire, Daeron, stood by his side, ready to assist in the cloaking ceremony. All they needed, was the bride.

Conspicuously absent was your sister and her husband, but you could hardly fault Ormund for not inviting them. It wouldn't be appropriate. And besides, it had taken an enormous amount of effort for Ormund not to castrate Mason Coldwater with Vigilance, his sword, during their previous encounters. Their sinful presence would be better suited for Lannisport.

You had arrived a few weeks previously to prepare for the wedding, as according to your father, you had found it difficult planning from a distance. Even then, due to the limitations on Ormund's schedule, he was unable to spend as much time with you as he had wanted.

He'd wanted to seduce you in the way he'd imagined, with ballads and words of courtly love that you would surely find it hard to resist. Ormund would show you the still room and private gardens he'd had built just for you. But that could wait, those were your wedding presents, and Ormund did enjoy a surprise.

On some lonely nights, when the day had been especially long and frustrating, he would apply some of the perfume you'd given him to his wrist. Then, he would lay back and hold the scented skin to his nose while he pumped himself into his fist until he climaxed. Even though his thoughts of you were completely sinful, Ormund could not help himself. He was weak, but only for you. Ormund would pray for salvation each day, knowing that until the wedding day, he would have to curb himself.

But now his salvation was here.

The light of the Starry Sept was no match for your beauty as you walked down the aisle on the arm of your father. Your face had been demurely covered by a lace veil, your cloaked shoulders emblazoned with the silver, red, and gold lion of the Reynes. Beneath all of that, you shone like one of the stars painted on the ceiling of the Sept. It wasn't just your dress, with its silver threads that made Ormund think so, it was you. You were finally going to be his, and nothing could keep you away from him.

~

You

The ceremony was long. You knew it would be from the few weddings you'd attended over the years. Even though you and Ormund truly did not have to do much.

At least not yet.

Anxiety and curiosity filled the pit of your stomach. You had been told by your Septa of what the next part of the marriage would entail, but not much else. It made sense, of course, Septas took a vow of chastity so they could hardly give advice to their charges.

You hoped Ormund would be gentle with you. That it wouldn't hurt too much with him, and that maybe he would be able to put aside thoughts of your sister while he did so. You wondered if he imagined he'd cloaked her instead of you at the altar. You would not fault him for that. Perhaps it was best she was not invited for the sake of propriety, it would cause too much pain for all involved.

After the ceremony, you, your husband and your new family were swept away to the wedding feast. The tables were heavily laden with food and drink. They seemed to be simple and delicious fare with high quality ingredients and spices that lingered in the air. Thankfully, the dishes were not laced with gold leaf like the dinner on the fateful night before everything changed.

During the feast, your nerves steadily worsened. Your eyes focused on the table ahead of you as you sipped at a delicate pumpkin soup and nibbled at the dishes spread in front of you and Ormund. He seemed to sense your nerves simply from your body language.

"Are you alright, my love?" It was the first time he had ever called you that. You found you did not mind it.

You leaned close to whisper in his ear, "I'm afraid I am a bit nervous for the bedding ceremony," you murmured hushed voice.

"Ah. I see." He said, smiling at you with his mouth closed before he leaned in to whisper in return, "we do not do such sinful ceremonies here in Oldtown. No need to fret. It will just be you and me."

His voice was warm in your ear, caressing down your neck deliciously like it had done the time you'd spoken on the bench.

His words did not make you any less nervous. You fidgeted with the silky fabric of your skirts, crumpling it in your fingers.

~

Once the feast finished and dancing had commenced, Ormund stood to his full height, offering you his hand. Ormund's children and ward had been sent to bed after the feast. You found you missed their company and conversation. Young Prince Daeron and Bethany were particularly sweet and obliging, ensuring your comfort above all else.

"Shall we leave before the crowd gets rowdy?"

Your throat tightened. Of course he would want to make sure the marriage was fully legal before everyone was too drunk to care. You felt thankful he was protecting you from the lecherous hands of party guests from outside Oldtown who expected a traditional bedding ceremony. You coughed into your fist to relieve the tension before nodding and taking his hand. Ormund smiled.

Your father had long since left to mingle among the crowd with your brothers in tow. He would not be guiding you to your new quarters. Instead, a septa and some servants followed behind, her grey habit swishing on the floor with a shushing sound. Even with the sound of the music and merriment in the hall, the silence between you and Ormund felt deafening as you walked towards a door surrounded by tapestries.

"Our chambers," Ormund announced as he gestured for the servants to open the door.

You furrowed your eyebrow and looked up at Ormund, the firelight from the room catching the red of his auburn hair as you entered the room, "Will we not have separate chambers?"

Ormund looked at you quizzically as he removed your arm from the crook of his elbow, "would you like for us to have separate rooms?"

The door clicked shut. You both were alone for the first time. Even with the heat of the blazing fire, you shivered.

You bit your lip, "I thought… I don't know what I thought," you shook your head and began to remove your jewelry at the mirrored vanity placed at the centre of the room.

"Clearly something is on your mind. I am your husband now, you should feel free to tell me your thoughts," Ormund had walked up behind you and began plucking at the pearl pins in your hair.

Each pin landed in a porcelain dish with a resounding tink sound. Such a small noise felt so loud in the silence of your new chambers.

"That's the thing. I know you did not want to be my husband in the first place."

Ormund's fingers stopped picking at the pins, "What or who gave you that idea?" His voice sounded different, curious but with a darkness to it that made your skin prickle. He continued removing the pins with a new quickness of manner.

"My father. He said you had come to Castamere to marry my sister, that you married me only for the sake of our family's reputation and money."

Ormund did not speak. Not for a long while, you could feel the warmth of his chest against your back as he finished removing the last of the pins, running his fingers through your hair now that it was free from the confines of the pins. His fingers scraped and massaged against your tender scalp, relieving the tension you did not know you'd held in that place. Then, you felt his head rest on your shoulders, his lips caressing the shell of your ear and neck before he responded with a heated whisper.

"…Your father, is a fool. I have only ever wanted you."

"What? Me? I don't understand. My sister is far more beautiful and accomplished than I. Even when she was ruined she would still be considered a catch," you muttered, feeling the familiar sensation of self loathing flow through you.

Ormund considered your words before replying, his fingers now occupied with unlacing the ties of your dress until it sagged to the floor. He did the same with your stays, unlacing them until the only thing left on your body was your chemise and stockings. You wanted to ask why he was doing this when a maid could do the job just as well, but you'd already asked enough questions.

“Your sister uses her beauty as a weapon to ensnare men and bewitch them to her wicked intentions. Whereas you, your beauty is without artifice. You are exactly who you are, without lies or apology. You think I wanted her? If I did, I could have easily had her. She gave herself up to your feckless boy, Mason Coldwater, easily enough. But I never wanted her. I wanted you the moment you ran into me, babbling about peonies.” Ormund drawled, turning your body around tilting up your face to meet his intense gaze.

His thumb moved up to rub against your lip. It was callused. You found you did not care, in fact the sensation of his finger, rough from years of training with Vigilance. The feeling, the raw tenderness of it made your breath quicken. A shiver ran down your spine, making your nipples pucker through the fabric of your chemise. Ormund’s eyes flickered down to your chest momentarily, caught by the heavy movements of your bosom.

He smirked before leaning forwaas his nose traced yours, “Because you do not lie. I am surrounded by liars and cheats. I, myself, have had to lie regardless of my morals for the sake of my people. But you, you’ve never lied a day in your life. Have you?” Ormund’s words hit you deep in your chest.

"I've made small lies. Lies to myself mostly I have come to realize," you admitted, voice cracking as your nose pressed against his cheek, your mouth nearly touching his.

"About what then? Confess to your husband," he murmured his voice thick with arousal as he laced his fingers through your hair.

"Lies of omission. Lies about my feelings—"

"Feelings?"

"About you. About all of this. That I—oh to hells with it!" You swore before lurching forward, unable to take the anticipation any longer, pressing your lips to Ormund's.

You'd never kissed anyone before this. Not even Mason. Had you been anywhere but Oldtown, you would've kissed Ormund at the altar, but that did not happen. Oldtown was too old fashioned. Perhaps your boldness surprised your husband, because he stilled for a fraction of a moment, before kissing you back with an equal ferocity. You were a quick learner, and found that Ormund was an excellent teacher. He was right, age does bring experience.

His fingers, still laced into your loose hair, tugged. You moaned at the sensation, allowing Ormund access to your mouth. It was a strange sensation, but you welcomed it, and tried to mimic his movements. Ormund made a groan of approval into your mouth before breaking the kiss to press his lips down your jaw. You rolled your head to the side, giving him access to your neck and shoulder.

"Good girl," he purred in between kisses, his hands travelling to your chest, before resting on your thighs. He lifted you onto the table of the vanity. "But you said you lied to yourself about me, I want to know those lies," he said as his mouth feasted on your exposed chest before he grabbed at the hem of your chemise and ripped.

You gasped. Heat ran through you, straight to your core, whether it was embarrassment or arousal, you did not quite care in the moment.

"Oops," he grinned unapologetically as he pressed his mouth to one of your nipples.

"I—" You stammered, undone by the sensation and by the fact that you were practically bare, save for your stockings, in front of your very clothed husband.

"Tsk, that's not a confession, my sweet," he said as he took the same nipple into his mouth and sucked.

You gulped, gasping in breath, trying not to focus on the sight of Ormund suckling on one nipple, before switching to the other.

You screwed your eyes tight and tried to formulate words, "I lied to myself, thinking that I was not affected by you. But I am. I've been attracted to you for a while. I was angry at my father, my family for breaking all the promises they'd once kept, I used that as a shield from my feelings."

Ormund chuckled against your breast, the sensation buzzing through your whole body. He pulled away from your chest

"I knew it."

Your eyes fluttered open, "You did?" You questioned.

"Yes. I knew that if I waited, you would come to me with the truth when you wanted to share it. And for that," he said as he spread your thighs apart, kneeling between them, "you will be rewarded."

"What do you—oh," you moaned, hands bracing on the table behind you as Ormund's mouth descended onto your mound.

The feeling was indescribable. You'd never so much as touched yourself in that area before, and now Lord Ormund, your husband, was feasting on it as if starved. He lapped and sucked, inhaling deeply as he did so, his muscular arms tugging your body closer until your body was on the brink of falling off of the table. You let out a small squeak.

"I have you," he chuckled.

"Yes, I think you do," you giggled breathlessly as you moved one hand to brush a lock of his hair from his brow.

He pressed his head into your palm, kissing it before standing to his feet.

You tilted your head up, confused, "where are you going?"

He smirked, "Not far. I am undressing."

"I can help you," you offered earnestly.

He shook his head, "Another time, I fear if you do so now, I will combust."

"And I have not been set aflame by you? Does not seem fair," you pouted.

"Do not worry, my bride, I will not neglect you for long," he took your hand into his, the same one that had brushed hair from his brow. He kissed it again, before taking your index finger and middle finger into his mouth and sucking.

"What are you—"

"Shhh, my love. So many questions," he soothed, as he took your fingers and aligned them with your centre, "I want you to touch yourself while you watch me."

"But I've never done that before."

He was already unbuttoning his jerkin, "You'll learn. In and out. Like a needle and thread."

"Sounds painful."

"Try it. You might be surprised."

You shrugged your shoulders and did as bid. Your fingers slid easily into your core. At first it was an odd sensation, then you found it to be rather pleasant. You looked up from your fingers and moved your gaze to Ormund. It was as though he was eating you with his eyes while he pulled the last stitches of clothing from his body.

And his body…. it was magnificent. You'd known his height, his strength, but it was an entirely different thing to see him naked. He was muscular everywhere you looked, his body tanned from days spent training outside with his sword. And speaking of swords… you could see where the Hightowers got their name from.

"Wow," You said, mouth dropping open in awe, "you're beautiful."

Ormund prowled towards you, his muscular body caging around your seat on the vanity table. His left hand traced down your body, leaving tingles and heat in its wake, before meeting up with the hand inserted into your core. He pulled your fingers out before inserting them into his mouth once more.

"I couldn't resist. Do you think you're ready, my sweet?"

You nodded. You'd been so afraid before but Ormund had made this all seem so natural. Inevitable. Like everything you both had gone through had come to this conclusion.

"Yes."

Ormund smiled before he kissed you gently on the mouth before lining himself up to your centre. Then, slowly but surely, he pushed himself into you. You threw your arms around his shoulders and held him tightly as you kissed him through the experience. At first, you felt a bit uncomfortable, but as he began to move, the pain left in favour of pleasure. Each time he thrusted into you, the vanity table shook. Pins fell to the floor as your hips rolled in return, trying to meet Ormund thrust for thrust. He groaned into your mouth before moving his head down to your neck.

He did not kiss you there, no. Instead you could feel him breathing heavily, inhaling deeply as he pushed into you faster and faster, his free hand moving down to press against the bundle of nerves between your thighs. Your hips bucked into his violently at the sensation. Beneath you, the table had begun to crack. You could hear the leg supports and the top giving out.

"Ormund?"

"Yes?" He asked, his voice foggy from pleasure.

"The table. It's breaking."

"Let it break. I'll buy a better one."

The room was filled with the sounds of your skin slapping against one another, the uncontrollable moans escaping from you both, and the scent of lavender, peonies and sex. It was heady. Inside your body, between thrusts, you could feel your core fluttering. The feeling was new and wonderful. As if he could sense how you were feeling, Ormund moved his head from your neck to stare intently into your eyes as he pounded into you before pulling you into a heated embrace.

"You're mine," He murmured against your lips, "you've always been mine."

You nodded, trying not to break the kiss, but that wasn't enough for your husband.

"Say it," he growled, nipping at your lip as he ground his hips against yours.

"Ah—I'm yours," you cried out.

That seemed to please Ormund, as he kissed you with a renewed vigour as he pistoned himself into you, moving your right leg onto his shoulder to pound deeper inside of you. This new angle was too much, the sensation seemed to overwhelm you to the point where your head tilted back as you reached your peak. Your whole body shook as pleasure pulsed through you. Ormund was not far behind. He continued to pound into you, seemingly mesmerized and aroused by your loose and satisfied form on the tabletop. When he reached the precipice of his pleasure, it was with a loud cry. You could feel his seed shoot into you, your internal walls soaked in the evidence of your husband's pleasure.

For a moment, you both stayed in place, catching your breath on top of the creaking vanity table.

Ormund looked down at you tenderly as he picked up your naked body from the table, carrying you to the bed and laying you on top of the sheets, before pulling off your stockings and tucking you in. You watched his naked body as he grabbed your ripped chemise from the vanity table, examining it closely before nodding in satisfaction. To your dismay, he walked over to a coat rack in order to put on a bathrobe.

"Where are you going now?"

"To give evidence of our coupling to the septa and to order a bath for us. I'm not letting you leave this room anytime soon."

You smiled, "so long as you come back."

"Wild horses could not tear me away."