love too many and too much

The weather has been unbearable ever since the arrival of summer. And with unbearable weather, comes unbearable family, constantly irritated and snappy, more so than usual. It would be a lie to say that you were the only one unaffected by the weather.

This morning you had yelled at your younger brother, Aerion, for cutting the hair off your younger sisters' dolls as they cried and clung to you. With their arms curled around you, warm tears bleeding into your skirts, and Aerion's aloof attitude to your lecture, you could not help but fling the disfigured dolls at him.

The first hit him in the face. The shock of it could not even register until the second slammed against his chest. Then his quick temper morphed his features into anger.

He lunged at you, grabbing your arms. You did not flinch when he got in your face, too used to his little outbursts. "You stupid-!"

That was when your father came into the room, already flushed red with anger. "Quiet, all of you! Enough with this nonsense!"

That shut all of you up. Your father ripped Aerion off of you, and you gave each other one last nasty glare as he was hauled away.

Instead of returning to your chambers to stew in heat and frustration, you slipped past the guard, utilizing tricks you learned from your eldest brother whenever he would sneak off to the tavern or brothel.

Of course you knew the way to the river, often coming to play here with your siblings or accompanying Aerion or little Egg fishing when you were younger, before your beloved mother passed.

Freedom from the restricting dress provides temporary relief. The sun is still at it's peak, relentlessly beating down on your poor, sweltering skin.

You abandon your folded clothes on a rock nearby and shuffle into the gentle waters. It flows around your calves, cold, refreshing, and quickly washing away the heat and frustration that consumed you. The water is clear enough for you to see your toes wiggling against the rocky shoal.

You kneel into the water and splash it on your face, hissing when the cold rivulets spill down your body, but the sun is quick to heat you back up.

"O-Oh, I'm so sorry!" It's a stuttered exclamation, followed by what sounds like footsteps fumbling on the grassy bank. "I didn't mean to-"

You rise slow, looking over your shoulder, as you eye the stranger who has his back turned toward you. Dirty is one word you can use to describe him. Covered head to toe in mud like he just finished rolling in it. His short hair is matted, hiding true color of his hair, which you can only assume is blond by the stray strands that are not coated in dirt. The tips of his ears burning red.

Other than the dirt covering him, he is absolutely massive. You would have to crane your neck just to look him in the eye. A very similar stature to someone you only met in your family's tale upon returning from Ashford.

Your lips curl into a smile.

No one is allowed to talk about the events at Ashford, not just for the sake of Aerion's bruised ego, but because of the near fatal injury your father caused your uncle.

The lack of information about that day only increased your curiosity. A simple hedge knight faced your brother and won? He fascinates you. Honorable, kind, someone true to their oaths. Someone so unlike Daeron and Aerion.

"No harm done, Ser Duncan." You glide in front of him. You don't shy away from his gaze either. His eyes widen, and somehow his face becomes even more flushed pink.

"Sorry, have we met?" He asks, sparing a quick glance at you to try and figure out who you are. He would remember meeting pretty lady like you. Especially one that smiles at him so sweetly.

"Of course. You are the rouge who spirited my brother away."

The realization washes over him, eyes widening as bows his head, only to get an eye full of your breasts. He snaps back up, staring straight ahead into the treeline. "Princess," he stammers.

You offer your hand, and he's quick to take it. The kiss on your knuckles is just a shy peck and you're released as if he's been burned by you. He takes one large step back, nearly stumbling into the river when his foot slips on a rock.

"I'll leave you be. Again, I'm s-so sorry to disturb you, princess."

You giggle behind your hand. Coy eyes slide over the broad expanse of his shoulders, the sweat that glides down his neck toward the loose collar of his shirt.

"No need to run off on my account, Ser. Stay."

It's less of a friendly offer, and more like a demand—everything you say is a demand, such is the luxury of being a princess. You get what you want, and right now, you want him.

His lips part, a weak retort forming on the tip of his tongue before shutting. He nods instead, deciding he is unable to argue with a princess. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword, both out of habit and nerves. He clears his throat, standing straighter, somehow taller, "I will stay on guard then."

You huff, "guard… I do not require a guard. I want you to join me."

You've had enough of feeling suffocated today.

"Your father will have my head," he chuckles nervously.

"He won't find out."

Even if your father did find out, all it takes is a few stray tears and a pouty lip for him to forgive his precious first daughter.

But it had always been Aerion who found out about your dalliances first. He seldom favored any man who had a desire to court you, running each of them off with sharp words and an even sharper blade.

Overprotective, possessive, maybe even obsessed—he loathed to share you with anyone else. It was like a cat and mouse game the two of you played. Choosing your newest toy to sneak around with before he catches wind of them and chases them off.

But Dunk has already faced Aerion and survived. Now you're wondering how far this game will go.

Dunk's lips purse again, a furrow in his brow, and you add quickly, "I swear it."

He glances around at your empty surroundings before finally nodding.

Pushing down your triumphant smile, you turn and settle at the edge of the river on a flat rock, ignoring the temptation to turn around and watch as he reveals the muscles beneath his tunic. Instead, you bite your lip and sink your feet into the water.

"Did you stop at Summerhall before coming here?" You question, noting the lack of Egg at his side.

"Aye. The prince wasn't much pleased to see us covered in mud," he chuckles, crouching down a safe distance away from you. He washes his face and runs his hands down his chest to get rid of the caked on mud. Dark water flows down the stream. "Sent Egg off for a bath before he could even say hello."

"And you did not stay for one yourself?" You ask as you lay back. You stretch, arms rising above your head and back arching over the grass.

The small moan that slips from you as your body stretches out is not an accident. Nor is the way his eyes can't help but drift over your curves before he catches your satisfied smirk and averts his attention back to the water.

"N-No, I prefer the river. Especially on days like this."

You hum, "how fortunate for me then. So, what were you two doing?"

At that, Dunk launches into an story about settling a petty dispute between a minor lord, he had been in service to, and a stable hand.

"And then he fell face first in the mud."

You gasp, "no! How humiliating!"

The two of you have immersed yourselves in conversation, and you find it hard to remember one of you is completely naked, trying to seduce him back to your chambers, and the other is only shirtless and trying not to stare at your breasts as a blush creeps down his freckled chest.

"That's not even the best part of it!" He adds eagerly, "he started flinging mud everywhere like a babe having a fit."

The image of a minor lord flinging mud at everyone sends you into a laughing fit. It's certainly not a flattering laugh, but you find it hard to care. Especially when his own face lights up with a boyish grin each time yours does.

You rise from your position and lean in close, breasts just barely brushing his arm.

"You have a stubborn spot," you say, reaching up to his cheek, "right here."

His eyes widen, body tensing as your thumb rubs over the spot that hadn't washed away.

"You have such pretty eyes," you muse, enjoying the way they widen and look anywhere but you. Blue, bright, and entirely innocent.

"I- thank you. And you're-," he stumbles over his words, flustering himself further as he tries to get the words out, "you- you're beautiful, princess."

Empty words you've heard plenty of times before—flattery for favor. Typically, you'd offer a demure smile and pretend to be flattered. He's so unlike all the other knights in your father's service. They were desperate to please you to curry favor with your father or bed you, sometimes both, but you didn't mind entertaining yourself with them. They meant nothing in the end anyway, especially with Aerion always hovering.

But with Dunk, an honest blush and transfixed expression, the compliment makes something in you want to hold him close and make him yours.

"It is a shame we did not meet sooner." Your fingers drift down to trace the edge of his jaw, guiding his face closer to yours. "I would have liked to keep you by my side instead."

Something in the distance snaps.

"There you are, sister."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the cocky tone in Aerion's voice. You look over your shoulder to find him glaring at Dunk. His hand grips the hilt of his sword.

Dunk pulls his shirt over his head. The fabric clings to the soft shape of his body. "Your grace," he mutters. His face becomes so severe, you'd think he were being sent off to the executioner.

Aerion bares his teeth. "And you, lumbering buffoon. What are you doing alone with my sister? Trying to sully her honor?"

That's when you roll your eyes, standing to face him. "Don't start with that," you snap. "Haven't you learned your lesson or do you need another reminder?"

There is a pale scar across Aerion's nose, left from their last encounter. He scoffs, turning his attention from Dunk to you. "Why are you entertaining this oaf?"

Dunk hands you your chemise. Your fingers purposefully brush against his wrist as you take it from him. Aerion's eye twitches.

"I like him," you admit plainly. That earns you a shy, toothy smile.

"Like one does a mangy stray," Aerion drawls with crossed arms. He stares Dunk down with a challenging glare.

"Have you only come to be insufferable or is there a purpose?" You snap as you pull the chemise over you.

Dunk shifts his feet and clears his throat. "I should take my leave now."

"Yes, be gone with you," Aerion says with mock politeness, waving his hand dismissively.

"Goodbye for now, Ser."

"Goodbye, your grace," he nods, blue eyes flickering over to Aerion, who is glowering again, then quickly correcting, "graces. Your graces."

At that, Dunk nods his head and departs, giving you one last polite, yet awkward, smile. You hate to see him walk away from the peace the two of you created. No matter, you'll see him at Summerhall.

"Come—father is looking for you." Aerion pulls your hand onto his arm, guiding you on a different path than the one Dunk took.

"Must you chase away every man who comes near me?"

"Of course," he scoffs, resting a hand on yours curled around his bicep, "no man will ever be good enough for a dragon, especially a hedge knight."

You smile to yourself as a scheme begins to form in your mind. You'd like to see him try and run off this hedge knight like all the others. Though you certainly doubt it will be as easy.

Uncomfortable, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

"Ah, well, I took an oath, did I not? It wouldn't be right to make the smallfolks pay me for fulfilling it."

He'll take coin from lords who want to hire his services, but the innkeeper was an innocent. Not her fault if a bunch of drunken idiots refused to pay her and started trashing the place. He'd just done his duty in lending her a helping hand.

"At least let me take a proper look at you," you say, shaking your head.

Dunk swallows. He has been on the receiving end of your healing hands plenty of times. He isn't certain they truly possess power, but he knows they feel soothing and soft on his skin and he thinks of them more often than he would ever admit to you.

He lets himself fall down onto the bed, which creaks dangerously under his weight. Don't go breaking it now, you lunk. Wouldn't help the innkeeper one bit, that.

"Good."

As always, your hands handle him delicately, as soft as your words can be cutting. He doesn't think anyone has ever touched him like that, like he is precious jewelry in a noble lady's hands. He's told you before that you need not be so careful, that you couldn't break him if you tried. He's sure now that it was a lie. You could break him, you're just more likely to do it with a brush of your fingers than if you tried using strength.

You look at the scratches and new bruises blooming over his skin, brow furrowed, concerned expression on your face. There's an agony to watching you do it, for Dunk, even if he wants to abandon himself to the sensation of your touch over his body. He hates knowing he caused it, hates that he makes you worry. If he trusted himself more, he'd reach out and wipe the line between your eyebrows with his thumb.

"Does this one hurt still?" you ask, tracing the one on his stomach.

Your cold hands feel particularly nice on the tight skin. They also make him even more nervous than usual when they start traveling down his torso, dangerously close to a place he's dreamt you'd touch and woken up all sweaty and shameful afterwards.

"Aye," he admits. "Under the sun, mostly."

He keeps it covered when he can, but with this hot summer and the drought, it's been quite a hassle lately.

"I can think of ointment for that. I'll get it to you."

"Dunno that I could afford it," he grimaces. You use expensive ingredients.

"You're escorting me free of charge, aren't you? It's the least I can do."

"You let Egg sleep in your wagon. That's payment enough."

"Don't be stubborn," you say sternly, and he is stubborn, but somehow he knows this is an argument he won't win.

Not that he usually wins arguments against you. You're clever, that you are, and he loses his words too easily when you're looking at him with your hands balled up into fists on your hips, telling him how he ought to behave.

"What about these?" you continue, taking his hand in yours.

It takes him a second to realize what you're talking about. He opened his knuckles on the face of some particularly virulent drunkard; it barely even registered.

"It doesn't feel good, but it's not that bad. Nothing to be done about it anyway."

He knows you have balms for such things, that lords and ladies buy for ridiculous prices to make the small pains in life easier. He, for one, would never waste them on such things — that was, if he'd been able to afford them in the first place.

You sit down next to him, not letting go of his hand. It's sending pleasant tingles through his entire arm. Lower, his thigh is on fire where yours brushes against it, and that's through your skirts and his pants. He can't imagine what it would feel like if—

No. He cannot allow himself to go there. Not when you're sitting right there. Maybe, maybe, if he truly cannot help himself, he'll let the thoughts replay in his mind, leaning against a tree on a cold, lonely night. Until then, he swallows and hopes he's not blushing too much.

He's still trying to chase the thoughts away when you bring his big hand to your lips and blow on the wounds. Plenty of kids would recognize the gesture right away. Dunk just stares without the faintest idea of what you're doing. It feels nice, being taken care of for once, that's for sure, but—

And then. Then you lean down to press a kiss to his knuckles, and his mind just. Goes blank. Fully. Everything vanishes. He registers the softness of your lips still, because, much to his shame, he cannot help himself — though to be fair, he thinks he would have kicked himself 'til the end of times if he hadn't remembered what it felt like to be kissed by you.

"How about now?" you ask him, and he blinks.

"Uh," he says, "what'd you do that for?"

You give him a smile that makes him wonder if you're mocking him. You're not the type, he doesn't think. You've never even called him dumb, and people usually don't spare him the comment. Just— sometimes he cannot figure you out at all.

"I'm kissing it better," you answer like it's the most natural thing in the world.

He glances down at his hand, just checking to see if it was meant to be magic, but no, the wounds are still there, red and starting to scab.

"Kissin' it better," he repeats.

You tilt your head to the side, playful mischief in your eyes.

"Did it not work? Should I try it again, then?"

Before he can answer, your lips are back on his skin, and they linger this time, three consecutive kisses over his knuckles. He can't help but wonder if this is how ladies feel when lords and knights kiss their hands. He'd certainly never thought such a simple gesture could ever make him feel like this — so lost and at your mercy.

Truth be told, he can hardly feel the wound anymore.

"That did— that feels better," he admits around the knot in his throat.

"Good. I'll keep going then."

He forgets how to breathe when you turn his hand in yours to look at his palm, and follow over his forearm until you land on a small nick, right under the crook of his elbow.

"That's nothing," he's quick to say. "It's not even from the fight, I think it was a branch where Thunder stopped to drink."

It doesn't stop you. Your forehead comes to rest against his bicep for a moment, and he's certain you'll be the death of him. He fists his other hand into the sheets. Get a damn grip, you lunk.

"Now, let me see…"

Your hand trails over his arm, then his shoulder, and everywhere it touches he's set ablaze. He's certain he's blushing, doesn't see how it could be any other way. When it settles on his neck, he's sure you can tell just how his heart is hammering in his chest. He knows the blush must be obvious too, burning his ears and flushing his neck as well. He supposes he's thankful you're not saying anything about it, but he also wishes you'd put him out of his misery once and for all.

"A guy jumped on my back and tried to strangle me," he explains, trying his best to stick to the point. If he loses his words now, he doesn't think he'll ever find them again.

You click your tongue, and he thinks, surely, surely you won't—

But you do. This time, it's your entire body and all its curves and softness that presses against him, with your mouth on his neck, leaving a trail of kisses all over it. You're being soft with it, too, careful not to apply any pressure on it; just feather-light touches and the delicate sounds of your mouth, driving him clean out of his mind.

Against his better judgment, his hand comes to your waist — to hold you or to pull you closer, he's not quite sure himself.

"Ah, th-that— isn't that quite improper?"

He curses himself when your clever mouth stops working his neck and you go still in his arms. They were right to say you're as thick as a castle wall, you lunk. He takes some comfort in the way you've slumped against him, your breasts flush against his chest, even with your clothes in between, your nose tucked under his chin.

With a sigh, you tear yourself from him, and he thinks he lets out a very undignified whine, like that of a kicked dog. You just had to open your mouth, didn't you, Dunk?

"Yes," you say, "quite improper," and this time he's pretty sure you are mocking him, and he can't even fault you for it.

But you go still when you stand up, looking down at his face. You're standing between his legs now, his hand remaining on your waist. Your hand travels to his face, traces his jaw carefully, and a keening sound forms in the back of his throat. He might have managed to hold it back, had your thumb not come to stroke his bottom lip. Someone had punched him there during the fight, he recalls belatedly, the hit barely registering because the man couldn't reach him there comfortably.

"How about this last one?"

You don't wait for an answer before you lean in, mouth closing around his lip, soft and sweet. You taste of mint, he discovers, the paste he's seen you use on your teeth after eating. You kiss him like he's fragile, like he'll shatter if you don't, and despite your best efforts, he thinks that's exactly what happens to him in this moment. He stays very still under you, just basking in the moment.

Until you step away.

"One of these days, ser Duncan," you say, breath suspiciously short, "one of these days, you should join me in my wagon."

Dunk frowns.

"There would never be enough space for the three of us in there."

You look confused, before you let out a quiet laugh.

"That might be true," you sigh, a little crestfallen. "Well then, I will see you at dinner."

You're gone before he can stutter out an answer.

That night, after eating in the inn where a table was still missing, you take his hand in yours again and, authoritatively, you rub one of your most expensive balms gently into his knuckles, before applying just a dot of it to his lip. Then you smile at him like he's hung the moon and, not for the first time, certainly not the last, Dunk thinks you will be the death of him.

Daeron's expression turns sympathetic as he sees your mood sour, prompting you to step closer, one hand moving to brush his cheek as you speak, your tone hushed but warm. "Don't give me that look," you scold, but it contradicts the softness of your touch and tone. "There's nothing to worry about." Your thumb smooths over his cheekbone, motherly and reassuring, as you always do when he's putting others' emotions onto his own young shoulders. "Ormund will know what to make of it."

"As always."

Both of you perk up at the familiar voice, watching as your husband enters the tent through the flaps, one eyebrow raised as he assesses the scene, eyes narrowing at the sight of your hand cradling Daeron's cheek, jaw clenching minutely. "Such matters are not for wives," he shoots you a look, "or squires," his voice dips to a firmer tone as he glances at Daeron, "to worry about." Ormund closes the flap behind him before continuing, seeking privacy. "Or talk behind their hands like gossiping mongrels where I cannot hear."

You feel Daeron tense beneath your hand, and your thumb brushes his cheek to soothe, huffing as you hold your husband's gaze. "The boy was just relaying information to me, which I am grateful for." Daeron relaxes under your touch, which makes you hum, sneaking him a small smile before turning your gaze back to Ormund. "As any squire would."

"He is my squire."

"I borrowed him," you counter, lifting your chin, not backing down.

"You cannot borrow someone's squire. It is unheard of."

"And yet you are hearing about it now. Novelties are common during wartime, are they not?"

The corner of Ormund's lips twitches for one moment at your audacity before he scoffs, eyes narrowed as he holds your gaze enough to let you know this will not be the end of this conversation. It sends a shiver down your spine.

"So they say," he responds, stepping closer, motioning with one hand towards the flap of the tent. "Go see what that beast of yours is doing, won't you? There are matters I must discuss with Lady Hightower." Ormund's tone is firm, brooking no argument as he waits for Daeron to obey, the young boy nodding curtly, before turning to do the same to you, albeit a touch more reverent.

"My lord, my lady."

You smile, thumb tracing his cheek once more before he moves, letting your hand fall to your side, watching as he makes haste towards the tent's exit.

The silence he leaves behind is thick for a heartbeat, two, before it is broken by your husband's voice. "You coddle him incessantly," he reprimands, face scrunching in distaste, as if such a thing offended him personally. "Petting him like a cat and cooing at him as if he were but a babe."

Being a touch theatrical has always been one of your husband's most endearing traits, and one of his most daunting, as you sometimes remind him, to his annoyance. You will never admit that poking at that certain flaw of his tickles you greatly, just as it does now.

"He is young," you combat, "and this is his first ever war. A gentle touch would do him well."

"Too gentle of a touch will soften him overmuch and he will not be fit to fight alongside me, as is his duty," your husband counters, tone resolute as he takes slow, measured steps towards you, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. "You know this."

And you did. The importance of coming out victorious was paramount to your husband, his house, and his cause. Seating the rightful heir on the Iron Throne was the one thing that mattered most, and Ormund was hellbent on seeing it through to the end, by any means necessary.

"I am aware," your tone softens, sighing as you reach for him, hand touching his cheek as you did Daeron, but the difference was stark in the way you offered your affection, thumbing at the cut of his cheekbone with intent, leaning in until your breaths mingled. Ormund frowned, knowing you were trying to appease him, but didn't pull away, instead leaning into your touch, tilting his head into the cradle of your palm, eyes boring into yours. “But someone has to soften the rigour you instill in him, husband, for he shall not be cruel, but just, even in times of war.”

“Being just is not enough,” he protests again, and you can feel his jaw tighten beneath your hand, which you try to soothe with soft swipes of your thumb along the bone, a touch that he welcomes, despite the turmoil in his gaze. “If one needs to be heartless, then the Gods have willed it so.”

Your brows pinch together, the urge to try and make your husband see reason slowly curdling into something acrid. “Since when have the Gods willed a young boy to cruelty, Ormund?” Your tone is no longer soft nor warm, sharpening at the mere thought of Daeron being made into something he was not meant to be. “Is this what the Seven Pointed Star had taught us all these years?”

Ormund’s eyes widen for a fraction, the use of his name in such a cadence from you and the sting of your words halting his breath. He knew how fiercely protective you were of the boy, like a lioness with its cub, even if not yours by womb. Now it was his turn to try and bring back the sweetness in your tone, for he shall never admit it, but having his wife cross with him was a fate he did not particularly enjoy.

“My love,” he murmured, and tried not to react when he saw your expression pinch even more at the fond moniker. “Sometimes, in the midst of war, we cannot abide by all that The Faith has taught us, no matter how much we wish to grace the Gods with our deeds.” Ormund took a breath, trying not to get irritated when your pretty face didn’t soften an inch. “And that boy is fated to sit The Iron Throne, for his blood is pure, and not savage, and his teachings are proper, and not the stuff of legends long past.”

Sit the Iron Throne.

You took a step back, recoiling from your husband as if burned, the warmth of your touch no longer on his cheek as you whispered, mortified. “Sit the Iron Throne?”

Such plans were news to you, for Aemond was to be the rightful heir now that Aegon was gone. But it seems your husband’s ideals reached further than you could’ve ever conjured up yourself. Was it because Aemond was to be sent to Harrenhal? Did your husband believe Rhaenyra’s forces would slay Vhagar and thus leave the throne with no one to occupy it?

“No,” you said, resolute, fingers starting to tremble as you curled them into fists at your side. “I will not have my boy thrown into that den of vipers that we’ve tried so hard to keep him safe from.”

Ormund’s chest rattled with the deep breath he took, as if preparing himself for the onslaught of your dissatisfaction to come. “He is not—”

“Don’t you dare!” Your tone was sharp as steel, voice rising, all pretence gone now that your husband had braved to utter those words to you, knowing how much they would chip at your tender heart. “You know just as well as I that Daeron is more mine than anyone else’s. I have raised him since he was a babe—”

“And you have done so valiantly, my dear, but—” Ormund tries to soothe, but the bitter taste in your mouth from his words is more pungent than anything he could say to save himself from your wrath.

“Do not patronise me so!”

Your chest is heaving, and you feel those damnable pinpricks behind your eyes, moisture dampening your lash line, tears slowly forming, as if already feeling the grief of losing one of the things you cherish most. “King’s Landing is a wretched place, devoid of honour and swarming with enemies, and you want to send our—”

Our son.

But you stop, chin wobbling, not daring to say such a thing now, knowing it will do no good, and only make your husband protest further.

The sweetest boy, who hid his chubby little face into your skirts and clung to them when nightmares came at night, is now sentenced to a life you know he does not wish for. You can already feel your stomach churning with trepidation just at the thought, your gaze unwavering despite the tears brimming in your eyes to shoot daggers at your husband, who stays unmoving before you, looking equal parts irritated and unsure of how to proceed in the face of such strong emotions.

“I cannot, Ormund,” you whisper, voice breaking around the edges. “I shall not let you make a scheme of my boy just to fuel your own ambitions.”

You expect your husband to protest, to scream and rage and rip the very tent you’re in apart in his hands, but he does none of those things. Instead, he watches you, as calculated as he’s ever been, as if devising a plan to turn your sorrow into something for his own gain, or so you think.

What you do not anticipate is for Ormund to sigh, long and suffering, before walking towards you, lessening the distance between your bodies until his sword hilt bumps against your hip. “Do you believe that I am doing this solely for my own gain, my love?”

And you want to argue that, yes, you are certain of such things, for your husband was never one to not think of himself or his family first and foremost. But you don’t get to verbalise that, Ormund’s voice, softer than before, carrying that tone which could melt the marrow of your bones in mere seconds, but now, your impending grief is too great, your sorrow hardening you too much for such mellowness so quick.

“I do it for us,” he says, tilting his head to the side, bringing your faces closer, noses almost brushing. “For our legacy. For the future of House Hightower, which is now in ruins given the death of Otto and the usurpation of the King.”

You wish to protest, but your husband does not let you, sensing the argument on the tip of your tongue before it forms, a habit he picked up after more than a decade by your side, knowing you inside and out.

“Ascending Daeron to the throne will grant us power beyond our imagination, and allow the boy to live in a world of his own making.” The words are just and sound, but they do not go through you; the image of your sweet Daeron sitting upon that blasted throne full of swords and lies is too heavy on your heart.

“He will be in grave danger,” you croak, tears brimming along your lash line, slowly slipping down warm cheeks. “People will seek to harm him, to demand favours he’s not ready to offer, to—”

“And I will be in his shadow, making sure none of that comes to fruition,” Ormund says, tone brooking no argument, his gaze holding yours, willing you to see the seriousness of the matter. “If anyone dares to conspire against our boy, I will have their heads before they can draw their next breath. You have my word, sweet wife.”

Our boy.

You draw in a trembling, wet breath, your husband’s words breaking your heart and putting it back together in one fell swoop, a quiet, choked sob parting your lips as you try to utter a word back, anything to dismantle Ormund’s words, but you cannot.

“Oh, my love,” he coos, and it does not sound as condescending as it should’ve, as Ormund would pity those around him who show weakness. No, not with you. He wouldn’t dare make a spectacle of your tender, caring heart, which has grounded him many a time in his darkest, most turbulent moments. “Come here, sweetheart. Do not weep so.”

And you, powerless to resist, take the small step which is needed to bridge the distance between you, allowing your husband to cradle you in his arms, holding you as gently as one would a flower, but firm enough to make it known he wishes not to let go anytime soon.

One of his broad palms settles along your back, slowly smoothing down from the small of your back to the nape of your neck, the other anchored to the back of your head, coaxing you to rest your face along his throat. “Shh, shh, sweetling,” he whispers, turning his head to brush the words against your temple before pressing a soft, lingering kiss against your brow. “I will never let anything befall you or the boy. You know that with certainty.”

You do.

Gods, you do, but the fear that gripped your heart like a vice at the thought of such a grand plan was more powerful than reason and proof. Ormund had always gone above and beyond to ensure you and Daeron were safe at all times, even when he was away, instructing guards to follow you around like shadows and sit unmoving at your doors while you slumbered.

“I-i know, but the peril that awaits him if—”

Another kiss brushing your skin halted your incoming spiral, the feeling of your husband’s warm, rough lips against your temple melting you further into the safe strength of his arms, a haven in itself as you feared for what was to come. “The peril shall not exist. Our boy will have me, you, and more men-at-arms that I can count to keep him away from harm. In that, you must trust. In me, also.”

Your arms, which have hesitated until now, moved to grip at the back of your husband’s tunic as you embraced him tightly, needing a rock to cling to, nuzzling your face into his throat, dampening his skin with your tears as you sobbed quietly. “I trust in you more than life itself,” you croaked, and felt the pleased hum your words elicited from Ormund, as if the thought of you confiding in him so wholeheartedly brought him immense satisfaction. “But not that place, those people, that damned chair.”

“And you are right to do so, my love,” he approved, slowly putting weight from one foot to another, guiding your bodies into a gentle sway from side to side, meant to soothe you further. “Gods know everything the Targaryens touch is defiled beyond words. But we shall change that. Make it our own. A place where we and the boy can build a world fit for us alone.”

It sounded too good to be true, like a fairytale the septas would whisper to babes as they grew older, but the determined tone of your husband’s voice made you want to cling to this fantasy as well.

“Just us and our boy?” You murmured, fingers curling tighter into Ormund’s tunic, as if you could etch the very hope of such notions into his very bones.

“Yes, my sweet,” he whispered, brushing another lingering kiss to your temple, eyes fluttering shut as he held you close, still swaying. “Just us and our boy.”

He flashes you a kind smile over his shoulder beneath the glugging of the dark violet ale he pours into a jeweled chalice. It sounds much louder in the quiet, along with that of your slippers whispering against the cobbles as you walk further into the unfamiliar chambers — the place you’ll likely spend the rest of your days, like a vast and gilded tomb.

“Thank you, my lord,” you say with a smile as your hands reach for the gold tie at your waist. It unlaces with one soft pull, and your fingers head next for the button keeping you wrapped in the emerald fabric. “Though… I must say… I think it looks much better like this—”

The gown pools to your feet with a soft thud, leaving you suddenly bare above the waist before him. A thin silver chain sits across your belly, holding your pale underskirt in place around your hips. The dancing firelight kisses through the thin fabric to reveal the shape of your body underneath it — the curve of your inner thighs, and the shadow of hair just between them. 

“—Don’t you?” you wonder, eyes widening in a faux-innocent sort of look.

Gwayne’s chest rises with a slow inhale as his pale eyes move slowly over the sight of you — not with desire, perhaps, but with reverence. The quiet appreciation a man might have for a fine piece of art, to be admired at from a careful distance.

“Well…” the man hums lowly, lips curling upward into an unsure smile. He abandons the untouched goblet on the table behind him and closes the remaining distance between you, lest you see the uncertainty hidden in his eyes. “You certainly do not need it, my lady…”

His pale hands are cold when they smooth around your waist, just above the thin chain of your underskirt; fingers long and calloused from decades of swordwork. You tip your chin back to meet the man halfway when he ducks softly down to kiss you. 

His pink mouth is soft and plush against yours, tasting of wine and mint and the honeyed remains of dinner.

When your hands reach for his broad shoulders, you can feel the tension coiled in his muscles as he attempts to summon a hunger all men should surely possess for a woman like you. You feel the trying within him without having to search for it — you’d been patient with men your whole life, been told of what your mouth did to them before you were old enough to truly understand the words, and how little urging men typically required for you to do so.

Though it seems to require a great deal more of that urging here now.

You kiss him deeper, licking into his parted mouth in a way that has made every man before him surrender to his knees. Gwayne exhales a heavy sigh through his nose, breath fanning warm along your cupid’s bow as his hands grip tighter at the plush of your waist. You let yours slide down the front of his emerald coat until they reach the leather of his belt. You cup him gently there just below, expecting to find him some of the way hard, but find him soft under the trousers instead.

Gwayne pulls off your mouth with a soft smack. His panted breaths fan across your cheek as he rests his forehead against yours. “Forgive me…” he laughs breathlessly, tongue darting to lick your spit from his mouth. “Must be the wine…” 

Your mouth curls upward into a sympathetic smile. “Shall I fetch Ser Criston?”

Gwayne goes rigid against you in a blink. Horror floods his pale blue eyes and wrinkles the pale skin between his brows. “…What?”

“Perhaps he could join us— I truly wouldn’t mind,” you tell him, peering at the man with eyes wide in earnest when he steps back from you. “He could help you get started until you’re—” 

His chest shudders through a trembling breath as the heat of humiliation prickles beneath his skin like burning embers. “I— I don’t know what you’re talking about...”

Gwayne turns away from you completely then. He puts the entire breadth of the chamber between you as he makes way for the balcony, inhaling deeply to drag the starry, summer night air into his tightening lungs. You watch him go as a cold feeling surges through your chest; not quite anger, and not quite hurt. You slip back into the crumpled wedding gown with a heavy sigh, fastening the emerald fabric closed once more.

“We are husband and wife now— There is no need for us to play games here,” you remind him, tying the gold lace around your hips as you step onto the balcony with him. The silken breeze ripples in your skirts as the whole of Oldtown stretches before you in flickering torchlight and salty air. Your hand settles gently over his spine, and he tenses beneath the soft weight of your tenderness on instinct. “Save that energy for the rest of court, my lord— You’re going to need it.”

Gwayne turns slowly to face you. His blue eyes have gone a paler shade from the unshed tears hiding in the very backs of them, glittering gold in the firelight. You meet his look of uncertainty with a surer smile.

“I don’t care if you want men and women equally, or if you prefer the company of men alone,” you mutter lowly with your head bowed close, words meant for his ears alone. “We can try again later, however you’d like— with a friend present, perhaps, if that eases things. Whatever you want. But for my sake, it must be done.” 

The shadow of his adam’s apple bobs in his throat through a thick swallow. “And if I cannot?” he whispers on bated breath, light eyes swimming as they dart back and forth between yours. “Do it at all, I mean?” 

Your smile does not waver in the face of his doubt. You simply shake your head at him in return. Your hand drifts up his spine until your fingers thread in the short auburn hair at the nape of his neck.

“Before you took me in, my lord, I came from a far lesser house. Where bread was counted— actually counted, so that my brothers might eat their fill and I might learn to want less… I had a father who reminded me daily what I cost to feed and clothe and keep unmarried. I wore gowns made out of scraps from my brother’s clothes before I came here,” you confess through a teary sort of laugh. “I know what it means to manage hard things, my lord. And I know there is always a way through them, if only you’re clever enough to find it.” 

Gwayne’s furrowed features loosen into a look of kinship and distant admiration. Whatever grievance he’d carried onto this balcony moments ago seems to slip from his tense shoulders entirely. As the quiet swells between you, the crowd below notices your presence on the balcony above. They call up at the two of you like barking hounds — all of them hungry for a story they might tell their children one day, of the night they watched a girl from nowhere marry among the richest and most handsome in Westeros, like a fairytale come to life.

“Smile, Ser Gwayne,” you lilt with an artificial grin of your own. You hold onto his arm with one hand while your other lifts to wave at the crowd gathering in the city below. “They’ve waited for this part all day…” 

Gwayne inhales a deeper breath; one that comes more easily to him this time. His smile seems to sit more effortlessly on his mouth, too, right before he ducks softly down to kiss you once more. Distant applause rings through the starry night when your lips meet — though there is little desire in it now, at least, not the kind the townsfolk below surely imagine there must be. 

There is only relief. The quiet alleviation of a burden finally being laid to rest; the final bow before the curtain is drawn.

The Hightower was a city built atop itself. Dungeons beneath kitchens, kitchens beneath halls, halls beneath solars, and solars beneath beacon fire that never died out. You feel more like a ghost haunting the torchlit halls than a bride of three weeks past wandering the passages of her own home. 

You slip into the kitchens on the whim of a sleepless night and come away with a square of honeyed lemon cake the cooks keep in stock specifically for you. A small theft, you think, as you take graceless bites on the walk back to your room — letting the sponge scatter in dry crumbs along the chest of your pale nightgown.

You’re three turns away from your chambers when you round another twisted corner and run directly into Lord Ormund Hightower — Gwayne’s eldest cousin of a few years or more, who stands a few inches or more taller in comparison too. He smells perpetually of the lavender-sandalwood incense from the silver pomander chained to his belt; still dressed for the day despite the late hour, with his doublet buttoned to the throat. His short dark-auburn curls are slightly mussed as though he’d been raking his hand through them, suggesting a quiet worry somewhere inside of him that he otherwise keeps hidden.

“My lady…” the man greets in a low melodic voice, and with a polite smile that shows mostly in the deepening creases beside his eyes.

With half of the cake still wadded in your cheek, you give the man a wordless look in return. One you’ve perfected over weeks of these exact encounters — a practiced, cynical, not-quite glare that makes you look half-dead behind the eyes. 

You, to put it plainly, did not care for Ormund Hightower. Gwayne had told you once, in the short way he often spoke of his cousin, that the man had a cruel streak he hid under all that piety. “He’s worn the mask of righteousness for so long…” he’d whispered under his breath, at a particularly unforgiving feast. “It isn’t any wonder how it fooled the man wearing it.”

And you believed your husband, for he had never once given you reason not to.

So it was rather dreadfully unfortunate that Ormund is, by any honest measure, an extraordinarily handsome man. More unfortunate still is how exceedingly difficult it has proved to hate such a handsome man — even as he falls into step beside you down the dimly lit corridor without invitation. Though his long legs match your even pace with an ease that irritates you more than it probably should.

“Sweets? At this hour?” he squints, nodding toward the nearly finished cake still pinched between your fingers. He flashes you a curt grin when you give him no immediate response in turn. “Though it makes sense, I suppose— that a thing as sweet as you would so often crave for them…”

You pluck the rest into your mouth with an unyielding glare. “I am perfectly capable of finding my own room, Ser Ormund,” you tell him, swiping your palms together as you swallow down the mouthful. “There is certainly no need to trouble yourself escorting me—”

“Your room?” he echoes, brows lowering until a deeper shadow is cast over his pale eyes in the dying torchlight. “Not our room?”

He flashes you a playfully confused look that you meet with nothing at all, features as still and as pleasant as smooth waters — a tentative expression you’ve grown to wear like armor, in these restless weeks at court.

“Is that because my cousin snores too loudly, my lady?” Ormund pries at your silence. “Or do you just have a taste for solitude?”

“I do enjoy a bit of time to myself, yes…” you answer lightly with a single nod, arms folding neatly at the base of your spine. “Though I’m sure the concept must seem foreign to a man as desperate for company as you seem to be.” 

“Well— desperate is a strong word,” he laughs somewhat bitterly, not missing the hidden insult in your words. “I am simply curious, my lady. Three weeks married and I have yet to hear so much as a whisper of your wedding night. Usually, there is some talk, as you know— between handmaidens, septas, and the like… And yet, there has been no word… Almost as if there were nothing to speak of…”

You keep your eyes forward and your pace steady, even when you feel Ormund’s pale eyes searing into your profile. “You seem quite interested in my marriage, Lord Ormund,” you quip lightly.

“Your marriage is quite interesting,” Ormund chuckles. “Not only to me, of course, but to the realm… It isn’t every day a lady of so small a house weds into one so great… That sort of thing always breeds interest… if nothing else.”

You turn slowly to face him, eyes narrowing with a feigned curiosity. “You’ve never married, have you, my lord?”

He falters briefly at the sudden question. The corners of his smug grin flicker slightly at the edges, as his adam’s apple bounces through a slow swallow. “No,” he answers finally and clears his throat. “I have been… unlucky in my affections, unfortunately.”

You nod to yourself and slow to a stop just outside your chamber door. Your nightgown whispers at your ankles when you turn to look at him properly for the first time since you collided in the corridor. You trade your usual glare for an artificially sweet expression — a softness where there had only been steel, a warmth where there had only been bitter cold. An expression you learned how to counterfeit over the years, though it seems to come a bit easier to you now.

You spot the exact moment he notices how differently you look upon him. The fleeting furrow of his brows; the way his gaze drops for half a second to your mouth before he catches himself again; the way his nostrils flare faintly, as though he cannot help but breathe you in. He can smell the bathing oils clinging to your skin and the floral perfume threaded in your hair from the proximity between you.

“That is unfortunate,” you murmur gently, stepping close enough towards him that it forces him to look down at you rather than past you. “Though perhaps it’s for the best— the whole notion of marriage seems to confuse you, so allow me to explain it.”

Ormund’s gaze hardens in a flicker. The dancing shadows from the dimming torchlight catch the clenching of his jaw as his ringed fingers curl into loose fists at his sides. But even still, your pretty smile never wavers.

“Your cousin is my husband by law— sealed by septon and signature and the whole weight of your family’s name behind it, so… Whatever we prefer in the privacy of our own chambers is no business of yours. Nor the realm’s. Nor anyone’s but his and mine,” you tell him with a polite grin despite the hidden venom in your words. “A woman does not require her husband’s appetite to match her own in order to be his wife, does she?”

“I feel The Seven would disagree with you, I’m afraid,” Ormund hums lowly, with the same artificially sweet tone threaded through his words. “The Father charges the husband to provide, and the Mother to nurture what is provided… The Faith is quite clear on what a dutiful marriage is for, my lady— And it is not... natural for a bride to remain a maiden three weeks past her wedding.”

The smile you give him then verges on sympathetic.

“You assume a great deal, my lord, about what you state you think I remain in,” you mutter quietly, and watch the weight of your words — the ambiguity within them — settle across his chiseled face. You tilt your head to your shoulder and drop your voice into a gentler tone. “But since you are obviously so fond of quoting scripture, perhaps you’ll recall what the Mother teaches of mercy— that even a sinner's body may yet serve a holy purpose, so long as the intention behind it is pure."

The words strike him harder than a whip across the spine. He tips his shaven chin upward, peering down at your faux-innocent stare from the bridge of his nose. 

You can see him wrapping his head around it all: a woman sinful enough to have known men before her husband, yet still somehow pious enough to wield the scripture like a sword of her own. It is unlike any expression you’ve seen from him before — a mixture of both fluster and acclaim. Your stomach twists with the sheer excitement of having put it there at all.

“Good night, Lord Ormund,” you say with a smile before slipping through the heavy door of your chambers. You shut it behind you with a soft click before he can think of the words to respond, and don’t spare a single look back at him before abandoning him in the empty corridor.

The bed you share on rare occasion with your husband is a wide, absurdly ornate thing — carved with Hightower lighthouses and shrouded by heavy velvet curtains designed to conceal the indecencies of the marriage bed; though there would be no indecencies to hide here. It was Gwayne’s room alone most nights, and on the few you actually shared it, it held nothing more scandalous between you than idle talk and innocent touches of fleeting affection.

You share one silken cushion between each other now, with your arms tucked beneath your heads and your breaths entwining on every exhale. Your legs tangle subconsciously together under the blankets like school children sharing a bed — the sort of closeness that meant nothing and expected even less.

“Do you know what Lady Merrell asked me today?” you mutter aloud into the silent bedroom, filled only by the crackling hearthfire and your shared breaths.

Gwayne exhales hard through his nose in place of a laugh; the tip of it almost brushes the bridge of yours as he shakes his auburn head against the pillow. “I hesitate to pry…” 

“She wanted to know whether I’d seen the maester about my courses,” you deadpan. “Very delicately, of course— as if she weren’t truly asking about whether or not I was capable of bearing children at all.”

Gwayne’s brows furrow. “And what did you tell her?” 

“That my blood was a matter between myself, my maester, and the fucking Seven— and that she was more than welcome to bother the other two for further detail, should her curiosity prove so desperate…” you scoff and roll onto your back. Your tired eyes trace the painted stars on the ceiling, where the gold leaf flakes slightly around the edges from time gone by. “Yesterday it was Lady Woodwright, the day before that it was your father… We’re six moons married, Gwayne, and no belly to show for it— The whispers will only get worse from here.”

“Aye… I imagine they will,” Gwayne huffs distantly, jaw flexing through a thick swallow. His soft eyes trace the outline of your profile, made weary from the long day and the particular mercilessness of court. “What about Ser Adrian?” he offers suddenly. “He’s been rather obvious about his admiration for you as of late… I daresay he’d be a rather— willing participant, should a thing be asked of him.”

Your head turns slowly until your cheek brushes the silk cushion below. Your brows lower as your eyes search his face for any hint of uncertainty or sarcasm, and find only sincerity swimming in his pale blue eyes instead. 

Your lips curl into an amused smile. “Are you offering to lend out your wife like a common whore, dear husband?”

He scoffs. “Of course not! I’m only saying that you have options, is all. If only you’re clever enough to find them— isn’t that what you said?” Gwayne quips with a sly smile, eyes narrowing in a playful look. “Though, I confess, I don’t much care for the idea of Ser Adrian’s hands on you at all… I’ve known the fool too long; and I know too well where they’ve been…”

You exhale a quiet laugh. “Careful, my lord. I’ll start to think you’re jealous…” 

“I’m only trying to be efficient, dear wife,” he quips, lifting his fingers to muss idly at the lace frills along the chest of your nightgown. He goes quiet for a long moment thereafter, gaze going distant in thought before he mutters suddenly aloud. “…What about Ormund?”

Your eyes narrow. “What about Ormund?”

“He’d certainly be the best match, wouldn’t he?” Gwayne shrugs. “He’s unmarried. And of mine own blood— Close enough in kin that whatever child came of it would surely favor the Hightower look, regardless of the getting…”

You keep your face carefully arranged into a look of mild surprise, as if the man’s name had not already been living in the back of your head for weeks now already. 

You hadn’t expected Gwayne to arrive at the conclusion on his own, to be sure — you had assumed you would need to steer him slowly there, the way you had steered so many men to so many unconscious decisions before now. You had been circling Ormund for weeks, carefully cultivating a rivalry with just enough fire behind it to keep it warm for later use; though you hadn’t been entirely sure what that use would look like until now.

“That wouldn’t trouble you?” you mutter softly.

Gwayne considers for a long moment before shaking his head against the pillow, auburn tendrils set aflame beneath the emerald silk below. 

“No,” he answers, pink lips jutting softly. “I only very much doubt we could manage it… He is not so easily led as other men, my cousin. He’s like to think it a mortal sin twice over— adultery and deceiving his own blood besides… I’d only worry that his piety, if that’s what he so wishes to call it, isn’t like to bend for something as simple as a pretty face. Even yours.”

He smiles tiredly and lifts his hand to pinch your chin between his thumb and forefinger. The slow smile you give him in turn borders on devilish in an instant. “Leave that part to me, dear husband.”

You lay awake long after Gwayne’s breathing had evened beside you, mapping out every possible avenue of subterfuge available to you. All men were similar in their own ways; they each had specific buttons to press or levers to pull that brought them down to their knees without trying — there was an air of gentle submission in all of them, should you know where to look. And Ormund’s, you figured, lay somewhere in his conviction, which he used as a sword most days. Or a shield.

There was no use in arguing a seemingly pious man out of his faith, you realized, but there was every bit of it in arguing him into believing his faith required precisely what you needed from him. 

So you find the man the following afternoon, where you know he takes his lunches in solitude on the balcony overlooking the eastern gardens. The air smells of washed linens strung to dry on the balustrade down below and the perfumed scent of lemon trees planted in a long line across the lawn. A warm breeze blows in from a cloudless blue sky, and Ormund smells you before he sees you — the sweet, musky concoction of bathing oils he’s come to associate with you alone.

He glances up from his plate of sliced bread, soft cheese, and ripe figs a half second before you turn the corner. He stills at the sight of you with his fork and knife still in hand — it was a rare sight, really, you coming to meet him on your own. Rarer still is the forlorn look etched upon your features now, that you try hopelessly to hide.

“My lady…” Ormund hums lowly, equal parts confused and delighted as he jokes, “To what do I owe the interruption of my solitude?”

“I wasn’t aware solitude required your permission to be interrupted, my lord,” you quip in response, eyes narrowing in his direction as you walk further onto the sun-bleached stone. The sharp smile you give him in turn is heavy with a sadness you do not entirely feel but let show regardless. “I believe you taught me that one, actually.”

Ormund swallows down his mouthful. The humor drains slowly from his chiseled features at the strange sound of your voice, having seemingly lost all the bite he’s come to cherish. “You are troubled,” he says to himself, neither a question nor a firm statement.

You scoff as though to dismiss him, hands folding over the back of your rustling skirts. “I’m perfectly well. Thank you for noticing.” 

“You are not,” Ormund insists with a shake of his head and gestures with his cutlery for emphasis. “Your comebacks want for their usual bite, I’m afraid. And you only argue with me when you’re in proper spirits— I’ve come to look forward to it, really, so… something must surely be amiss.

You let your averted gaze drift slowly from the greenery of the garden to his attentive eyes. You peer at the man from beneath your lashes, letting your composure crack just slightly — just enough to allow him to believe that he’s the only man in the entire realm perceptive enough to have noticed it.

You let your sheepish smile waver at the edges as you assure him with a shake of your head, “It’s nothing that concerns you, my lord. I assure you—”

“Everything at Oldtown concerns me,” he scoffs as though the statement were as obvious as any other. “Curse of the tower, I’m afraid…” 

He sets his silver cutlery to his plate with two quiet clinks and gestures to the seat across from him. “Sit,” he tells you. “Tell me what’s soured you, sweet girl.”

The nickname is not a rare one from his lips, though it strikes you warm somewhere deep in the chest as though it were the first time you’ve ever heard it. You inhale sharply through your nose, ribs straining slightly against your corset, and close the remaining distance between you. Ormund gives you the whole of his attention as you smooth down your skirts and descend into the opposite seat — the same unwavering devotion you imagine he must give to his prayers.

“It’s only the throes of marriage, I suppose,” you attempt to joke, though the humor dies somewhere in your heavy exhale halfway. Your gaze turns back to the garden below instead. “Your cousin, he… He still hasn’t…”

“Touched you?” Ormund finishes when you trail off, with very little reservation in comparison. He scoffs in amusement to himself and cuts into his fig without looking up. “Of that I’m well aware. My cousin has always lacked the appetite for finer things, my lady… But it isn’t a failing of the meal, I assure you.”  

You flash him a weak smile in return.

“I have tried... so hard to be patient with him… It’s what the Crone teaches, isn’t it? That wisdom is only ever earned in the waiting?” you tell him, hands twisting into a knot in your lap. “But I fear that I am running out of time here before the whole court decides that I am either— barren or unwanted, and either way I am ruined for it… I will have no house to run back to if this fails, Ormund— No one wants a spoiled bride.”  

“Come now, my lady,” the man croons with a teasing grin. “A rich husband who asks nothing of you in bed would sound like a mercy to most wives—”   

The quip dies in his throat when you reach across the round table between you, grasping at the hem of his coat with pleading hands. Yours are smaller compared to his larger, sun-kissed ones. His knuckles are rough against the delicate skin of your palms as you hold him gently there. 

“I have nothing, Ormund, but this marriage,” you tell him, voice trembling. “And it is— slipping through my hands no matter how tightly I hold onto it. 

Ormund tenses at the sudden contact, pale gaze flitting from your fingers caging his wrist to the teary look in your eye. “What is it you’re asking of me?” he wonders lowly.

“Nothing,” you chuckle with a teary laugh. “I guess I have simply no one else to speak to here… I try to talk to the Gods, but… The skies have not yet answered me, and I… I figured that— no one speaks for Them as well as you do… I suppose I’m only asking for a little guidance, is all…”

Ormund’s chiseled features loosen slightly, as though pleased by the words — by the obvious compliment woven inside of them. His adam’s apple bounces through a swallow as his chin tilts slightly with pride. His hand turns slowly beneath yours, until his larger, warmer fingers engulf your own.

“Guidance I can offer,” he assures you gently, with a sincere smile pulling at the corners of his plush pink mouth. “You should not go without simply because your husband cannot provide.”

The words strike you deep in the chest.

“I only wondered whether—” you continue, letting a small stammer catch in your tiny voice as your gaze turns to your entwined hands. “Whether you believed the Seven would truly begrudge a woman a child. When the only alternative is her ruin… Whether mercy might permit what… what duty would otherwise forbid.” 

A flicker of fleeting confusion furrows at Ormund’s strong brow. His eyes narrow briefly when the weight of your words finally hits him — of what you seem to be asking so suddenly of him. He inhales slowly and shifts in the cushion seat below, but never once lets go of your hands.

“Do you… Are you asking— if I…” He swallows hard, eyes glancing over your shoulder as if to check for any wandering passersby that might hear him. “If I might give you a child?” 

You meet his squinted gaze with a pair of heavy, teary ones. “No one would have to know…” you whisper to him, half-choked by a manufactured emotion. “I would be in your debt forever. Gwayne, more so, perhaps— A debt I assure you will be paid in full, however you see fit.” 

He falters briefly at your words, broad chest inflating with an inhale he forgets to let go. It is a rather beautiful thing to witness, you realize — to watch a man of conviction search the seams of his faith for a fault inside it; one that may warrant an answer he so desperately wants to provide. 

His calloused hands squeeze gently at your fingers, and you think for a moment you have him. 

“…I cannot,” he answers finally, and then clears his throat when the words nearly strangle him. He swallows and pulls back from you again, spine tensing straight in his chair. His hands ache with the urge to hold yours the moment he lets you go, but he curls them into fists instead. “It is not— holy, what you’re asking of me. Whatever mercy might excuse. And whatever animosity exists between my cousin and myself… And whatever— feelings I might have for you.” 

When his eyes lift from his half-gone plate to your pleading gaze, you let the silence sit between you for a long moment. You let him feel the full weight of having disappointed you — let the tears gathering like dew upon your lashes strangle him like two fists around his throat before blinking them away again.

You flash him a wavering smile in turn. “Of course,” you nod, drawing further away from him with a deliberate hesitance. “I should not have asked it of you. Forgive me, my lord, I— I shouldn’t have come at all.”

You rise suddenly from your seat, and Ormund follows quickly in suit. He tries desperately to catch your eyes when you turn away from him, and feels a deep panging in his chest when he fails. 

“I am sorry I cannot help you more, my lady,” he calls after your retreating figure, and only catches himself in his palpable desperation when you pause in the doorway. You spare him a weary glance over your shoulder — and fight back your own pleasure at the wounded look on his face.

“I only hope the Seven prove half so forgiving, my lord,” you smile weakly and leave him there with his forgotten meal, letting his faith and conscience wrestle with one another in the unforgiving silence you leave behind.

Ormund finds himself at the gallery window more often than he would admit to in the days that follow. 

It’s an idle habit, he tells himself — that this window simply happened to overlook the yard, and that the yard simply happened to hold you most afternoons, laughing over a cyvasse board with his nephew. You and Daeron had seemingly taken to each other with a strange sort of ease; two people planted in Oldtown soil by different hands and tasked to grow there the best you could on your own even still.

Ormund tells himself he’s watching the boy, just as he has always watched the boy, though not even his conscience can convince himself of such a glaring half-truth.

“She’d make a fine mother, wouldn’t she?” Gwayne’s low voice comes suddenly from just behind him. 

Ormund’s head whips to the side to find his cousin crossing the dim hall towards him, silent on the approach when he joins him at the stony sill. The younger man’s arms fold over his long emerald coat as he scans the bustling yard below — an instinctive fondness softens his features at the sight of you that Ormund struggles to make sense of.

“Yes…” the older man sighs and turns away, looking down at the yard from the bridge of his nose. “If only the Gods had given her a husband capable of making her one…” 

“Bold words there, cousin, from a man with no heirs and no marriage yet to speak of,” Gwayne croons with a low laugh, flashing his cousin a narrow-eyed look. “Stones, glass houses— isn’t that what your beloved scripture says?”

Ormund nods. “Aye… The scripture also says a man should attend the beam in his own eye before troubling himself with the mote in his brother’s,” he argues smoothly back with a squinted look of his own. “Strange, isn’t it? How convenient scripture can be?”

“Mm…” Gwayne hums and turns back to the window. From down below, he vaguely hears you fling a theatrical accusation of cheating at Daeron, who argues the offense through a fit of boyish laughter — the sort of laugh he rarely allows himself with Ormund around. Gwayne watches the exchange with a proud sort of smile as he wonders suddenly aloud, “Do you remember that game we used to play when we were boys? Where we’d race each other to the top of the beacon?”

“Run the Tower?” Ormund answers. “Yes, I recall quite a many number of triumphs where that’s concerned.”

“Aye. Because I let you win,” Gwayne confesses through a faint laugh. “I reckon there was no game any of us played as children that was not arranged for your victory, cousin. You were a thin-skinned twat even then.”

Ormund’s mouth curls into a slow smile, despite the fury prickling like embers in the pit of his chest. Gwayne can see the withheld rage squinting at the edges of the older man’s pale eyes, which, of course, is the exact response he’d been attempting to goad him towards.

“Well... How fortunate for me, then,” the man croons, resting his elbows on the edge of the stony sill. “That I still seem to be winning. And this time without your help at all, it would seem…” 

“Yes…” Gwayne sighs heavily through his nose, gaze turning to the open window. “For once, you might be capable of doing something that I cannot. I’d have thought you’d quite like to hold something like that over my head, to be true… And honestly, I think you’d rather enjoy it, if you let yourself.”

It’s far different, Ormund finds, to hear the words fall from Gwayne’s mouth instead of yours. It fills him with a different sort of pride that he can feel swelling in his chest just now; a victory well-earned.

“So it’s true, then?” Ormund presses and turns to face his cousin fully, with amusement glowing in his chiseled features. “You want me… to fuck your wife… because you aren’t man enough to do it yourself?”

Gwayne shrugs with jutted lips to feign an air of apathy, though he cannot deny that the words pierce him somewhere deep. “In so many words, I suppose—”

“No,” Ormund snaps, pale eyes freezing over. “Say it.”

Gwayne licks his lips and tips his chin back. His adam’s apple bounces slowly in his throat through a hard swallow as he chokes on the humiliation crawling up his chest. “I want you to fuck my wife,” Gwayne says evenly, though it takes a world of strength in him not to flinch away from the words. “Because I am not man enough to do it myself.” 

Ormund softens with warmth a moment later. His smug smile returns as he gives him a satisfied nod. “Well, since you asked so prettily, dear cousin,” he croons, patting Gwayne a little rougher than necessary on the shoulder as he walks by him, without another word shared between them.

Gwayne watches him go with his jaw clenched tight. His tense limbs relax through a slow breath through his nose. When he turns back to the window, he finds your eyes already lifted from the cyvasse ahead of you. A silent current seems to pass between the two of you as you speak without words — your brows raise in question, Gwayne’s chin lifts with a small nod to answer it, before he walks off from the window entirely.

You return to your game, and to the pleasant afternoon which has grown much heavier with a reckoning you know is waiting for you when the sun goes down.

You’re washing the long day from your skin when night falls over the Beacon. Swirls of steam rise from the soapy water, adding to the growing humidity in the room, and smelling of the rich, musky oils you’d had Gwayne deliver from the maester’s quarters — amber, jasmine, and vanilla straight from Dorne — a most sensual concoction, especially for men with keen noses. 

“Your mind is a wonder, dear wife. Truly,” Gwayne had laughed as he watched you drop equal amounts of each liquid into the bath. “God, I would put a baby in you myself right now if I could.” 

“High praise there, husband…” you crooned, tapping at the vial of rich vanilla.

“And I mean it as the highest compliment I can offer,” he grinned. 

Your body still glimmers with the remnants of the perfumed oil worked into your skin when you rise from the bath. The knock that arrives at your door in that moment is nearly lost in the water trickling from your body in shimmering rivulets — three slow raps from a slow but firm hand; soft but still slightly impatient, as though the sheer courtesy to knock took more strength than required.

You step out onto the cold cobbles below and reach for the thin robe hanging just beside the tub. “Come,” you call into the quiet as you slide your arms into the sleeves with a deliberate leisure. The heavy door creaks open across the room; Ormund passes the threshold and gets a brief flash of your bare skin — the curve of your shoulder, the line of your back, the edge of your hip — right before you tug the pale silk over your shoulders.

He falters a step as he shuts the door behind him, and clears his throat into his fist when he feels half-strangled by the sight. 

“I-I hope I’m not… interrupting,” he says in lieu of a greeting. It takes a great deal of strength from him, he finds, to keep your stare when you turn to look at him over your shoulder — as the ivory fabric clings to the wet spots of your freshly bathed body.

He can still smell it in the air — the rich, vanilla spice. He can nearly taste it on his tongue, something delicious enough to devour. His jaw tightens through a hard swallow as he chokes down the instinct watering over his tongue just now.

“Of course not,” you grin as you tie the thin sash of your robe. The frilly fabric rushes at your ankles when you turn to face him fully. “To what do I owe the… what was it you said? ‘The interruption of my solitude?’”

Ormund huffs a faint laugh, though it comes out a bit more artificial than he intended. “I’ve just… been thinking…” he starts slowly. “About our… previous conversation.”

“Have you?” you lilt, utterly unreadable. You reach for the towel hanging over the bath and drag the nettles across the exposed skin of your damp chest. “I thought the matter already settled, my lord. You made your feelings on it quite clear, if I recall.”

“Aye, I thought so, too—” Ormund nods, though the words catch in his throat when you bend at the waist to run the towel over your dripping legs, reaching beneath the slit of your thin robe. The plush of your breasts peek out over the low neckline, glittering with oils and kissed warm by the bath. He has to remind himself to breathe. 

“And yet I find I have thought of little else since… If you truly believed what you said— if the Seven would truly call something a mercy and not a sin, if it were to save someone from their own ruin…”

You rise slowly to full height again, eyeing the man from across the room. He arrived here as though to collect some sort of debt, some sort of winning, but stands now before you asking for permission to believe what he presumes was his own doing. 

“I believe…” you start slowly, bare feet padding along the cobbles as you close the distance between you like a predator to prey. “That a man like you would not have knocked on my door unless you had already searched the answer within yourself, and found something there worth trusting.”

Ormund tips his chin with a slow inhale through his nose, as though your words have smoothed out something taut within him.

“If you have to come to this conclusion on your own, entirely through your own faith, then… How could this be anything but right?” you wonder aloud with a meek shrug, curling the pale towel against your chest. “Surely, the Gods would not have sent you here if it were wrong.” 

“Mm…” Ormund hums, pink mouth lifting into a soft grin as though it were meant to be a laugh. “I told myself as much the entire way here, but… I suppose I didn’t truly believe it until you said it back to me.” 

You flash him a kind smile in return. “I suppose even the most pious of men need something physical to believe in… Something they can hold in their own two hands and know for certain a thing is true.”

Ormund’s body leans into your words, as if instinctively taking them as an invitation to hold you. He balls his hands into fists instead, trying to will himself into believing that this was an act of the Gods and not his own desires towards you. He steps past you, headed for the flagon of wine on the table beside the balcony doors.

“The scripture tells us that a man’s faith is only as good as what he’s willing to do with it,” he tells you, beneath the faint glugging of ale as he pours himself a goblet. “That words alone matter naught. That the gods judge us by what we build with our hands, not merely with what we believe in our hearts.”

His eyes catch the tub as he brings the goblet to his mouth, warm water soaking with oil and soap and remnants of filth from the day. He imagines tasting it instead of the wine that pools in his mouth, which he very nearly chokes on when your hand splays suddenly across the shoulder of his emerald coat.

“Then build me something,” you say, you plead. “Give me something the gods themselves have not, in all my prayers and patience. Give me a child, Ormund. It is the godliest thing a man can do.” 

Ormund sets the goblet down and turns fully to face you. His mouth glimmers with the remnants of wine not yet licked away. You lift the towel to his chin and dab the nettles across the plush of his mouth in a slow, deliberate touch that Ormund leans hopelessly into. He turns his head and buries his nose into the towel, inhaling the scent of you upon it — the rich musk, the earthy soap, the raw smell of your skin from where you dragged the fabric between your legs moments ago.

His eyes flutter shut as his broad chest inflates with a slow breath. When they open again, the pale blue of them is aflame with an emotion you haven’t quite seen from him before.

“Tell me to leave,” he says, as though to give you one more way out before the point of no return. “And I assure you I will.”

You shake your head. “I will not,” you answer, breath catching at the flicker of desire that passes over Ormund’s features a second later.

“Then get on the bed,” he commands in a low voice. “And take off your clothes…”

Your eyes glaze over as your body submits instinctively to his order. You walk slowly to the bed, dropping the towel on the floor as your hands work at the tie in your robe. You slide the thin fabric from your shoulders and let it pool at your feet, leaving the expanse of your glimmering body on display for him. 

Ormund tips his chin back as he watches you climb onto the lush mattress, donned with Hightower green and gold — colors which his children will wear when you bear them for him, he thinks distantly to himself, and feels pride swell in his chest accordingly.

He goes to take another sip of wine, but stops short when you mean to plant yourself on your hands and knees by the pillows. “On your back,” he calls into the quiet, then smiles at the quietly shocked look you give him over your shoulder in return. “I will look upon your face when I put a babe inside of you.” 

His words wrap around your throat and strangle you as you twist yourself upon the blankets. Your naked chest heaves with wanting breaths while you watch the man approach you. He lingers at the foot of the bed, working deliberately at the buttons of his coat and then the tie of his tunic underneath it. He lays them both neatly along the edge of the bed and smiles when your thighs squeeze together in anticipation.

“Tell me, sweet thing…” Ormund says, peering at you from the bridge of his nose as he tugs at the tie of his trousers. “Have you let a man fuck you before now?”

You shake your head with your bottom lip caged between your teeth, to conceal the vividity of the smile pulling at the corners of them. “Man would be too strong a word for who I’ve let touch me, I’m afraid.” 

His bare chest, toned from years of knighthood, inflates with a slow breath of pride — the affirmation that he was going to be the first man to touch you the way you needed, the first man who deserved to.

He clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Good answer,” he deadpans and shoves his pants to his ankles. His cock hangs heavy between his scruffy thighs, favoring the left one as it twitches stiff, untouched. 

He’s not quite as long as Gwayne’s, of which you’ve seen on the rare occasion you’ve tried and failed to make children of your own, but he is quite a deal thicker. The thought of taking his girth alone makes your drooling cunt clench around nothing as Ormund climbs slowly abed, mattress dipping beneath his hands and knees. His body is lean and warm as it ascends on top of yours; you long to be crushed beneath the weight of him when he props himself upon his muscular forearm. 

His free hand caresses you with a softness you didn’t think possible before now. His calloused palm smooths gently over your jaw until the edges of his fingers thread in your hair. He tips your chin up with the pad of his thumb.

“I do hope they’ll have your eyes. Our children,” Ormund hums on bated breath. 

A delirious grin lifts the edge of your mouth as you reach for his shaven jaw. “You mean my children?” you quip, sliding your finger within the short curls gathered at the nape of his neck.

“No…” Ormund shakes his head with a breathy chuckle. “I mean mine.”

Your smile flickers faintly when his hand leaves your cheek to slide between your bodies. He gathers his hard cock in his fist and slots the weeping tip between the velvety folds of your pussy. Your breath hitches at the feeling of him; your hips twitch despite yourself. Ormund laughs through a groan in his chest.

“Whatever the court believes... Whatever anyone else calls them…” he continues lowly, wetting himself with your slick. “It’ll be my blood running through them… Wouldn’t that be beautiful? Us being the only people in the world who know the truth of our children?”

He meets your weary look with a soft, lopsided smile. 

“Yes…” Ormund hums to himself, answering his own question as his head tips to the side to smear a kiss to your palm. “Gods, you will look heavenly with my children growing inside of you.”  

He pierces you slowly then. You feel his bulbous tip pressing into your cunt, and the meandering veins of his cock as he slides further in. A distant stinging blooms within you when he mounts you fully — your strangled whine is swallowed by his guttural groan as he leans down over you again. Your back arches into his chest, and he feels your stiff nipples graze his skin. His broad nose smushes into the side of yours, lips brushing in a not-quite kiss.

“Forgive me,” he pants against your mouth. “I— I should’ve started with my fingers first, I know, but I— I couldn’t wait— Dreamt of you too long for that… And my fist only works so well, I’m afraid…” 

“Just fuck me,” you plead into the candlelit room, when the distant ache in the pit of your stomach ebbs into a warmer, fuller feeling. Your thighs squeeze at either side of his waist, hips bucking in a quiet desperation.

Ormund pulls just far enough away to smile lazily down at you, eyes glassy and glittering. 

“As you wish,” he mutters and rolls his hips back, until only the tip of his cock is caged within your clenching confines. He waits until you whimper at the cold, empty feeling before pressing back into you again — to the very hilt, with the coarse thatch of trimmed hair above his cock nestled just against your sensitive clit. 

He finds a steady rhythm thereafter, the slow drag followed by the firm push. The bedroom fills with the sound of it — the crackling candlelight, the creaking bedframe, the slapping of skin, the sounds of entwining pleasure. 

Your legs wrap around his lean waist, preventing him from pulling too far out, though your hips continue bucking wildly against his — as if you were both chasing and running from the unwavering pressure on your clit simultaneously.

“I know… I know, sweet girl,” Ormund coos half-muffled into your neck, then inhales a lungful of sweet musk and sex clinging to the air. “No one’s ever fucked you this good before, have they?” 

You answer him with a strangled whine and nails that dig crescent shapes into the skin of his broad shoulders.

“You don’t even know what to do with yourself, do you? Look at you— twitching underneath me,” he teases with a drunken chuckle. “You just can’t wait for my cum, can you? Can’t wait for me to paint that cunt with my seed— To give you my child?”

“Yes,” you whine, nodding your wild head against the pillow beneath you. “Please cum in me— I need it so bad, Ormund, please—”

He falters instantly at your words — at the very image of your submission beneath him, which before now, only ever existed inside his head. He buckles hopelessly down over you, losing all his rhythm as your pussy clenches around his twitching cock. “Gods—” he spits as he hides his face into your neck again. 

One hand curls into a fist beside your head while his other grips the plush of your thigh to keep you spread open for him. You hear a whimper sound in the pit of his throat when your weeping cunt clenches around him.

“Put a baby inside me,” you plead in a high voice, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “Let me carry your legacy, Ormund, please— Cum inside of me.”

“Fuck—” His voice breaks halfway through as he tenses on top of you, suddenly and without warning. 

You hear him hold his breath for a long moment and then release it with a grumbled moan as a warm feeling blooms in the pit of your stomach. He groans, hips jerking through every rope he spits into your pulsing cunt. You cum around him at the feeling of it alone. Your hands grasp hopelessly at his back as your body twitches underneath his larger one. 

“That’s it…” you hear him praise through gritted teeth, fighting his own sensitivity while you milk his softening cock. “There you go, sweet girl… Take it… That’s it…” 

Your bodies are slow to relax from the remnants of your entwining orgasms. His bare, sweat-slick one sticks with yours — melting together in the blooming heat of the room. Your stomach is full with a mixture of gratitude, and dread, and his cum seeping slowly out of you. And with his body pressed so ardently against yours, you couldn’t run from any of it if you tried.

“…Do you think it took?” Ormund wonders aloud when he finally finds the breath to speak again, lips smearing across your thrumming pulse.

“Yes…” you sigh through heavy breaths, hands drifting down the sweaty expanse of his spine. “If the Gods are willing…” 

You feel him breathe out a faint chuckle in response, right before he pulls finally out of your neck. His chiseled face is flushed red with sex. His eyes are lidded and glassy; his mouth rosy and swollen as it curls into a smug grin.

“If the Gods are willing, sweet girl, they’d allow me at least a few more nights of this before they gave you my child,” he hums and ducks down as if to kiss you. Your mouth parts for his on instinct, though he only nudges the bridge of your nose with the tip of his instead. A teasing, knowing grin spreads across his mouth accordingly. 

“But… when They do…” he starts slowly, warm breath fanning across your mouth with every word. “I do intend to know my children… Whatever anyone else is told… Do you understand?”

A sick feeling twists in the pit of your stomach, where his cum is still warm in your depths, and you nod.

And now, you were the Lady of Oldtown in the truest sense, and beneath your heart was his child, growing safely inside you while the world outside played its dangerous games.

Ormund had one hand entangling with yours, and the other on your hips, anchoring you as he set a more demanding pace. Your thoughts scattered, and he leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“You’re distracted,” he whispered, a dark smirk touching his lips as he felt you gasp beneath him.

His pale blue eyes were hazy with lust, but he made sure to roll his hips softer this time.

“Look at me... I won’t have your mind anywhere else tonight.”

You opened your eyes, meeting his burning gaze, and locked your fingers in his hair, pulling him down into a searing kiss as the tide of your passion swept you both away.

“Are you... trying to seduce me, my lord Ormund?” you breathed against his lips feverishly.

Ormund chuckled breathlessly, the vibration of his chest pressing warm against your own as he paused to press a trailing kiss down the line of your jaw.

“Well, it’s not quite working, I’m afraid,” you teasingly murmured, albeit tilting your head back to give him better access.

He let out a low sigh, half-amused and half-exasperated, his hands cupping your waist firmly as he leveled his gaze on you. “Dearest... I cannot, physically, go any harder than this— not with our child resting right there.”

You arched an eyebrow, a taunting laugh escaping you.

“My noble lord husband… at least, the one I thought I knew… is a preacher on the streets and delightfully depraved in the sheets. Is he simply afraid he won’t be able to control himself this time?”

Ormund went completely still above you. For a moment, the room was silent save for the heavy sound of your breathing and the distant flickering of candlelight against the bedposts. His gaze darkened, lust flickering in those hazy blue eyes as he stared down at you.

When he finally spoke, his voice dropped an octave:

“Every woman is the image of the Mother,” he growled, the solemn weight of his Faith clashing deliciously with the raw hunger in his expression. “You are carrying my heir. You are not to be treated roughly like a common whore. You should be revered and honored.”

You smiled up at him, unfazed by his pious nobility, and wrapped your legs tighter around his hips, pulling him back down.

“But what if I... want to get unholy with you tonight?” you whispered, your fingers digging into the firm muscles of his back.

A grunt tore from his throat at your defiance, whatever thread of restraint he had left instantly snapping into pieces. Ormund captured your mouth once more, his grip tightening as he surrendered completely to you.

“My dearest wife... you are the one who asked for this.”

Needless to say, the Lord of the Hightower didn’t practice a single holy thing for the rest of the night.

. . .

“Are you quite satisfied now?”

His voice was a rumble against the shell of your ear, rough with residual heat.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you just pressed closer, burying your face into the crook of his neck. Ormund’s arms tightened around you instantly, a possessive band of warmth that locked the two of you together. His bare chest rose and fell in a rhythmic cadence beneath your palm, his skin flushed where you touched.

“You tell me,” you murmured, your voice muffled against his collarbone.

Ormund let out a hummed laugh—a sound full of fond satisfaction, his palm squeezing your bum. “I’d say the evidence speaks for itself.”

He followed with peppering soft, feathery kisses along your jaw, cradling you as if you were the center of his universe. It was pure, unadulterated comfort—the kind that makes you drop every guard you’ve ever built.

Which, of course, was precisely what he intended.

While one hand idly stroking your back, lulling you into a state of defenselessness, Ormund leaned back just enough to look down at you. His eyes were soft, gleaming with an affectionate light, but beneath the tender haze lurked that sharp glint that never truly slept.

“Since you’re so agreeable,” he began, brushing a thumb over your lower lip in a gesture so sweet it made your heart ache, “we can finally agree that you are to take my ward to assist you.”

You blinked up at him, your brain still hopelessly slow and liquid from the last hour. “That again? Ormund, you said—”

“I said you’ll soon be waddling, and I won’t have my wife burdened when she bears the noble task of carrying our child,” he cut in gently, a dangerously charming smile dimpling his cheek as he pressed his palm on your growing belly.

“But I said we’d discuss—”

He leaned down and kissed you deep and slow, stealing whatever protest was forming on your tongue before you could even voice it.

When he pulled back, his gaze remained unrepentant.

“And we just did.”

It was an old truth by now, but Ormund Hightower had the frustrating tendency to force his will on others, and everyone had to abide by his word or risk his ire.

You huffed out a breath, half-indignant, but as he pulled you tighter against his chest and began tracing lazy patterns over your spine again, the frustration melted into a resigned scoff.

“You are terrible,” you muttered, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his chin.

“Mayhaps,” Ormund murmured against your lips, his grin triumphant.

Your husband’s ward, also a prince of the realm— Daeron Targaryen was a delight to have around.

The youngest of Queen Alicent’s sons was dutiful, exceptionally polite, and as adept with a lute as he was with a sword. Though a bit shy and prone to keeping to himself, the moments you did share with him were always pleasant, and you had quickly grown fond of his gentle nature.

And now, Ormund had tasked him to—

“Daeron, you really do not have to do this,” you sighed, lamenting and turning to face him.

Following a brief nod from your husband earlier that morning, Daeron had fallen into step right behind you ever since. Wherever you walked, he followed—blade at his hip, hands folded, looking almost like an unassuming knight, except that he was a royal prince.

The boy immediately stopped, his shoulders straightening. His eyes widened before he collected himself, but his posture remained resolute.

“My lord tasked me to be your sworn sword, my lady. It is my duty to ensure your safety.”

You tilted your head, genuinely amused. “Oldtown is as peaceful as it gets. What is there to guard me from?”

“Following the wars, the times are still uncertain. My lord felt it best that you have someone able to protect you by your side in times he cannot.”

There was something in the way Daeron conducted himself that made you think that this boy had been thrust into a world far too severe for his years, and it made your heart twinge.

“You are too stiff, dear boy,” you let out another sigh. “Boys your age could afford to let loose a bit. I’m sure Ormund wouldn’t mind.”

It was only for a fraction of a second, but you didn’t miss then sudden freeze in his posture and the faint veil of horror that swept behind his eyes.

What has happened to him?

“My lord’s judgement is always sound,” he insisted, attempting to sound stern. “He only wishes for your mind to be at ease. And mine is also at ease knowing you are well-guarded.”

“I see,” you acknowledged. “So you intend to follow me everywhere today?”

Daeron bowed his head slightly. “Everywhere, my lady.”

“Very well. You could do that, but...”

Mayhaps it was because you were about to become a mother yourself, but your motherly instincts were tingling and you were overcome with the need to comfort him.

The corners of your lips curved into a meaningful smile.

“…if I am to be saddled with a guard all afternoon, I insist on better company than silence. I happen to know for a fact that you play the lute far better than Ormund’s court fool does— so If you are to follow me into the gardens, you are required to play me a tune.”

A flush touched Daeron’s cheeks as his head shot up to meet your gaze, and whether he realized it or not, a genuine smile bloomed across his face.

He is but a young boy, you thought fondly.

“It is nothing more than a little hobby, my lady,” he chuckled softly, the rigid posture finally melting away. “But if you wish for it, then play I shall.”

. . .

“Has Daeron always been like that?”

You asked later that evening, your fingers tracing lazy patterns through your husband’s dark hair as Ormund rested his head against your chest.

“Like what?” he questioned lazily as he breathed in the scent of your bath oils.

“So... solemn,” you frowned. “He takes his duties so seriously that I fear he forgets he is still a young man.”

Ormund hummed but he didn’t answer right away. Instead, his hand slid up your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“A tainted princeling,” Ormund murmured against the dip of your collarbone, trailing slow, warm kisses along the skin of your shoulder. “Caution was drilled into him young... and I have given him a noble task.”

In your hazed state of mind, you missed the way he spoke about taint.

“Following me around?” you breathed out, tilting your head back as his lips found the sensitive curve beneath your jaw. “Ormund, we are in Oldtown, what could possibly— Ah...”

He silenced your questions with a deliberate press of his mouth against your pulse point, his teeth catching the soft flesh in a gentle bite that scattered your thoughts entirely.

His hand slipped inside, pushing the fabric of your nightgown down, exposing your tender breasts to the cool evening air before immediately replacing it with the heat of his mouth.

He peppered hot kisses down your chest, tracing your bare skin until he reached the tips of your breasts. A titillating moan spilled from your lips before you could stop it, your hands tangling into his hair, pressing him closer instinctively.

“O-Ormund—”

“You worry too much about the boy,” he whispered huskily against your skin, feeling the wild flutter of your heart, completely satisfied. “Let Daeron mind his duty... and let me mind mine.”

You tried to focus, to press him on why he assigned Daeron to your side, but your cunning husband was relentless— as if he knew what you were going to ask and therefore, found ways to distract you from it.

His hot tongue on your breasts made you shiver— flicking and swirling over peaks that had grown sensitive since your pregnancy. You gasped, your hips arching off the mattress as his hands roamed freely over your body, mapping every curve with a practiced familiarity.

Needless to say, the spot between your legs had grown wet in no time. Heat rose to your cheeks as his fingers gently parted you, feeling the slickness of your heat with an appreciative hum.

He slipped one finger inside, and a gasp caught in the back of your throat. “Ngh...”

Then he inserted another finger and you let out a shameless moan— the sudden intrusion made your hips roll instinctively against his fingers, your breath hitching into a ragged sigh as he began a sweet rhythm that left you clinging to him for anchor.

Your husband hummed again, pressing deeper, his thumb working in slow, tantalizing circles against your clit until your soft moans began to echo softly in the quiet room.

“Bearing my child suits you so well,” Ormund whispered, his voice thick with lust as he observed how you squirm under him.

Before you could respond, he leaned down and pressed a tender kiss right onto the swell of your belly. His breath lingered against your skin as he rested his forehead there for a fleeting second, worshipping the life you carried for him.

For a moment, your heart melted. He adored you this much— this was everything you used to pray for.

“Would you like me to fetch your cloak, my lady? It is rather windy today.”

“There is no need, Daeron. I am actually quite enjoying the breeze.”

“Really...?”

“Why, do you feel cold?”

“No, my lady. I’m quite fine.”

As the days turned into weeks, Daeron remained your constant shadow, fulfilling the duty Ormund assigned him.

You paused in your tracks, turning back to him with a wistful smile.

“Daeron, did you know that your eyes drop to the floor every single time you attempt a lie?”

Yet the longer you spent in his company, the more clearly you saw that he was not an elusive knight or a distant prince— he was simply a boy hiding behind the mask of a man.

A faint blush dusted his cheeks as his gaze instantly darted upward, caught red-handed and your heart warmed for him. He was miles away from his mother, who was trapped still in King’s Landing, and the closest maternal figure he could have was you.

“We are getting my cloak then.”

You had asked him to accompany you to the Starry Sept, thinking a visit would offer you both a moment of peace—a chance to say your prayers and a welcome reprieve for Daeron from the noises of the sparring fields.

The young prince walked a half-step behind you as he looked around, his hand remained habitually resting near the pommel of his sword. You sat before the table of candles, lighting a taper for safety and peace, offering him to do the same.

Bathing his young face in warm, flickering light, he finally looked like a ward he was rather than a knight or a prince.

“Do you miss your mother, Daeron?” you asked then, because suddenly you saw in him the face of the solemn queen you had long thought as the very living image of irony.

Alicent Hightower was the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, yet happiness was a luxury she had never seemed to possess, and now her youngest son turned to look at you—

—and for a fleeting second, you could have sworn a sheen of unshed tears glistened in his eyes.

“Very much, my lady,” he confessed quietly, casting his eyes down.

The raw honesty in his quiet admission tugged sharply at your heart—and when you felt the gentle flutter of your babe kicking within you, that ache became tenfold.

Reaching out, you gently rested your hand over his, offering a reassuring squeeze that drew his gaze back up to yours.

“The queen must have missed you just as deeply,” you murmured, your voice thick with tender sincerity. “A mother’s heart never truly leaves her children. And until you are reunited with her... you are never alone here. You have a home with us.”

A look of profound gratitude softening his face as he offered you a genuine smile. “Your words bring me a great comfort, my lady. My lord is truly fortunate to have you as his wife.”

“Ha. He sure is. Tell me, Daeron,” you began, tilting your head slightly. “What was Ormund like before I arrived in Oldtown?”

Suddenly the ease in Daeron’s posture evaporated. He stiffened, his shoulders squaring instinctively, and once again it made you frown.

“He... well, he has always been a man of great resolve,” he stammered out, clearing his throat as he searched for the right words to say. “But I have to say… since you came to Oldtown, he has changed. He smiles more, and I admit I have never seen him care for anyone the way he cares for you, my lady.”

Your heart swelled at his words, a fond smile gracing your lips. “Does he now...?”

You were reflecting on everything that had transpired between you, when—

Clang!

The sharp, heavy scrape of iron against stone shattered the sacred quiet of the sept.

A dark, hooded figure suddenly lunged from the shadows behind a stone pillar. A curved blade gleamed in the light, aimed straight for the young prince’s exposed back.

“Daeron, behind you!” you shrieked.

In a heartbeat, the gentle boy vanished, replaced by the lethalness of a knight. Daeron spun on his heel, his left hand shoving you protectively behind his back while his right drew his sword in one blinding, fluid motion.

Steel bit into flesh with a gruesome, heavy strike— and blood spattered across the candles.

The attacker gasped out a wet, strangled breath, his blade clattering against the stone before his body collapsed onto the sacred floor, with his blood pooling across the flagstones.

The sudden, brutal violence crashed over you. The sweet scent of incense dissolved into metallic stench of blood, and a surge of dizziness made the high stone vaults spin out of control above you.

“Guards!” Daeron roared, his voice rough in the way you had never heard from him before. Sheathing his crimson-stained blade with a trembling hand, he spun back towards you, his eyes wide with panic.

“My lady! Are you hurt—?”

He is safe. You are safe. However, the world was already tilting away. Your breath hitched, and clutching your abdomen, your knees buckled beneath you—

Daeron dropped to his knees, his arms catching you just before you hit the cold marble.

Ormund was by your bedside when you awakened.

He was visibly worn with concern, the shadow of exhaustion heavy beneath his pale blue eyes, which searched your face as if ensuring you were truly fine.

“Dearest.” He reached out, his calloused hand cupping your cheek, his thumb softly brushing away a stray strand of hair from your face. Then he enveloped your cold fingers, pressing them to his lips before resting them over the soft swell of your belly.

“Do not try to move too quickly,” he urged when you shifted. “The maester said you and the babe suffered a great shock, and therefore you must rest.”

Amidst your hazed mind, the sight of him made your heart lurch with relief. You swallowed past the dryness in your throat, your mind flashing back to the blood on the sept floor and instinctively leaned into his touch for comfort.

“You must have been so scared,” he murmured, his brow furrowing in deep lament as he gazed down at you. “My brave girl... to see such horror in a house of peace.”

“I was,” you whispered, squeezing his large hand and closing your eyes to breathe in the comforting, familiar scent of lavender that clung to him. “It happened so fast, Ormund, I thought—”

“Do not think on it,” he cut in softly, leaning down to brush a lingering kiss against your temple. “It is over. The traitor is dead, and you are here, safe with me.”

Despite your best efforts, a shudder racked your frame as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes.

“Oh, my dear, sweet wife...” Ormund shushed you, shifting onto the mattress to gather your trembling body against his broad chest. He rocked you slowly, his arms wrapping around you like a shield, burying his face into your hair.

He peppered soft, fleeting kisses across your face, the affection was such a comfort that slowly coaxed the panic from your chest.

“Daeron...” your voice came out small, buried against his neck as the fear bled away. “He... he saved me. He was so fast.”

Against you, to your surprise, your husband’s posture snapped taut.

“He did what was expected of him,” he said then, his voice carrying a coldness. “I will ensure he learns from such a grave lapse in judgement, so that you are never exposed to such peril again.”

“Ormund...” you rasped, looking up at him with tearful eyes. “Please... do not be harsh on him. He did well.”

Ormund stared down at you, a tempest of fury raging behind his eyes. After a silent moment, however, he sighed, letting go of his unspoken rage for now as he wrapped his arms around your form.

“Say no more of the boy. Rest your eyes,” he said with a tone of finality, tucking your head against his chest. “You have endured enough for one day.”

Yet as sleep pulled you under, you had no way of knowing this was just the fragile calm before a storm.

“Fucking craven!”

The next time you saw your husband with his ward, you heard an explosive crash echo from the walls of his study.

You hurried toward the half-open doors, stopping dead as Ormund’s voice thundered out, utterly merciless—

“Listen to me well, Daeron. A prince does not get to be afraid. If you hesitate for half a second on the battlefield, you will not just lose your life— you will condemn every banner and every Hightower who marches behind you to the block!”

The sight inside made your breath catch in your throat— Daeron stood cowering, his shoulders hunched as a shattered goblet lay in pieces near his feet.

It was unthinkable and simply unacceptable. How could Ormund unleash such venomous rage on a boy who deserved none of it?

In that single, sickening second, all of Daeron’s uncomfortable gaits whenever you mentioned your husband suddenly made sense. Refusing to let him suffer a moment longer, you slammed the door open—

“That is enough!” you cried, stepping between them, your voice trembling as you shielded Daeron behind you. “What are you doing to him!”

“Stand aside,” Ormund growled. “The boy must learn. A future king cannot flinch!”

King? Your heart lurched into your throat, terror instantly replacing your anger. “Have you lost your mind? To speak such words is high treason!”

“His brothers are a spoiled cunt and a one-eyed craven!” Ormund thundered, his towering form casting a long shadow over both you and the boy behind you. “The realm needs a new king who can command, and therefore, now that task falls into him!”

“He is a child!” you screamed back, refusing to step aside. “Look at him! He is terrified! You... you cannot break a boy to feed your own ambition!”

Insatiable, ruinous hunger— it was the one trait you had always known defined him. But as the clarity finally dawned on you... you just realized you were looking at a man willing to burn anything to sit behind a boy-king’s crown.

How could he...? How has it eluded you?

Behind you, Daeron’s breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps. Even without looking at him, you knew he was close to tears.

This ends now. Without another word to your husband, you turned, grabbed Daeron’s cold, trembling hand, and pulled him out of the study.

“Return to your desk!” Ormund’s commanded viciously. “I am not finished with you, Daeron!”

“He is finished!” you shouted back, not daring to look back as you hurried the young prince away from him.

You guided Daeron through the corridors, as his boots dragging against the floor and his tears finally falling. He didn’t say a word, and you didn’t stop until you reached the safety of the courtyard gardens.

You turned to him, opening your mouth to offer whatever words of comfort you could gather, but the sight of him struck you silent.

Looking at his tear-stained face and trembling form, you didn’t see a prince or a knight, but a terrified boy who desperately needed to be saved.

Silently, you reached out and pulled him tight into your arms.

Night fell over Oldtown, and sleep was impossible despite your exhaustion.

You stood by the wide stone window of your bedchamber, your arms wrapped around your waist as you stared out into bay. Every so often, the fluttering kicks of your child inside you stirred against your palm, offering comfort against the heavy knot in your chest.

The door opened and closed behind you. Soft, heavy footsteps sounded against the floorboards yet you offered him nothing but an icy silence as your husband approached.

Gently, his broad arms wound around your waist, pulling your back flush against the heat of his chest. He leaned his head down, his warm breath fanning softly against the sensitive skin of your neck.

“You have not slept,” Ormund breathed out, his voice far softer, carrying none of the rage from earlier.

You remained entirely rigid, staring blankly out at the dark waters, refusing to melt into his embrace.

Ormund let out a long, low sigh against your skin. “I know I was harsh with him today,” he admitted quietly, his hands resting gently over yours where your child had just kicked.

“I take no pleasure in it, my dear. But this is necessary. I have named him the successor to the Iron Throne and Daeron cannot afford to be soft. I must leave again for Tumbleton at first light... in three days.”

Cold horror spiked through your veins. You twisted in his arms, wrenching yourself away from his grip as you spun to face him, your eyes widened in disbelief.

“Tumbleton, again?” you gasped, voice trembling. “When you barely escaped with your life the first time?”

“Listen to me—”

“And you have doomed him,” you whispered, tears spilling past your lashes as the horrific truth sank in. “By the Gods, Ormund… he is just a boy! You are painting a massive target on his back and sending him straight into the slaughter!”

“It is what must be done,” Ormund countered in a frighteningly calm voice. “He must rise to meet his destiny, for his sake, for House Hightower, and for ours.”

Tears blurred your vision as you stared at the man you loved. A sick, hollow ache settled deep in your chest— how had you been so blind? You had loved him, trusted him, believed his cruelty was a shell of a devoted husband.

But Ormund Hightower was a man always reaching for more power than he could ever handle, no matter who he broke—or killed—to get it.

“And what of us?” you asked tearfully, your voice breaking into a ragged whisper as your hand instinctively grasped your abdomen, shielding your unborn child. “What becomes of me, and what becomes of your child, should you fall? Have you... have you even stopped to think about us for a single second?”

Ormund’s expression softened instantly, as if he knew and felt too what your tender heart was feeling as he reached out, gently cupping your tear-stained cheek.

“Every breath I take is for you, my dearest. Everything I build, every battle I fight, I do so to forge a world where no one can ever threaten you or our child again.”

But you shook your head in despair, inconsolable, unable to comprehend his justification. He pulled you tighter, brushing his thumbs on your fallen tears.

“I will return to you,” he swore, his pale blue eyes burning with conviction. “You have nothing to fear, my sweet girl. I swear it on my life, on my blood— on everything I hold holy.”

His other hand moved down, resting over yours, his warm palm feeling both you and the babe.

“All I ask of you… is to be safe. You need only do one thing for me—bring our child safely into this world.”

You looked into his eyes, horrified at his words. Whether he truly believed he was doing this for you or was simply wrapping his own thirst for power in a noble promise, you couldn’t tell—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now—

“Haah...”

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

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

This was him entirely at your mercy—

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

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

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

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

Crafty little lady. That was his breaking point.

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You froze, the sharp retort dying in your throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Must you hate me that much?”

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

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

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

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

It was so fucking unfair.

“You presume too much, Ormund Hightower.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until the turn of the moon, at least.

“My lady... this is strange.”

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

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

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

“Do not be foolish. Pull harder.”

“I am pulling, my lady, but...”

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

“We will march for Tumbleton.”

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

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

His words passed by at first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“May the Seven guide your path.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But my lady—!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His little rose. In truth, he had believed that someone so young and sweet as you were too naive, and therefore, unsuitable to be with him. His late wife—rest her soul, for he had been fond of her too, though it was never a blind, consuming love—had been different. She had been compliant, and more than ready to submit herself to her wifely duties, and she was who he needed when he first took on the mantle of the Lord of Oldtown.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Every time those words echoed in his mind, it felt as though a dagger were piercing his lungs, as much as he hated to admit it.

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My lord!”

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

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

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

A cold knot of dread coiled in his stomach. He looked down at the trembling girl, his brow furrowing deeply. “Calm yourself, girl, and speak clearly.”

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

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

They had taken you to Honeywine.

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

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

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

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

“Then what of us? What of the woman?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was it a cruel figment of your dying imagination?

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

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

“Hold on to me. I have you, dearest.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I... I was—”

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

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

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

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

His vivid blue eyes, so warm and tender, crinkled faintly as he brushed a fallen tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“So even if roses bear thorns, I would gladly suffer a thousand cuts from now on… so long as I am the only one who gets to hold you.”

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

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

It is quite the thing to never truly know one's father.

There was a time, you believe, when your wide eyes knew him, the white hair and the violet eyes. Days when you were a babe and the comfort of a voice you heard in the womb carried, and you felt a familiarity to him, a warmth when he held you.

But these are all assumptions you make.

You’ve never truly known Viserys Targaryen. You know the stories told to you by your governess, and on the odd occasion your grandsire tended to you in the years he resided in Oldtown, you heard of his greatness from him too.

Even sitting here, under the dim candlelight of the tavern, listening to the sweet melody the bard strums on his lute, you try to paint a picture of him.

Generous. Oh, kind.

These words have been shared by many, and even as the man sings them, as if speaking them into existence, you can’t picture the man he sings of. The man who sired you. The man that sent you away when you couldn’t even crawl out of your own cradle.

A man you only saw twice when you were brought back to King’s Landing. A man that only left the confinement of his chambers once in the three years you’d been at court. Only on the return of his eldest daughter, only to protect her claim to the Iron Throne. A man you barely recognised, grey strings of hair coming out in patches on his head, blackened teeth and a face eaten by disease. He looked like a man already dead, clinging to the last grips of life, decaying before everyone’s eyes.

For a second, you tried to picture him younger, you as a babe in his arms and your tiny hand wrapped around one of his fingers. Even then, sitting across from you, the picture could not come to mind. The mere mutter of the word father brings a different image, a man with short mahogany hair, loose curls and deep blue eyes. A statue cloaked in green, a sharp jawline and lips pressed together in a thin line.

Ormund Hightower, a man you haven’t seen for five long years, is the man you’ve pictured for as long as you can remember. The shape of him, standing over you, so vivid in your mind you’re sure you could picture him sitting across from you now.

You wonder how he’s changed.

Have the grey strands taken root in his hair? Have the lines on his face drawn deeper over time? Would he look at you the same? Would he remember the girl that clung to his leg as a child, or the teenager that revelled in his approval of curt nods and brief words? Would he see the woman you have grown into?

You never thought you’d see him again; the night before you left him, he told you so. You’ve thought about it often, the fat tears stinging your eyes and falling across your cheek. The sobs you desperately tried to fight back as you gritted your teeth, ones that broke through your chest and left you quivering as you threw yourself at him behind the closed doors of his studies.

Unbecoming of a woman, you knew that, especially one that was well versed in your faith. You thought he might disapprove of the way you acted, shake his head and tell you so. Yet he didn’t; he let your hands find his shoulders, nails dig into the tunic, piercing into the skin underneath with no complaint. His arms wrapped around you, one hand placed firmly at your back, rubbing soothing circles into the small of your back.

We always knew this day was coming; he reminded you before pulling you away, placing his hands on your cheeks to hold you from him. This is your duty, where mine is here.

You wish you had told him how you wanted to say— wish that in that moment you begged him to let you reside here if just for a few more years. But you have always been destined to return to court, to marry into a noble family and draw new alliances for your family.

Yet in your five years away from home, away from the only family you’ve ever really known, a marriage never came to fruition. Offers came, many were discussed, and one proposal sat over your head for a year, but then came the death of the King, Viserys, and the placement of your eldest brother on the Iron Throne, and House of Arynn decidedly didn’t want to align themselves with usurpers. You’d never say it out loud, but you’d been happy, even if it was only prolonging the inevitable.

Wars bring bountiful amounts of marriages. But wars also bring death, and while you always knew that, you’d never been privy to the sight of it. Not until over a fortnight ago, when you’d been yanked from your bed in the night, forced to leave the confines of the Redkeep with one trusted guardsman with you.

Blood paved your way through the streets of King’s Landing, the Goldcloaks turning on the King’s Guard, shoving their swords deep into their backs. Even at the dead of the night, and on the brink of winter, it had been awfully hot, sweat beading on your head, and at every glance in a different direction you could see why: the glow of a fire bright from above, around almost every corner. The streets of flea-bottom had been a battle to get through, and if it hadn’t been for Ser Ronard protecting you with his very life, it may have been your body bleeding out on the cobblestones.

You dread what they could have done to you. Stripped you, beaten you, and molested your dead body.

They are animals, Ormund’s voice rang in your head and even now as you remember, you feel the ghost of his fingers as they brush your hair behind your ear. Nothing like our common folk.

Don’t they even deserve the mercy of the Gods? You’d asked him.

That is for the Gods to decide.

Ser Ronard clears his throat from beside you, pushing the bowl of stew towards you.

“Eat,” he commands.

You don’t look up, shaking your head.

“My Lord will have my head on a stick if I bring you to him thin as bones,” he grunts out, fingers reaching out for your chin but you flinch out of reach. He points to the bowl once more. “Eat.”

Your hand reaches out for the spoon, stirring the slodge in the bowl. It doesn’t smell right but the last few days you’ve managed to stomach worse just to fill the pit in your stomach.

“It’s not so—” Ser Ronnard twists his head to the window, eyes pinching as if to concentrate.

You don’t hear it at first but the hooves trotting against the ground come quickly. Fast and many.

“Up.” Ser Ronnard is yanking you up by your elbow before you can think, pulling you towards him and charging through the tables towards the back of the tavern.

But the way becomes easily blocked, the townspeople turning against you within an instant, and then you feel it, the hood of your cloak being torn down and your thick locks being lifted for all to see.

“It’s her,” someone points, shouting from beside you. “They are after her.”

These rats are fast but Ser Ronnard is faster, unsheathing his sword within a moment, the sliding of metal being heard like a ringing in your ears and then a slice, the man’s hand falls from your head and onto the wooden floorboard.

“Go.” He tells you, shoving you away and placing his body between you and them.

Them. Vermin. Traitors to the crown. Supporters of Rhaenyra the cruel.

The thoughts are all you can think as you run into the open night, ducking out of the way of light from torches and taking for the trees.

Days and nights spent dressed in beaten-down cloaks and hopping between one town to the other just to keep yourself hidden could all be for nothing. Rhaenyra’s men had been at every town, every tavern, every nook and cranny you had come across. You’d been glad for your dark rouge hair, the thickness of it making it easy to hide the tuft of silver. Easier to blend in with the common people, the rats that swarm these towns.

They support her. You’re not safe with any of them. Ormund had taught you that, had reminded you of the enemy in his many letters. She who shares your blood and your father’s face is not to be trusted.

There’s an evilness in your eldest sister, and your uncle, a taint in the blood. It runs in you as well, but lucky for you, Ormund has been there to protect you from it.

But he’s not here now. He’s nowhere to be seen in the dead of the night as you hide between the bushes. Nowhere to be heard as Rhaenyra’s men surround you and whistle for you to come out. Nowhere to be felt as one of them drags you by your ankle to get you out.

All you feel is the damp ground underneath you, mud taking its root under the your fingernails as you desperately try to scramble away and the man’s hands as they fight against your kicking legs.

He had been right, they’re all savages, every single last one of them. All awful beasts that do not care for the likeness of your blood, not the ones that bow to the false Queen Rhaenyra.

“You wretched—” You try to scream, but his foot catches your ankle, throwing you over onto your front without so much as a struggle.

You kick back, and with your nails digging into the soil you try to crawl forward. But he doesn’t let you, and you feel your feeble attempt be stopped as you feel his hands now on your back.

He’s on top of you, weight pressing you down into muck and you hear it, the tearing of your clothes from behind you, loud as he fumbles with his trousers to release himself.

“No,” you plead, tears lodged at the back of your throat. Your hand falls out in front again, dragging your heavy body slightly before you’re pulled back again. “No, please.”

Savages. Worse than you could have ever imagined.

He groans, not out of pleasure and for a second you’re not sure why, as he becomes still behind you. But then you feel it, blood dripping onto your back, and the weight of him being pulled off before his lifeless body is dropped by your side.

“Up.”

The voice doesn’t quite register; it takes a second before it is piercing through the ringing in your ear, and even then your body can’t quite familiarise itself with it. But your body recognises those hands pulling you up, and the feel of the wide shoulders as they encase you. You don’t relax; you can’t, but your arms fall around him, gripping him with a tightness that borders on suffocating.

“I’m here,” his voice soothes you, lips caressing the shell of your ear, his warmth breath against your skin making you shiver. “I’ve got you, my love.”

In your years growing up in Oldtown, you rarely went a fortnight without seeing Ormund. As the years passed and you grew older, he became a prominent figure in your life. The man raised you, alongside your uncle Gwayne, so it’s no surprise the man was always present in your day-to-day life.

But since your arrival at Tumbleton, Ormund has not visited you once.

You hear him, though- the echoes of his voice travelling through the empty halls, and his footsteps in the dead of the night when he paces outside your room. You know the stress he’s under; while you may never quite understand the strategies of war, you can understand the position he’s in. Daeron only holds a small dragon, barely grown, and you yourself have never bonded with a dragon. His final hope resides in your brother, but since his abrupt departure in King’s Landing, you don’t know where he resides or where he will go next.

Ormund and his men are alone.

It’s something you come to make clarity with as the maids tend to you in the bath. This luxury is not promised; tomorrow it could be taken from underneath you.

You hiss when one of the maids’ hands drags the cloth against your bruised hip, twisting your head to look at her. Plain clothes and face, no striking features that remind you of the maids back home. She could be a traitor, you think. A pretender.

You snatch the cloth from her hands but your hand stops for a second, eyes flickering between the other maids that surround you.

You go to bark but swallow, cowering like a beaten dog. “I can tend to myself,” you tell them in a meek voice.

“Of course, my princess.” They all mutter, bowing before clearing out of the room at once.

They stop before the door, bowing once again before scuttering out.

Ormund.

You notice him, dressed in dark green breeches and a pale white tunic, so thin you can see the defined muscles of his chest, all the way to the dark trail of hairs that travel down—

You twist your head away, eyes closing as shame takes over your body.

“My Lord, I—”

“Did he touch you?” Ormund questions, and when you turn around, he’s stood over you.

“My Lord—” you shake your head, shifting forward in the water as if bracing to get out. “I—I don’t—”

“ —Did he touch you?” Ormund’s hands are clenched by his side, fists drawn so tight that they are white. He bends down, falling to his knees and hands coming to grab onto the wooden tub. “That—“ he clenches his jaw, and spits out the next words through gritted teeth. “Did that beast touch you?”

“He didn’t—“ your words get lodged into your throat and you can feel the sob stuck in the back of your throat, clawing to make its way out as you bite it down. “I swear it.”

His eyes darken, the blue irises almost fading to black as you look at them. It brings you back.

Memories of the man before you making you bow before the Maiden for forgiveness, to the Mother for mercy on your own soul.

It’s not your fault, he’d tell you, but you need to pray for mercy to not end up like your savage ancestors.

You’d weep, knees digging into the stone floor of the sept, his hand pressed against your shoulder to keep you down.

The words try to break free from your throat now, to explain but tears flood your vision and panic takes over. He didn’t touch me, I swear it, you wish to scream but your voice makes no sound.

“Keep still.”

You do exactly that as his eyes keep you transfixed to the spot, his cold gaze not allowing you to move an inch as his hand reaches underneath the water. You feel it, his soft hand against your knee, slow at first as they part your legs before making their way up between your thighs.

Like a good girl, you take it, biting on the inside of your cheek and keeping your cries to sniffles. His fingertips feel larger than they look, running along your inner thigh as they make their way up and up—

You gasp, and his hand stop against you, cupping your mound with his palm against the top and fingers reaching against your hole. Even with how much you want to, you keep your legs open, fighting against the urge to close your thighs against his hand.

“This is where he would have touched you,” he tells you, through a heavy breath. His finger reaches down and the tip aligns itself with your hole as he continues, “This is where that savage would have taken—“ His eyes fall close, and he lets out a strangled breath, a moment, before the tip of his finger breaches your hole, forcing it open.

You try to keep still but your hips fall back, hands bracing against the sides of the tub as if to escape. But his hand comes against your shoulder, pressing firmly down to hold you in place.

“I need to be sure.” His finger deepens then moves side to side while you hiss and cry at the feel.

“It hurts,” you whimper, scrunching your eyes closed. “Please, he didn’t—“

His finger pulls back, sliding out of your walls as he hushes you, “It’s okay.”

It doesn’t feel okay. His hand rests against your thigh once more, and you can’t help but squeeze your thighs together, trying to force him out.

“You did good.”

—And yet you’re trembling in the warm water, unable to open your wet eyes. Your hands grip onto the edge of the tub still, not sure whether to jump out or to force yourself back under the water.

“Look at me,” he commands, and you feel his wet fingers grip your chin.

You do.

“You did so good.” He smiles, a small proud grin as he wipes the tears that fall against your cheek. “You understand why I had to do that?”

You nod. Unlike your ancestors, you will not be ruined by your own savage tendencies.

“I missed you,” he whispers, face inches from yours, breath fanning against your face.

So close you could kiss him.

Your body goes rigid at the thought.

It’s your blood, you remind yourself, you can control it.

“Didn’t you miss me?” His eyebrows draw together, and his lips twist into a frown.

“Yes,” you let out on a choked sob. “I missed you. I missed home.”

“And home is?” He asks, voice soft and melodic.

“Home is Oldtown. Home is with you,” you tell him.

His hand shifts, cupping your cheek and his forehead falls to rest against yours. He’s close, so close, you hear him as he inhales deeply, breathing in your scent. “That’s my girl.”

A fortnight has passed and still no word from Aemond, and no sight of Aegon.

Disappointments, you hear Ormund scream from the other side of the hall. Idiots, all of them.

You’re not making it any better, not that you can help it. But for the last few nights you’d fallen with a strange fever, sweats pulling you from your sleep and your body burning for no reason at all. Sometimes you have an appetite, and other times none at all. None of the maesters can be sure of the reasoning for it, prescribing you tea at every hour and hoping it will pass. The tea does nothing, and another brew sits cold on your bedside.

They’ve pleaded with Ormund to keep his distance. Told him they don’t want whatever ailment has taken over you to pass to him. Not in the midst of a war. Not when your lives are on the line.

Yet he visits often, not trusting the maids that tend to your bedside or the maesters that have been appointed by his own deceased father. Not to look after you.

Ormund sits now, slouched against his wooden chair, legs spread wide with you perched by his feet, a cushion underneath you for comfort. Rage radiates off him; you can feel it in the way his thighs tighten underneath your head, and you try your best to stop from moving around. But you are restless, mind fogged and skin littered with bumps across your body. You can’t help it, lulling your head to the side to look up at him again.

He sighs, a large breath through his nose and his thighs tighten once again.

“I thought you were trying to sleep?”

You look up at him through wet lashes, fluttering as if to keep them open. You want to sleep, your mind clouded with a tiredness you’ve never felt before but your body is restless and you shift against him to find some sort of comfort.

“Hmm?”

You whine, head rolling around again till your forehead is pressed against the inside of his thigh. “I can’t.”

“I should ask the maesters to brew some tea.” One of his hands falls to the back of your head, fingers combing through the strands, and the feel of the tips of his fingers scratching against your scalp causes you to shiver.

“No more tea,” you mumble against his breeches.

“You barely drank the last.”

You hear a scuffle on the other side of the room, maids following his command you imagine.

You lift your head again, and it takes a second for your vision to clear and for you to fully see him.

“Please,” You whine, but he doesn’t listen— he doesn’t look down.

You want his attention— no, you need his attention. You need him to look down at you, to acknowledge your pleads.

Your hands drag themselves up from his knees, fingers running along his thick muscles before wrapping around the tops of his thighs. His muscles tighten, harder than before and he finally looks down at you, nostrils flared and jaw clenched.

“Amused?”

Your hands slide down, releasing your grip and you lean back slightly, dropping your head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what took over me. I—”

His face relaxes and his head lulls back as he takes another languid breath. “You can’t help it.”

You hum, tilting your head to the side.

“I hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

You jump at the sound of the maid placing the tea pot down beside you, eyes falling to her as she pours a cup.

Ormund takes it from her, placing it out in front of you.

“Drink,” he commands, and the second you hesitate he presses the cup to your lips. “Drink.” The firm tone of his voice willing you to his command.

The heat of the tea is bearable, but still a tad too hot as it floods your mouth with its bitter taste. You imagine this is what dirt tastes like, but there's a hint of citrus that helps you swallow it down. You don’t want it, but he pours it into your mouth anyway, eyes glued to yours, eyebrows pinched together, telling you without words to obey him. You do, willing as much liquid as you can down before it comes too much, hot liquid burning your skin as it spills from the confines of your mouth.

He takes the cup away when you start to cough, pushing the cup back into the maid’s hand before giving her a curt nod to leave.

You try to push off him, giving yourself space as you choke on the last bits of liquid that have become trapped in your throat, but his hands come around your arms, keeping you locked in place.

“Breathe.”

You try, letting out a shaky breath, willing the tickle in your throat to dissipate. Eventually it does and you blink back the tears that have swarmed your waterline.

“Good girl,” he whispers, hands pulling you towards him. “Come.”

“I shouldn’t,” you tell him, but your body betrays you, crawling upwards until your head is resting against his shoulder and your legs are perched over his. “The maesters—” the words become muffled as you bury your head in the crevice of his neck. “ —you’ll get sick.”

“That’s my burden to bear.” His voice is soft, and his hand gentle as it falls against your thigh. “You are my burden.”

“Yes,” you answer him, not out of your own volition but a certain pull deep inside of you that speaks to him— that heeds his call.

His hand moves, trailing up your thigh and back down again, the material of your cotton gown following his slow movements. You hum, unbeknownst to you and another sound follows, a low rumble from the back of your throat you can’t place, but you know isn’t right.

“I’m sorry— I—” the next noise is louder, a desperate whimper and you feel a wave of heat flush over your body, dampening your skin.

Everything feels strange so suddenly. The material of your gown feels uncomfortable, almost scratching your skin every time you shift about. His hand— You’ve become deeply aware of Ormund’s hand pressed against you, heavier than before and almost soothing as it glides up the back of your thigh.

You want more, that you’re sure of, but you’re not sure of yourself or the words to ask for it.

What is it you want? These clothes off your body. His hand higher. His hand against your bare skin. Your thighs clamp together at that thought and you feel slick oozing from you as you rub your legs together.

He grasps the back of your hair, detaching you from his neck and forcing you to look up at him. His brows furrow together, but his expression is kinder than before. But it changes, eyes hardening and his muscles becoming stiff underneath you as his eyes trail down your body. Your chest rising and falling, your nipples pebbled underneath your gown, the way the material becomes almost transparent from your wet skin.

A part of you grasps, his darkened gaze and the way his mouth parts as you try to steady your rapid breathing.

Sinful girl, he must think, poisoned by your own blood.

“It’s exactly as I thought,” he states, eyes dragging themselves back up to your face.

“It’s my blood, isn’t it?” Just like your sister. Your elder brothers. Your ancestors. Ormund had been right all along. “Am I going to die?”

He pauses, his hand on your lower thigh tugs your skirts up, allowing the chill of the night air to touch your skin. It feels good, a sort of relief, but only temporary.

Your body freezes when the material reaches higher, lifting over your ankles, shins and then towards the middle of your thighs.

“I think I know a way to help you.” He swallows, and you watch as the bulge in his throat protrudes. “But—” his hand falls against your sweat-covered skin and you let out a small gasp, your skin burning under his touch. “—you need to understand.”

“Please,” you let out between a broken cry. “Please. Please. Please.” You repeat until the words jumble together.

The tip of his fingers slides beneath the material of your gown, and your hand darts out towards it. To stop it, or to push it away, you’re not entirely sure.

The air has shifted; you sense it completely now as you look up at Ormund. The man that raised you, that took care of you as his own, is touching you— his fingers drifting up to a place the septas taught you was for only your husband.

“Your blood craves its own,” he tells you, and you can’t quite understand what he speaks of “But if I’m right—” he bites down on his words, the tips of his fingers hovering up your thighs and over your stomach. “If I’m right, I can help you.”

How? You think to question him but the word doesn’t reach your lips. “Please,” is all you have him, the single word taking over your senses and your mind.

“Your blood…” his eyes widen, and his brows raise as he speaks. “…it wants its own.”

Your mind reels and his teachings ring in your head.

Incestuous savages.

It makes sense. Your body’s call for kin. Your brother and your sister married. Your elder sister and uncle. Even your father married his cousin.

Blood magic and curses, your ancestors have forsaken you.

Your eyes flutter up at him, tears flooding your vision at the thoughts. You can feel it, that very affliction that runs through your veins. Your senses are heightened and your body is burning for a touch of another.

“I may not have Targaryen blood,” he whispers, and his hand drops, landing on your breast, fingers splayed over it. “But you and I share the same blood. I think it could work.”

Your body freezes, his eyes falling to his finger as it moves flicking over your hardened nipple.

The man who raised you. A man you see is more akin to you than your own father, own mother, own brothers and sisters.

“You’re married,” you grit out through clenched teeth. Like that would make it any worse.

His hand shifts from your hair, wrapping around your neck before pulling you dangerously close. You could kiss him, or he could kiss you. As if sensing your thoughts his grip tightens and you find yourself wheezing for breath.

“Or—“ you gasp, hand reaching for his.

He looks down at you, lips frowning and jaw clenching once again into an almost pained expression. “I’d do this for you. Forsake my honour, for you.”

Fat tears slide down your cheeks in sheer horror but your body reacts in a different way, thighs clenching when his finger flicks over your nipple again.

“I could save you.”

He’s right. Every part of you reacts to him like some bitch in heat, craving his touch. Even if your teachings from the seven tell you different. They don’t understand this, they couldn’t possibly grasp the idea of this. Neither could you. It’s only here seeing the way your body trembles and bucks into his touch do you see how right he is.

You don’t want to die.

“Please save me,” you ask him only loud enough for him to hear.

“My girl.”

The words travel through you and you can’t help but shiver against him.

You close your eyes, bracing for the impact of his lips against yours at any moment but it doesn’t come. Only when your eyes open, do you feel his nose against your throat, inhaling your scent like he’s gasping for it.

His lips come after, grazing against your neck, just under your chin where his hand doesn’t cover and then upwards till they finally meet your lips.

It’s not at all how you expect it —but then again you never had much time to imagine much —he’s tender at first, his lips caressing yours, taking his time as he moves against your mouth. Open-mouthed pecks to the corner of your lips, and then your bottom lip until his lips meld into yours and you forget to breathe.

He pulls away, his hand sliding from your throat and his thumb finding your bottom lip, pulling it apart from the top.

“Let me help you.”

He dives forward this time, not so kind as his lips find yours for a second time. Your lips move, not with his but almost against him, intending to push him away. It doesn’t work and your lips part as you feel his teeth nipping at your skin— to speak, only for his tongue to shove against yours, forcing your words into a whine.

What would you have said anyway? No, don’t do this. A part of you still screams, your hand falling against his own as he gropes your breast. But then your thighs shift and you find yourself melting into his body.

Wouldn’t it be easier to forget. Wouldn’t it be safer to let him take care of you?

Ormund’s arm comes underneath you, hoisting you up and himself with you, never once allowing his lips to leave your own. It feels good— dangerously good as his saliva drips into your mouth and his tongue slides against yours. Is this how your ancestors felt the first time they lay with their own blood?

Your back hits silk sheets and cushions as Ormund places you down, breaking apart from you. You lift yourself, hazy eyes searching to find him, only to freeze when you see him undressing himself at the end of your bed.

You fall backwards, letting your eyes fall closed for a moment.

Better to not look. Better not to think.

You feel the weight of the bed dip by your feet, and your body moves on autopilot, heels digging in to push yourself further up the sheets. You’re stopped though, one hand finding your ankle yanking you right back down.

He tuts, and you feel the weight of him over you, crawling till he’s hovering directly above you. His hand lifts your skirt, throwing the material up until it’s bunched around your waist.

“Do you think I want to do this?” He questions, and you feel his breath against your face. “Hmm?”

You shake your head.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you,” his voice stern as his forehead presses against your own. “Look at me.”

Your eyes open to a blackened gaze peering down at yours.

“Do you think I want to do this?”

“No,” you answer, tears clawing at the back of your throat. “You don’t want to do this.”

“I’m doing this to help you,” he whispers, lips pressing against yours again. “I’m doing this to save you.”

He lowers himself against you, and you realise how bare he is as you feel his harness against your inner thigh. You’re not sure how you pictured it, but the length of it against your thigh brings fear to your mind.

“Let’s get this off.”

You feel the gown being torn from your skin, and you find yourself lifting your body off the bed for him to pull it off your shoulders.

You don’t even have time to think before you’re being shoved down, lips finding your own and thighs being pried open. His body falls between your legs, hips pressing down against yours and you feel him there. Hard, thick and leaking.

But you also feel yourself. Slick covered thighs that fall around his hips and a drenched cunt that oozes with the feel of him sliding against it.

He was right, he’s always right.

Your hips buck up to him, and you can’t help the way your body reacts, your hole clenching around nothing as the tip of him catches your entrance. Your body wants this, it’s leaking all over him and when he pulls away, you let out a pathetic whimper.

“Hush,” he whispers against you, breaking his lips away from your own. “You’ll get what you desire.”

Then you feel it, his tip sliding against your folds with precision, slowly and then even slower over your sensitive nub. Your body reacts literally, mouth falling open into a whine or a moan, you’re not certain you can separate the two but it makes him smile. You feel it, lips widening against your cheek and it leaves you confused, opening your eyes to be sure it’s true.

Your lips fall open to speak, to question him but the words die on your tongue as he lines himself up against you before sliding in with one full thrust.

His lips fall open on yours, a sigh escaping him while a cry escapes you.

It hurts. Your walls feel like they’ve been forced open and the wetness does nothing to prepare you for him. Tears kiss your cheeks and your teeth grind against each other, forcing the sobs down.

He moves, dragging his dick out your walls before he’s shoving himself in.

“It hurts,” you let out through a choked sob, your whole body freezing underneath him. Your hands find his shoulders, pushing him back but his torso is like a stone wall that won’t let up —except from his hips that roll as he slowly slides in and out of you.

“Shhh.” His lips press into your cheek, then the corner of your parted lips. “It’ll feel better soon. I swear it.”

—So, you try to keep quiet, sucking in harsh breaths and letting out shaky sobs that have your body frozen against him. It hurts, and you feel like your walls are being torn open from the inside and he keeps going.

In. Out.

In and then out.

Your breathing steadies and your chest begins to settle. The pain is still there, but it’s faded and when his cock drags against your walls, you feel yourself tighten around him.

“See,” you hear his voice in your ear, and his lips follow, settling below and kissing the delicate skin there.

“It feels—”

“I know,” he replies, his voice different— grittier. “Told you didn’t I?” —and you hear it again, caught in a groan, coming from the back of his throat. “Making you feel better?”

You nod, a sick moan spilling from your lips is the only answer you can give. Slick is pouring out of you again, and you forget that it was ever painful to begin with and you also realise when he speaks once again, it does something to you, nipples becoming oddly more sensitive and cunt squeezing him.

It does something to him too, you feel it in the way he changes his pace, and his hands fall down to your hips to keep you glued to the bed. He’s only doing this for your own good, you remind yourself but the way his thrusts become faster has you thinking differently.

“Please,” you plead with him, legs falling around his hips, hooking behind them. “My Lord, plea—”

“Sire,” he snaps, teeth pressing against your skin. “Please, sire.”

His hand comes around your throat, and he presses his forehead against yours, lips parting.

“Please, what?”

“Please—” your words get caught as he delivers a nasty thrust against you.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Please, sire.”

You let the words out between a gasp, before he’s shoving your thighs down further, his cock reaching a point so deep inside you that you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

“Please,” you beg between strangled sobs. “Please, sire. Please. Please…”

“My good girl.”

Your walls tighten and you’re sure if your body could have its way it’d keep him there, his shaft stuck inside you, every ridge and vein imprinted into your very walls. You should feel ashamed at the thoughts, and maybe when you recover from your sickness you will, but right now all you want is to break underneath him.

—And some part of you does, a tension in your stomach snapping and a body-numbing feeling taking over you. Blood rushes to your head, and your vision becomes cloudy as you look up at him. You think you’re saying something, lips open and tongue moving. Maybe not even words, maybe a string of sounds that blur into one.

Then relief.

A relief washing over you that you haven't felt in days, all while his cock continues to rut into you with a vigour that borders on cruel.

It’s him giving you this relief, his cock spilling inside of you, letting out steady ropes of his seed until you’re full of him. It feels good and your restless body relaxes underneath him, taking everything he has to offer you. Every bit of him until your moans turn to gentle sighs and there’s nothing left for him to give.

“You feel better, don’t you.”

He doesn’t ask, he states it like he already knows like he can read the expression on your face. You wonder what you look like right now, hair tangled and face covered in a mix of dried tears and sweat.

You nod, and your eyes close for a second.

“Yes,” you answer him. “Better.”

And you think that’s it, the end of it.

But as the seconds pass you become acutely aware of how he’s still buried inside of you and how hips, even though they turned into an almost slow drag, haven't stopped moving for even a moment.

“We should keep going then,” he says, and his weight becomes heavier, more relaxed as it falls on top of you, trapping you completely underneath him. “Keep going till you’re cured.”

You open your mouth to speak, to protest—

“ —Till we are certain.” His hips shove into yours, rougher than before and you feel his seed drip out your walls and over his cock. “We want to be certain, don’t we?”

Your lips close, words you were about to say becoming a distant memory as you nod in agreement.

Because Ormund is right. He’s always right and your walls leaking out all over him proves it.

Better to be certain, then to wake up craving more.

tags: @sincerelybambii

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 water had already grown cold in the bronze bath, the steam all but vanished, leaving only a thin mist upon the water whilst half the candles yet burned and wax pooled in the iron sconces and dripped in hardened droplets upon the table. The scent of lavender and olive soap hung in the air, and Ormund would have preferred it so remained. He loathed the smell of bodies, of sweat and rancid oils, and could not abide when any of them hid beneath the perfumes.

The chamber was large, with a canopy of carved wood above the bed, an oaken chest in the corner, and the bronze bath at the centre, ringed by linens of white. The fire in the hearth crackled low, but warmed no longer so well as before.

You rapped upon the door.

The sound of your knocking was lost in the stone corridors of Tumbleton. The place felt colder than Oldtown, though the air there was thick with the smell of ash that crept through the cracks despite the windows being shut, yet they could not keep the stench without for long. Ormund's men were everywhere, guards beside the doors, servants bearing arms, water and victuals, men-at-arms in the halls watching you as you passed, lingering a moment longer than they ought before seeking elsewise to fix their gaze.

Tumbleton was not Oldtown, there was no sea, nor the white towers of the Hightower rising above the rooftops, nor the gardens where you and Daeron had spent so many days beside your uncle Gwayne, there was only stone and Daeron.

Your twin brother had been there for weeks, yet seemed farther with each passing day, and since the Hightower host had come to Tumbleton, all had changed utterly, and it was not as though they were better in Oldtown.

When you dared raise your hand to strike fresh blows upon the door, the guard seized your arm and you regarded him with furrowed brow. His armour was half-buckled, the leather still loose at one shoulder and for a moment you thought you had glimpsed your uncle again, who had perished in the taking of King's Landing when your half-sister came with her dragons.

The guard peered through a crack in the door and returned his gaze to you a moment, his look traversing your face, your gown, your hands clenched against your skirts. Then he stepped aside.

"Princess," he said, releasing your arm gently. "Lord Ormund is occupied."

You knew what "occupied" meant, it was likely he had been in the bath some time, and Daeron stood in some corner of the chamber with the cloth in his hands. After all, Ormund had decided it was good for the youngest prince to learn to serve, and Daeron, your sweet and obedient twin, had not learned to say no.

You passed the guard and entered.

The chamber was warmer than the corridor, but not so warm as it ought; you felt the woolen carpet beneath your feet was damp where splashes had fallen, and reclined against the bronze rim, was Ormund.

His arms were stretched along the sides, his fingers relaxed and dripping water from their tips; the water covered his chest to the nipples, droplets running from his neck, where his light brown hair was slightly wet and curled at the ends. The muscles of his shoulders were loose, but you knew that to be deceptive.

You had seen him erupt in fury over trifling things, such as a mere 'no' you had given him when he touched you. Ormund Hightower was never truly at ease.

His green eyes found yours the instant you crossed the threshold. They travelled your body slowly, from your wavy, pale-gold hair to the hem of your emerald gown, and then back to your face.

A smile spread across his lips, as though he were truly glad to see you.

"Princess." the word escaped his reddened lips like a delicate caress. You felt the skin of your arm prickle. "What a surprise."

You did not answer because your violet eyes found Daeron for a second.

Your brother stood near the hearth with Ormund's white cloth in his hands; his fingers gripped the fabric so tightly his knuckles were white. His face — so like yours, with the same eyes, though he alone had hair more like your mother's — was pale, he said nothing, of course, he could not. Ormund had taught him that princes speak only when bidden to speak, but that did not work with you.

"My Lord," you began, straightening your posture as you raised your chin. "We must speak."

The smile did not fade from Ormund's well-shaped lips, but you saw displeasure pass through his eyes, though there was a small — tiny — spark of interest. He moved his hand in the water, his fingers sliding slowly across the surface, making small ripples that pointed towards a chair in the corner.

"I am listening."

You swallowed hard, looking at the chair without knowing whether you ought to obey, and when your violet eyes met your brother's, he gave a small nod.

Hesitant, you approached the seat, but instead of sitting, you only rested your hand upon its arm and relaxed.

"I am here to speak of Daeron."

Ormund's eyelids tightened slightly, his fingers ceased their movement in the water and he tilted his head to the side, his eyes still fixed upon yours.

"Go on."

"We have been here for weeks, and Rhaenyra's men will begin their march hither, the dragons already watch us. Tumbleton is not safe." You paused a moment, feeling the knot form in your throat. "Daeron must be sent to a safer place, I mean, he will go unnoticed because of his hair, so I came to ask—"

"Ask?"

The word cracked in Ormund's mouth, like a cursed whip.

He did not move or raise his voice, but his jaw tightened, his green eyes darkened and his fingers closed against the bronze rim, and you saw the muscles of his arms tense.

"You came here," he continued, waving his hand with disdain, choosing his words meticulously, "to ask that I send him away? Or, are you asking that I let the two of you flee?"

"I am no threat to my sister, Lord Ormund." You moved away from the chair and took a step towards the bath, and Daeron moved with you, fearful. "I only want—"

"I know what you want."

He leaned forward, and the water cascaded from his shoulders, his arms braced against the rim of the bath, and the muscles of his back stood out beneath his skin. Ormund kept his gaze fixed on yours, and you saw fury gather in them with avidity.

"I know you want to leave this place and take your cursed little brother away with you. Perhaps you will both die along the way and the blame will be yours alone, have you thought of that?"

"It is not—"

"No?" His voice rose a tone, that tone you knew well, the one that always made you step back because you knew he was about to strike at whoever stood before him. "Then tell me, princess, what exactly do you think will happen if I let you go? Do you think you will find safety in this siege they are closing in upon us? Do you think your sister will protect you if you yield to her? Do you think your brother Aegon will set aside his claim to see to you?"

He laughed, but the laugh was bitter, short.

"You are Targaryens. You have dragons. And yet, here you are, depending on me." He rose.

The water burst in waves from the bath; it streamed down his broad shoulders, down his hairless, muscled chest, down his defined belly; his flanks were narrow, his waist slender compared to his wide shoulders, and his hip bones jutted slightly beneath the skin, marking the beginning of his pelvis, and so it ran lower.

The fine, fair hair upon his belly grew darker, thicker, as it descended towards the centre of his body. The water ran through that hair, gathering at the base, where it curled about the root of his member.

He was erect, not fully, but partly. The water ran over him, the droplets sliding slowly along its length; his cock was long and thick, the skin pale as the rest of his body, with a slightly pinker hue at the tip. Blue veins stood out upon the surface, visible beneath the thin skin. The head was partly exposed, the skin that covered it drawn back slightly, revealing its rounded, wet shape.

The water ran down all of him, descending to his stones, which hung loose and heavy between his thighs where the droplets ran down the inner side, following the lines of the muscles to his knees, where they gathered before falling to the floor. His legs were long and strong, covered in finer fair hair that spread across the skin.

Your eyes fell, against your will, against any sense of decency you yet possessed. They fell to the most intimate part of his body, and you could not raise them.

His member, partly erect, hung slightly, the tip pointing forward. The water continued to run over it, a droplet descending slowly from the tip before falling to the floor. The sight was so unexpected that you forgot to breathe, your violet eyes caught there, upon its shape and size, upon the pale skin that seemed so soft, upon the veins that stood out.

The air left your lungs in a gasp you had not realised you were holding until you felt suffocated; your cheeks grew hot and the blood rose to your face, to your chest, to deeper places of your being.

Your hand, which hung at your side, clenched against your skirts, gripping the fabric so tightly your knuckles went white. You felt the heat spread through your body, a wave that began in your chest and descended to your stomach, and lower still.

Ormund noticed — of course he noticed — and his mouth curved in a satisfied smile.

"Ah," he said, and the fury in his eyes was suddenly replaced by something more predatory. "I am glad the sight pleases you."

He did not move to cover himself, nor made any gesture to hide what you were seeing. Rather, he took a step towards you, stepping from the bath, the water streaming from his body and forming puddles upon the carpet.

The water dripped from him, leaving a wet trail upon the floor as he walked towards you. The cloth was still with Daeron and Ormund did not ask for it.

"But now," he said, and his voice was closer, making you feel a chill in your belly, "eyes up."

The command was firm, but he allowed a smile to tug at the corners of his lips, a cursed dark delight in knowing that you had looked, that you had not been able to resist.

Your head rose slowly and your eyes travelled up his body, past his muscled thighs, past his defined belly, past his broad chest, past his neck, to his face. Your eyes met his green ones, and he nodded as though you were his good girl.

He was smiling, sated, triumphant. His eyes were dark now, his pupils had dilated, and you saw, because he allowed it to show, that exact expression of one who had just tasted something sweet and wanted more.

"You cannot help yourself, can you?" he asked, hesitating to touch your face. "Not when you look at me."

Ormund took a step towards you, and you felt the heat radiating from his naked body.

"I don't—"

"Quiet."

The word was short, hard, and you fell silent.

He closed the distance that was no longer great, and now you could see every droplet of water running down his chest, down his belly, disappearing between his thighs. You could also smell him, the scent of lavender soap and the masculine smell of his skin that he could not rid himself of either.

His hand rose and his wet fingers touched your chin, pressed and raised your face.

"What is forcing you to want to flee?" he asked, and his fingers moved slowly from your chin to your jaw, tracing the line of your bone. "Your brother or… me?"

"My Lord—"

"I did not command you to answer."

His hand tightened on your jaw, his fingers pressed a little harder against the bone, hard enough that a small hiss of pain escaped your lips and reminded you who was in command.

Ormund slid his fingers from your jaw to your neck, traced the path from your ear to your collarbone, and you felt his wet skin against yours, the cold touch of the water mingled with the warmth of his hand, raising gooseflesh unbidden.

His fingers traced the edge of your neckline, where the fabric met your skin, and held there a moment before you interrupted and placed your hand upon his.

"Daeron," he said, without taking his eyes from you. "Leave."

You heard the sound of your brother's footsteps and the creak of his boots upon the floor as he left the cloth upon the table, nodding obediently.

"Daeron," you interrupted, turning to him as he stopped and watched you. "Stay."

Ormund frowned and looked at Daeron; his hand tightened on the fabric, pulling you closer and making you lose your breath for an instant.

"Daeron," he moved his head and made a patient gesture with his hand towards the door.

"I told him to stay," you countered.

Ormund's green eyes darkened and you witnessed fury take hold of him completely, as you feared, as you knew well. The hand that was against your neck closed, there was no squeeze, only his fingers pressing against your skin as though he wished to leave you in pieces, but that he might afterwards put every shard back in its place.

"Do you think," he said, his jaw tight, "that you can give commands here?"

"I am not giving commands, I am asking—"

"Asking." he spat the word. "You came here to ask me to let him go. And now you are asking that he stay? After you entered my chambers without leave? After you troubled me?"

Ormund's hand moved from your neck to your face, his fingers closing around your cheek, forcing you to look directly at him. His palm covered half your face, his fingers pressing against your jaw, his thumb against your other cheek. His grip was strong, possessive.

He held your face as though it were his property.

"You want to ask that he stay?" he inquired, pressing his lips to your ear as he stared at frightened Daeron. "Then ask. Ask as you ought to ask."

You looked at Ormund, slipping a little from his grip, your lips drawing closer to his.

"Please," you whispered, and felt the humiliation burn in your cheeks, in your very core. "I ask that you let him stay."

His hand slackened, his green eyes turning to you, traversing your nose, your lips, appreciatively. He released you, drawing back slowly, tracing the line of your cheek before letting his hand fall.

"Daeron," he said, and his voice was calm again, as though the fury had never been, "bring my robe."

Daeron obeyed.

Ormund stepped back, the candlelight dancing upon his damp skin until Daeron brought his emerald robe, and Ormund donned it without ceremony.

"I am the one who decides who stays and who goes," he continued, fastening the robe. "And you are going nowhere. As for Daeron, he may withdraw."

Ormund took another step towards you and his hand found your chin again. His grip was gentler this time.

"I only want him to stay because—" you began.

"Because why?" He interrupted, his thumb sliding across your lips. "Because you don't trust me? Because you think I will do something to you in front of your brother? After all I have done to keep you safe?"

The fury in his eyes was hot now, and you saw the short fuse Gwayne had mentioned and you had witnessed countless times, feeling a dampness rise between your thighs whenever you saw him lose control. The way his face hardened, how the muscles of his jaw clenched and how his free hand closed into a fist at his side, all of it made you want him as much as you hated him.

"I only want—" you began, but the words died in your throat as you heard Daeron close the door upon his exit.

"You always want something," he smiled, pressing his body enough that you bumped against the table behind you. "You want to leave. You want Daeron to stay. You want things your way."

"Ormund—"

"I like how my name sounds upon your lips." His hand slid into your hair, his fingers winding through the silver strands. "Say it again."

"Please—"

He slammed his hand against the table where you were propped and knocked over the flagon of wine upon it, your body shrinking back against his, as he tightened his grip in your hair, forcing you to face him.

"Say it again."

"Ormund…" you whispered, and the word trembled upon your lips.

His hand pulled your hair, tilting your head back, pressing his body against yours; your neck was bared and his thumb traced the line of your throat, so lightly that you tried to reach his lips and he drew back with a smile, tightening his grip.

"No, no, no…" he murmured, bringing his lips close to yours and looking about.

Ormund's hand remained in your hair, his fingers tangled in the silver strands with possessive force; his body pressed you against the table, the emerald robe slipping slightly from one shoulder, revealing his still-damp skin.

"You always do this," he said, sliding his thumb across your lips. "Always want more than I am willing to give. Always trying to control everything."

"I am not trying anything," you retorted, pulling free from his touch, but feeling him tug your hair. "I am trying to protect my brother. Something you clearly don't understand, because the only thing you protect is your own pride."

His eyes narrowed.

"My pride?" He laughed, but he was not amused, he was growing irritated. "You think I risked everything to be here with my army fighting your sister the cow out of pride? This war is not mine, princess."

"I think you are here because you can make Daeron your pawn, my Lord," you answered, tilting your head, sitting upon the table as he settled between your legs. "A Targaryen prince you can control to use for your own ends. And you think I don't see it? That I am as blind as my brother?"

His hand tightened in your hair with more force while the other slid along your legs, slowly raising your gown.

"You are so clever," he said, smiling. "But cleverness is worth nothing if you don't know when to be quiet."

"Ormund."

He pressed harder against your body.

"What will you do? Cry? Hit me?"

"I am not so easily manipulated as he is. And I will remind you that if I fall, I take you with me."

"Are you threatening me?" He narrowed his eyes.

"Take it as you will." You shrugged, rubbing your hip against his pelvis. "You think you are manipulating me, that you are controlling me, that you are using me. But who says I am not doing the same to you, Ormund?"

His hand stopped moving upon your legs and his green eyes met yours.

"You think you can manipulate me?"

"I think you are not so different from me," you said, tilting your head, your lips curving in a slow smile. "You like having someone beneath you, doing as you command. And I…" You leaned forward, your lips brushing his ear. "I like watching you lose control."

His hand tightened in your hair, pulling your head back.

"What?" you inquired, smiling. "Am I the only one who looks you in the eye and tells you the truth? All around you are servants, or fools, or both, but I…" You raised your hand, your fingers touching his face, tracing the line of his jaw. "I see you. The man behind the Lord. The man who needs everyone to fear him because he cannot bear the thought of being vulnerable."

"You know nothing about me."

His hand tightened in your hair so hard your eyes watered, but you did not pull away. Rather, you leaned forward, your lips almost touching his.

"Do you want me to love you, Ormund?"

He pulled you up, your bodies meeting, the table creaking beneath the weight of you both. His robe fell open, his warm skin against yours, and you felt his hardness against your thigh.

"You are a whore," he murmured, his lips against yours.

"And you love it," you whispered back.

His hand struck your face with a dry crack, a slap hard enough to turn your head aside. The force of the blow made you push him away, your hand going to your face, feeling the sting upon your cheek as you heard his heavy breathing, the heat that spread through your body, descending to the place between your thighs.

Ormund drew back, looking at his own hands and knelt before you. His fingers touched your face with a gentleness that did not match what had just occurred.

"Look at me," he asked, his voice hoarse. "Look."

You lowered your gaze to him, your eyes full of tears you refused to let fall. His face was heavy with regret, and it was only that, regret.

"You made me do that," he said, his voice low, almost trembling.

His fingers traced the line of your cheek, where the skin was red and hot.

"Look what you made me do," he repeated. "Look what you have done to me… you make me lose control."

His other hand found your other cheek, holding your head between his hands. His thumb passed over your bruised cheek.

"You are so beautiful," he murmured. "Even so. Especially so."

He tilted your head back, examining your face as though it were a work of art.

"I did not want to hurt you," he whispered, rising. "But… you know exactly what to say to make me lose my head."

"Ormund—"

His fingers found your lips, pressing gently, and you licked him, your tear-filled eyes staring at him as he drew closer.

"I know. I know you did not want me to hurt you."

"But you did hurt me." you murmured, pushing the robe from his shoulders. "And it hurt."

His body was still against yours, his breath hot and heavy against your neck. You felt his hand grip your hip, his fingers closing on your flesh.

"You are going nowhere," he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing your collarbone.

And then he pulled you up.

Your feet barely touched the floor as he took you, your body thrown upon the bed with a thud, and his emerald robe fell open completely.

Your arms reached out, gripping his shoulders, pulling him up. His body fell upon yours, his weight pressing you into the sheets, the heat of his skin burning through the thin fabric of your gown.

His lips found yours, insatiable; his mouth opened against yours, his tongue invading, his teeth biting your lower lip hard enough that you beat against his chest. You answered with the same intensity, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling, scratching, biting back.

His hand found the neckline of your gown, and the fabric tore with a dry sound, your skin bared, the cold air against your breasts that peaked with such excitement. His mouth descended, his lips finding your neck, biting, sucking, leaving red marks where the skin was most sensitive.

"Ormund—" you gasped, the name escaping your lips.

His hand gripped your hip, his fingers closing on your flesh, pulling you against him. You felt his hardness press against your thigh, hot and stiff, and your hips moved in response, the friction of pleasure spreading through your body.

His mouth descended, finding your breast, his lips closing around your nipple. His tongue moved in slow circles, his teeth scraping the sensitive skin. You arched your back, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling harder.

His green eyes travelled your body slowly, from your face to your neck, from your neck to your breast, from your breast to your thighs. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling.

"Rise," he commanded. "And kneel."

You slid from the bed with your gown torn, your breasts bared, your knees finding the woolen carpet, the submissive pose that left him fucking aroused.

He walked around you, and his hand found your hair again, his fingers winding through the silver strands, pulling your head back.

"You are so beautiful like this," he murmured.

His free hand found your chin, his fingers gripping with possessive strength. His green eyes were fixed on yours, dark, hungry.

Ormund said nothing, only tightened his grip on your chin, his mouth opening slightly; his thumb slid across your lower lip and you tasted his skin.

The hand in your hair pulled, tilting your head back further, baring your neck. His other hand slid from your chin to your throat, his fingers pressing lightly against your racing pulse.

You felt his hardness brush your face, the wet tip sliding against your cheek. The hand in your hair guided your head, moving it slowly, his hardness sliding across your skin.

His thumb pressed your lower lip again, forcing your mouth open. You felt the tip of his hardness touch your lips, and again the hand in your hair pulled back, drawing you away. You felt the emptiness, the absence, the promise denied.

His hardness slid across your face again, your cheek, your chin, your lips. The hand in your hair guided each movement, possessive, controlling. Each time your mouth opened, he drew back, and each time you tried to reach him, he pulled away.

The wet tip slid across your lower lip, leaving a trail of moisture. You tasted him, salty and warm, and tried to lean forward, but the hand in your hair tightened and the hand on your throat slid down, finding your breast.

The hand in your hair pulled you forward, your face pressed against his belly. You felt his warm skin against your cheek, the muscles contracting beneath your lips, and your mouth opened, your lips finding his skin, kissing, biting.

The hand in your hair tightened, pulling you back. His hardness slid across your face again, but did not enter, only brushed, teased and denied.

It touched your mouth again with the head, and you tried to lean forward, but the hand in your hair held firm, keeping you still. His hardness slid across your lower lip, across your cheek, across your chin, leaving a trail of seed in every inch. You opened your mouth, your tongue sliding out, you tasted him and finally — finally — it entered.

The tip of his hardness slid between your lips, and you felt the heat, the hardness, the salty and masculine taste of him. Your tongue moved around him, licking, tasting, and the hand in your hair guided your movement back and forth, but then, something changed and his hand released your hair.

His fingers slipped through the silver strands, sliding to the back of your head, down your nape, tracing the curve of your spine, and the hand that held your chin released as well, his fingers sliding to the side of your face, his palm finding your cheek. His fingers spread, covering your skin, his thumb tracing the red mark he had left.

His touch was even more possessive, even more controlling; the hand on your nape pulled you up, and his hardness slid from your mouth with a wet sound. You felt his hand on your chin, raising your face, and then his lips found yours.

His mouth opened against yours, his lips pressing hard, sliding inside, finding yours, and the kiss was deep, hot, possessive. He kissed you as though he were starving, as though every second without your lips was an eternity.

Ormund's hand on your face slid to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, but they did not pull, only held, keeping you there, trapped against his mouth. His other hand found your waist, pulling you up, your bodies pressing together.

The kiss was hungry, possessive, and you felt his hand tighten on your waist, his fingers closing on your flesh, pulling you against his hot hardness.

His mouth drew back for a second, only enough for him to breathe, and then returned with more intensity. His tongue found yours again, and he kissed you as though he wanted to swallow you whole, as though the very air you breathed belonged to him.

The hand on your waist slid down, finding the hem of your torn gown, his fingers closing on the fabric, pulling it up, baring your thighs. His hand found your bare skin, his fingers tracing the inside of your thigh, sliding up slowly.

The kiss deepened, and the hand on your head tightened, pulling you closer still. You felt his teeth bite your lower lip, the sharp pain mingling with pleasure, and you answered with the same intensity, biting back.

His hand found your centre, his fingers sliding through your wet slit. You were drenched from every kiss, every touch, every moment of possessiveness leaving you wetter still.

His fingers entered you, two at once, without hesitation. You gasped against his mouth, the sound muffled by the kiss that continued, and his fingers moved inside you, quick and deep, and you clung to his shoulders.

His mouth drew back, but only to descend to your neck. His lips found your skin, kissing, biting, sucking, and the hand on your head guided him, tilting your neck to the side, baring more skin for him to devour.

His mouth drew back from your neck, but only to find your lips again. Ormund's tongue slid against yours, making you tremble, and at the same time, his fingers were still inside you, moving slower, almost stopping, and you felt your climax begin to recede. A sound of frustration escaped your lips, muffled by the kiss, and he smiled against your mouth.

His hand withdrew slowly, his fingers sliding out of you, and you felt the emptiness, the loss, and tried to move towards him, but the hand on your head held firm, keeping you still.

His mouth drew back, and you saw the smile on his lips, slow, triumphant, sadistic.

"You want more?" he asked.

"Yes," you gasped.

"Then cry."

His eyes were fixed on yours, and he wanted to see you weep, wanted to see the tears fall as you begged for more.

"Cry for me," he repeated. "Show me how much you want me."

You felt the tears begin to gather from frustration and need. They ran down your cheeks, and he saw them.

"You are so beautiful when you cry," he murmured, his thumb tracing one of the tears and bringing it to his lips. "What do you wish to beg of me?"

"You." the word came out trembling, desperate. "I want you."

His hand found your face.

"You shall have me," he said.

His thumb slid across your lips, and you tasted the salt of your own tears, and his mouth found yours.

The hand on your nape tightened, pulling you closer, and his other hand slid to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair. The kiss deepened, his tongue found yours, and you tasted him, the taste of your own humiliation, and all of it mingled into a pleasure that left you dizzy.

His mouth drew back, but only enough for him to whisper against your lips.

"You want to feel me?"

"Yes," you gasped.

"You want to feel all of me?"

"Yes."

His hand found your waist, pulling you up, and you felt his hardness press against your thigh. His mouth descended to your neck, his lips finding your skin, biting, sucking, and you felt the pain mingle with pleasure.

"You are so hot," he murmured against your skin.

He pushed you back, your body hitting the stone wall with a dull thud. The pain exploded in your back, but before you could groan, he was upon you, his body pressing yours against the wall, the heat of his skin burning through the fabric of your gown.

His hand found your thigh, his fingers closing on your flesh hard enough to leave marks. He lifted you, your back scraping against the stone, your legs opening around his hips.

His mouth descended to your neck, his teeth biting your sensitive skin, and his hand found your centre, his fingers sliding through your wet slit, and you arched your back against the wall, a moan escaping your lips.

His fingers entered you — two, then three — and you felt the stretch, the fullness, and they moved inside you, and you felt your climax begin to build.

"No," he commanded. "Not yet."

His hand withdrew, and you felt his hardness press against your entrance, the tip sliding through your wetness, teasing.

"Please," you begged.

"Please what?"

"Please fuck me, Ormund."

His free hand found your face, his fingers closing on your cheek, forcing you to look at him. His green eyes were dark, hungry, bordering on cruel.

"Look at me," he said. "Look at me whilst I enter you."

He penetrated you slowly, and you felt the hardness, the heat, the stretch, and your fingers closed on his shoulders, scratching his skin deeply. Your breath caught in your throat, your eyes fixed on his, and you saw the smile spread across his lips as he filled you completely.

"Ormund—" you gasped.

His mouth found yours, the kiss stealing the air from your lungs. His body began to move, slowly at first, and you felt your climax begin to grow until he drew back, letting his hardness slide out. You felt the emptiness, the loss, and tried to move towards him, but the hand on your hip held firm.

"No," he chided. "You won't come yet."

He pulled you from the wall, your body carried as though you weighed nothing. The bed was there, the sheets rumpled, and he threw you upon it, and you lay there, gasping, your torn gown open, your skin bared, and his eyes travelled your body slowly, from your breasts to your belly, from your thighs to your wet centre.

His hand found your breast, his fingers closing on your flesh, squeezing, and his mouth descended, his lips closing around your nipple. His tongue moved in slow circles, his teeth scraping, and you arched your back, your fingers tangling in his hair.

His mouth moved to your other breast, his lips kissing, biting, leaving red marks on your pale skin. You felt his teeth bite harder, the sharp pain mingling with pleasure, and you moaned against his skin.

His hand slid down, finding your wet centre, and his fingers entered again, and you felt your climax approach, the wave growing, and his fingers stopped.

His green eyes travelled over you again, contemplating your breasts marked by bites and scratches, your torn gown baring your skin, your wet and swollen centre between your thighs. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling, but he did not hurry.

Ormund watched you as a predator watches its prey.

You felt the tears run from the corners of your eyes with a need so overwhelming it hurt physically. They slid down your temples, wetting the sheets, and he saw them.

Ormund drew back, leaving a cold emptiness where the heat of his body had been. You felt his hand find your wrists, pulling them above your head, winding the black silk ribbon around them, tightening, binding.

"You won't move," he commanded. "You won't touch me. You won't touch yourself."

"Yes, my lord," you whispered.

His hand found your hip, pulling you to the edge of the bed; your feet touched the floor, your knees bending, and you felt his body move, his cock brushing your entrance. The head entered and withdrew, and he thrust so that the wet sound of your bodies might be heard.

"Do you want this?" he asked.

"Yes," you gasped. "Please."

"What do you want?"

"You," you said, your cunt pulsing with desire. "I want you inside me."

The head found the hole of your arse and he played at forcing the entrance, but drew back. You had been untouched in both holes for weeks past, until Ormund dealt you a slap and you dreamt of him fucking you and went after a knight to satisfy you.

He opened your cunt with his fingers and pressed his cock against it, granting a small pressure.

"Do you hate me?" he inquired, his jaw locking. "Do you look at me and feel hatred?"

"Yes," you answered slowly, glimpsing him so commanding. "I hate you."

"And why are you here?"

"Only a man with so much fury would fuck me decently," you relaxed your shoulders.

His hand found your face, his fingers pressing your cheek, forcing you to turn your head and look at him as he sank into you.

It was all at once, deep and brutal, you felt every inch, the stretching, the hardness, the heat. A cry escaped your lips, hoarse and uncontrolled, muffled by his hand that found your mouth, his fingers pressing against your lips.

"Quiet," he murmured against your ear. "You will be still."

You fell silent and his body began to move, each thrust deep and slow. Your hands fought to escape his grip and he slapped your face, seizing your jaw as he fucked you as though your cunt might win him the war.

Ormund had strength enough for you to feel the deep strokes, to hear the bed striking the wall, for him to grip your hip as though holding a saddle, as though you were something for him to mount.

He raised your legs, resting them upon his shoulder and your eyes rolled back when he withdrew and forced himself in all at once, striking deep, driving you mad; wetting his fingers, he stimulated your pearl and slapped it, tearing spasms from your body.

When you gasped, Ormund seized your waist and turned you onto your belly and raised your hips high, pressing your face into the mattress as he spread your legs. He drew back, and regarded you, your cunt drenched, open, only his, begging for him.

"Do you still think on what you came to ask me?" he inquired.

You saw his glimpse go to the table and take up the candlestick, playing with the flame without fear of burning himself.

"Yes," you answered.

He penetrated with two fingers, tearing a moan from you, and slowly, he dripped wax upon your buttocks, slapping hard after.

"Do you still want to go far away?" he asked, bringing his fingers to his lips and approving of your taste.

"Yes."

Ormund nodded, setting the candlestick aside and seizing your waist with one hand while with the other he circled your arse, pressing the head. You flinched and he gripped you firmly, holding you still.

"That is what you will receive as punishment."

He spat upon your arsehole and forced the head inside, you shuddered completely, whimpering, and he thrust his fingers into your cunt to wet them and lubricate his cock. Ormund pulled your head back and shoved his fingers into your mouth, managing to advance a little further.

"Do it," you begged, even though the pain made every part of your body scream. "Fill all my holes with your seed."

Ormund seized your breast and squeezed it painfully before sinking entirely into your arse and beginning to move without mercy as he looked down at you. Before you could beg, he turned you to face him and slapped you.

You pushed the pale hair from your face, feeling the slap burn upon your cheek and with tear-filled eyes you looked at him.

"I love you," you murmured, touching his chest and guiding him to lie upon the bed with calm. "But I am very angry."

You mounted him, leaning forward so your faces were close as he gripped your buttocks deeply and played at penetrating you with his fingers. Seizing his cock, you descended slowly, sitting upon the head and withdrawing, feeling a great urge to squirt, so when your head tilted back and you prepared for your peak, he gave you another slap.

"Your arse," he cursed, seizing your face and throwing you to the side of the bed. "First I will fill your mouth with my seed, and then the rest."

Ormund rose and laid you upon the bed on your back, with your head hanging over the edge. He pumped his cock, and struck your face with it before opening your mouth wide and thrusting it all the way in, listening to you choke and continuing. He seized your breasts and began to fuck your mouth as though it were your cunt, you drooled for more, tears falling and you thrust your fingers into yourself.

When he was near, Ormund raised his face to the air and let himself sink into your throat, and you felt the warm liquid spurt inside, running from the corners of your lips, and so he withdrew, pulling you up and kissing your lips.

"Now I want your cunt," he demanded.

And willingly you reclined against the headboard and spread your legs, Ormund appreciated you and you were certain that, if your cunt won the war for him, he would be the most insatiable man in the world.

He seized your knees, spreading your legs wider, and his lips found your cunt as though to devour it. He sucked, nibbled and thrust his tongue deep inside, then three fingers, and sucked you. You threw your head back, and he continued to suck you, testing your limit, tasting you, wanting to claim what was his by right.

"Four," he murmured. "Can you take it?"

You were not able to understand until he did it, until he turned you as though you weighed nothing, raised your hips and began to force the entrance of four fingers into your cunt. You flinched, but then relaxed and he tried again, and his fingers slid with difficulty, and at last they entered.

Ormund began to move fast, his fingers striking every sensitive spot; your eyes had rolled back so far that your body trembled and you lost consciousness, overcome by pleasure. He brought his mouth to your cunt and began to suck you as he fingered you; you moaned loudly, and perhaps all of Tumbleton was listening to the princess being fucked and opened by the untouchable man.

Ormund knew you were close, he laid you back upon the bed, spread your legs wide and began to finger you, and as though your body begged for more, an uncontrollable urge to squirt overcame you and your body exploded in a gush. Ormund drew his hand away and your body shuddered in spasms, exploding in jets of pleasure, soaking the bed and him in turn.

He gave you no time to recover, he seized you by the legs and sank his cock in, slapping your arse, squeezing your breasts without tenderness, and at last slapping your face as he fucked you, gripping your jaw.

"Every day you will belong to me," he repeated, his voice a growl against your ear. "And you will give your cunt to me in thanks for keeping your brother safe."

"Yes, my lord," you answered, your voice trembling, your eyes brimming with pleasure. "Yes, I will give it. Every day. Always."

The words seemed to feed something in him. His hips quickened, each movement deeper and more brutal than any you had witnessed, and so you felt the orgasm approach like a wave, growing, growing, and this time, you did not need permission, your body simply surrendered.

The bed creaked beneath the weight of you both, the sheets crumpling in waves of white linen as Ormund fucked you with a fury that seemed to come from some very deep place within him. Each thrust, each tightening of his fingers upon your flesh was as though it were his right. You felt every inch of him, the hardness, the heat, the way he filled you completely, as though your body had been made to receive him.

"Ormund—" you moaned, the name escaping your lips like a cry.

The orgasm exploded like a storm, your body arching against his, your fingers clenching in the sheets. You felt the pleasure spread like waves of heat, every muscle contracting around him, squeezing, begging for more.

His body continued to move against yours, each thrust prolonging the pleasure, carrying you to a second orgasm that left you breathless. You felt the tension in him, his heavy breathing, his fingers closing on your hips.

"I will fill you," he murmured, his voice hoarse, trembling. "I will fill you with my seed. You will take it all, you will keep it inside you."

The tension in him crested, and you felt the warmth spread inside you, as though he were pouring out all he had, every drop of desire and possession and need he felt for you. His body trembled against yours, his fingers gripping your hips with an almost painful force, and you felt every pulse, every wave of warmth filling you.

His body drew back slowly, the absence leaving an emptiness; he rose, his body still panting, and his hand found the emerald robe, donning it unhurriedly. You lay there, your body still trembling, his marks upon your skin, your legs barely able to move.

His hand found your face with a possessiveness that made your heart race. His fingers closed upon your cheek, his thumb tracing the red mark he had left, the skin still warm from the slap.

"You will stay here," he said. "You will rest."

His fingers tightened on your face with more force.

"You are mine," he continued. "And I will never let you go."

His lips found yours and his hand released your face slowly, his fingers tracing the line of your cheek before falling.

He turned and walked towards the door.

"I will return later," he said, without looking back.

“Rhaenyra may have taken the city,” you said, “but that does not mean the city is hers.” You were straddling his waist as he continued to place kisses on your neck. Ormund’s lips lingered against your skin.

“No?” You could tell he was kind of listening.

“No.”

Ormund looked up at you. “And here I thought you meant to speak of something less grim tonight.”

“You married poorly, then.” You rolled your eyes.

“I married you.” He clarified. He went back to your neck. You felt his smile against your it.

You ignored him. “The Gold Cloaks are the matter.”

That earned his attention. Ormund lifted his head again. “Daemon’s men.”

“They served him before they served her. They know the streets of King’s Landing better than any lord’s army ever could. They know the gates, the alleys, the watch posts. They know where men may come and go unseen.”

Ormund’s expression grew thoughtful. “And you think they are Rhaenyra’s strength.”

“I know they are.” You spoke. You adjusted yourself on his lap. “I want them dead.” There was no hesitation in the words.

Ormund’s brows rose slightly. “All of them?”

“No,” His gaze sharpened. You continued.“Kill enough that the rest begin to fear for their own skins.”

Ormund was silent. You could see that he was considering it.

“Men will fight for a king,” you said, “and men will fight for coin. Some will even fight for love of a cause. But how many will stand beneath Rhaenyra’s banners when they believe the next dagger may have their name upon it?”

Ormund’s mouth curved faintly. “You would make cowards of them.”

You placed your hand on his cheek and forced him to look into your eyes. “Think on it. A few Gold Cloaks are found dead. Their fellows are told it was the work of the queen’s enemies. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it was not. It matters little,” Ormund watched you carefully. “Then another handful and another soon after until every man in that golden cloak wonders whether he shall live to see the next moon.” You smiled without warmth. “That is when they begin to leave.”

Ormund’s eyes narrowed. “You think they would abandon Rhaenyra?”

You shifted closer towards him. Your lips almost touched. “I think most men will abandon anyone if remaining loyal means dying,” you finally placed a kiss on his lips. “They need only believe that their brothers are being picked off one by one. They will look at the man beside them and wonder whether he is next. They will sleep poorly. They will distrust every shadow. They will begin asking what loyalty to Rhaenyra has bought them besides a place beneath the grave.”

“And when they flee?” Ormund asked.

“Rhaenyra loses the men she needs to keep the city.” You replied.

Ormund considered the thought. Your voice remained calm.

“I want them dead.” There was no shock in Ormund’s face. You watched him carefully. “You said you would do whatever I asked.”

“I said I would.” Ormund confirmed.

“Would you kill for me?”

Ormund’s gaze settled upon you. “For you?” His hand closed gently around yours. “I would kill for far less.” You stared at him. He lifted your hand and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. “You need not question that.”

“Then hear me plainly. I want the Gold Cloaks dead.”

His thumb passed over your knuckles. Ormund looked at you for a long moment. Then he kissed your hand once more before settling his hands on your waist again. “Consider it done, my love.”

You studied him. “You do not even mean to argue?”

“I have argued with you before and I have discovered that you are often right.”

“Often you say?”

Ormund gripped your waist. “Do not grow vain.”You gave him a withering look. “I shall see what can be done.”

You pressed a kiss to his lips once more. “You do not think me cruel, husband?”

Ormund looked almost offended. “Cruel? You are my wife.”

“That does not answer me.” You frowned when he didn’t give you a straight answer.

“It answers everything.” He kissed your knuckles again.

A faint smile touched your lips. Outside, Tumbleton slept beneath the shadow of war. Inside, you were already thinking of King’s Landing, of gold cloaks disappearing from its streets, of frightened men looking over their shoulders. Mainly of the Gold Cloaks deciding that the queen’s cause was not worth their lives.