azula

“Lord Ormund,” you repeated, staring at your friend as if they grew a second head, “you can’t be serious?”

“We’ve all done it with no issue-” Floris Beesbury began, a sly smile on her face as she took in your shock at their decision. 

“Oh please,” you cut her off, scoffing, “lord Ormund is nothing like the lords each of you have stolen from.” You shook your head, scoffing more at the amused looks on your friends' faces. They had been playing this game for the last three moons; all the ladies of court had. It was simple, really; the ladies would take turns sneaking into some lord's or knight's room and stealing a small token. The other ladies would choose the man, and should you refuse, you would be punished. Though the punishment was little more than a humiliating dare, Rhae Bracken was made to run the length of the hall to her rooms naked; two men had seen her and had been courting her ever since, much to her dismay, and Mina Royce was dared to jump into the Blackwater. They were harmless dares, but dares you had little desire to do. Especially after the ghastly illness Mina had gotten after her swim. But if Ormund were the man they would make you steal from, suddenly a cough or unwanted male attention sounded much more preferable. You hated the man, his gaze was relentless and seemed to follow you in any room you were in. He was intense to say the least, and it unsettled you entirely. And if you were caught, he would no doubt demand a favour of you. He seemed to wrack them up; the number of men of court that seemed to owe the man a favour grew daily. And the lord had been here little more than a fortnight.

“Come now, it will be easy,”  your cousin, Alena, argued, giggling as you shook your head, “trust me, cousin, he will be out in the godswoods for the hunt, all the men will be. It should be easy to sneak in and out unseen.”

You sighed, looking at the gaggle of ladies that surrounded you. You were the last one left to do it, and you knew the dare they had in store would be worse than whatever favour Lord Ormund could muster. “Fine, but if I am caught, I am throwing us all under the wheelhouse,” you scoffed, trying to ignore the laughs of the ladies as you stormed off to your rooms. 

It had been surprisingly easy to sneak into the lord's room; his rooms weren't too far from yours, and it seemed whatever paranoia Maegor the Cruel had been under when he built the Red Keep led him to build a secret passageway connecting the guest chambers, yours and Ormund's included. Finding your way to his rooms had been easy enough, a torch in hand and one push of the wall, and you were in his rooms. A strong floral smell filled your nose as you entered, the room seemingly doused in the scent, no doubt protecting Ormund's nose from the vile odours of flea bottom. 

Pushing the wall into his rooms, your eyes locked with Ormund's desk. You paid little attention to the rest of the room, wanting to get in and out as quickly as possible. Lifting your skirts and tiptoing across the room, your hand reaching to snag his signet ring. 

“What are you doing, little fox?” you heard a voice ask, the drawl of it all too familiar, snapping your hand away from the signet ring, your eyes snapping to lord Ormund’s as he rose from his bathtub, in all his glory. “Hmm?” he asked, smirking as your eyes snapped to cock. 

“My lord!” you squeezed out, mentally kicking yourself for missing him. How you had walked into his rooms and not noticed the man naked and bathing evaded you both. “I did not think to find you here.”

“In my own chambers?” He tilted his head, walking towards you, making no effort to cover his nakedness. “And pray tell me, what did you think to find when sneaking into my chambers?” he drawled, his hand coming to grasp your chin and force your gaze to meet his. You swallowed roughly, fighting the blush that was threatening to rise to your cheeks. “Come now, Lady Florent, I want the truth of it.”

You closed your eyes, breathing deeply as you thought of some excuse. You had known this would happen; Lord Ormund rarely attended hunts, or anything that could dirty him. The man was obscenely clean, and if the scent of him now was any indication always smelt lovely, obsessively so. 

“I had hoped to leave you a token,” you found yourself saying, your hand racing to find the handkerchief in your dress pocket, hoping that would suffice as some excuse, that you would leave not owing Ormund any favours and he would send you off thinking you were some fanciful lady with a crush. 

Ormund smirked, tilting his head as he took  the handkerchief from you, his hand tracing your embroidered name with his thumb, “ A token?”

You nodded, blushing furiously as his eyes stayed locked on yours, as if waiting for you to crack and admit your true reasoning. “Yes, I was too nervous to give it to you in person,” you spoke, desperately thinking of a reason to be in his room, “and I had heard you would be at the hunt.” You saw Ormund shrivel his nose at the idea, no doubt the idea of  blood and animals irritating him, “and thought I would-”

“Sneak into my chambers and leave it for me?” Ormund taunted, a smile playing at his lips, still standing there unabashedly naked, “What a thoughtful little vixen you are.”

You swallowed, “vixen?” willing your usual confidence back into your voice.

“Yes, “ Ormund smirked, his eyes parsing your body, snagging on the neckline of your dress and, more specifically, the outline of your breasts. “You have an allure to you, my lady” he stepped closer to you. “Your eyes follow me in every room,” you fought a scoff. His eyes were the ones that always followed you, unsettling you to the point that your eyes always snapped to his in nerves. “You are hardly the nervous sort.”

“When it comes to you, my lord, I am,” you swallowed, forcing your eyes to meet him, cursing yourself for getting caught and cursing your friends even more. Hating that a silly crush was the excuse you chose and hating even more the fact that the sight of Ormund naked, so close and taunting you, did more to you than you cared to admit, even dare you to say, making this imaginary crush you had invented become a little true. Though you would scarcely admit that. 

 “I must say I am surprised,” he continued his assessment of you, “you have taunted me these past few weeks with your eyes, your dresses, and now you sneak into my rooms.” He stopped closer, his head dropping down, his hand moving to your chin, forcing your face to meet his. “And yet you feign nerves still.” 

“I do not feign anything, my lord.”

“No?” he moved his face closer to yours, his grip on your chin bringing your lips so close you were almost kissing. “I think you do,” he smirked as he watched you swallow. “Tell me, vixen, why are you really in my room?”

Your eyes locked to his lips, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. “It's silly.” 

“I'm sure it is,” his own eyes were on your lips. “But if you were to tell me, I will forgive your trespassing.”

“Trespassing? My lord tis not my fault our chambers are connected I-”

“Oh, so now you simply wandered in now. Was your handkerchief a mere decoy?”

Fuck. You thought. Your face was now flushed entirely in embarrassment at being caught. 

“No, “ you insisted, shaking your head, hoping Ormund's gaze didn't waver from your lips. Your hand reached for his face, caressing his cheek, hoping he would believe your lie, “I did not mean to trespass, I only-” you were stuck in a lie you had little clue to get out of, and with Ormund's breath heavy on your lips, it was only making you more nervous, and your lie crumble. Your breath stuttered as Ormund's hand tightened on your chin, his breath now mingling with yours. 

“What's wrong, little fox? Can’t keep up with your own lie?” Ormund taunted, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you to him, your hips rubbing against his naked cock. 

You let out a pathetic little sound as he did so, finding yourself nodding your head at his words. He hummed approvingly at your nod, his hands caressing your sides. “Now be good and tell me why you're really in my chambers.”

 You let out another pathetic sound as you felt his cock grow hard, his grip on your sides sliding up to your breasts, not quite touching them, but feeling his hands on your sides was enough for your breath to grow heavy, your nipples to harden, and your wetness to gather between your legs. “It's silly,” you stuttered, your mind going blank as Ormund's thigh moved between your legs.

“Be good and tell me,” he commanded, his thigh moving slowly between your legs, relishing the sigh you let out at the movements.

“It was a game,” you breathed, your hips moving to meet his thigh. You leaned in closer, wanting his lips to meet yours. 

“A game?” he asked, his hands moving to your hips, helping you to grind against his thigh. “What game?” “The ladies of court,” you moaned, softly as you spoke, relishing the friction and pleasure Omrund was giving you, “they take turns and sneak into the lord's chambers, oh gods,” you moaned, feeling your peak approaching, “and steal a small token.” Omrund hummed at your words, not disapproving, causing you to stutter slightly as you continued to speak, “They dared me too… Gods, to sneak in here and take something small… I'm sorry,” you mewled, your hand reaching for his shoulders, for leverage as your hips worked hard to reach your peak. 

Omrund kissed his teeth, removing his thigh suddenly, leaving you high and dry as he stepped back from you, the ghost of his breath lingering on your lips. “No,” you sighed pathetically, your hands reaching for him as he walked away from you, “I'm sorry, really, I would have given it back.”

Ormund shook his head, a smile twitching at his lips, no doubt finding pleasure in your begging, your want to please him. And you, fuck, you wanted it. You wanted to please him. You wanted his eyes to follow you in every room. And gods, you loathed to admit it, but this man somehow, despite hating the very premise of him, found you desperate for his approval, desperate for his hands on yours, the pleasure he could give you. Desperate for him.

“Mayhaps,” Ormund spoke, “but that does not mean your actions and the intent of them should not go unpunished.”

“Punished?” you squeaked. You hadn't thought he would punish you, well, you had. But after he practically fucked you on his thigh. 

Ormund nodded. “You are lucky, I shall be lenient.” he walked- no, prowled back to you. “My little vixen,” he tusked, “trying to steal from me.” his eyes assessed you once more, taking in your flushed face, your hair that had somehow grown wild from the thrusts of your hips. He continued his prowl towards you, but just when you thought he’d touch you, he chose to sit. Still naked and still with the smug look on his face that you now wished to kiss. “I cannot let that go unpunished,” he tusked. “Bend over my lap,” he commanded. 

“What?” you asked, shocked. 

“Bend over my lap and lift your skirts,” he repeated, growing impatient.

You swallowed, walking over in nervous steps, your hands anxiously playing with your skirt as you walked over to Ormund's naked body. Nervously setting yourself over his lap, your skirts lifted above your waist. 

“Good,” he hummed approvingly, his hands smoothing over the span of your ass, kneading it softly. 

You moaned softly as he kneaded your ass, growing relaxed on his lap, just in time for Ormund's hand to lift from your ass and come down to slap it. You let out a yelp, not in pain but in sheer surprise. 

“I have decided to be lenient, I think ten should suffice. What do you say, my vixen?”

You nodded, rearranging yourself in his lap, your back arching and pressing itself to Ormund, a part of you entirely too eager to feel his hand on your arse again. 

“Words,”

“Yes, please, my lord,” you spoke, almost trushing the words, and loving the approving hum he gave you before his hand came down to strike your arse again. 

Eight more slaps, eight little whimpers and moans, and Ormund's impossible cock grew impossible hard beneath you, as you wriggled your boyd, your cunt growing wetter with each slap to your arse. “Ormund,” you moaned, as he kneelt your arse, his hand moving lower, towards your cunt, as his other hand soothed down your back. 

“You did well, vixen,” he hummed, loving how you wriggled your hips, his hand slipping to your cunt, at his words. “I believe I can forgive your intention.” his fingers reached for your clit, circling it softly as he continued to speak, “but you must assure me you will never do something so…silly again,” he spoke, using your own description of the game against you. And you, so eager to feel the pleasure he had denied you earlier, nodded. You had no desire to do this game to begin with, had known you would be caught, be punished, and yet you regretted nothing, not as one of his fingers continued to circle your clit, and his other began to push in your whole. Ormund groaned at the feel of your tight cunt and the pleasing moan you let out at his actions. 

“Words,” he tusked. 

“I promise, I'll never do anything silly again,” you pleaded, your hips wiggling to get him to fuck you with his fingers. “Please, please, I promise.”

Omrund let out a pleased sound, his fingers thrusting in and out of your cunt. “Good, good girl,” his fingers continued to fuck in and out of you, entrily too pleased with your words. 

Your peak washed over you quickly, a loud moan on your lips as you came. 

Ormund gave you little time to recover before his hands flew to your hips and he brought you to sit on his lap, your bare cunt meeting his cock. “Ormund,” you gasped, feeling his cock glide between your folds, your hands flying ot his shoulder for leverage. 

I'mm going to need more than your promise,” Ormund hummed, his hand squeezing your hips, his face impossible close to yours once again. 

“What? What do you need?” you asked, feeling entirely too pathetic and desperate. 

“I came here to find a wife,” Ormund hummed, his mouth pressing a kiss to your cheek. “And you… Lady Florent,” he pressed another kiss to your jaw, “you will be my wife,” he pressed a kiss to your neck, a long drawn-out kiss that had you falter entirely. 

“Your wife?” you repeated. “You want me to be your wife?”

“Don’t tell me you lied about your little crush,” he pressed more kisses along the column of your neck. 

You shook your head, “No.” Gods, why did you say that? Didn't you have a crush on him? No. You didn't even like him; you hated him. And yet here you were, sitting in his lap, desperate for his cock. Desperate to feel his gaze, the gaze you felt on him in every single room you met him in. 

“Good,” he hummed, “or else I would have had to punish you more.” his face met yours again, his breath mingling with yours. “And I’d hate to do that to you, vixen,” he gave you a mocking smile, his grip on your waist tightened, his cock probing your entrance. He pushed into you suddenly, your gasp stolen by his lips pressed onto yours, and pleasure filled you once more. Mayhaps stealing from him hadn't been an entirely mad idea, and perhaps you had been silly in your hatred of him. Or entirely right.

Ordinarily, Ormund would find an excuse to disappear into council meetings or the training yard, but today, he has retreated to your shared solar, seeking refuge from the endless procession of courtesies expected of him. 

The afternoon sun spills through the tall windows, casting a warm light across the room as your husband stands besides one of them, looking out over the Whispering Sound. Below the Hightower, the city bustles as it always has, blissfully ignorant of the royal chaos unfolding above their heads. 

Behind him, resting in a cradle near the hearth, sleeps the newest addition to House Targaryen—little Aegon, no larger than a bundle of blankets and somehow already the center of everyone’s attention. 

Ormund tears his gaze away from the harbor, and turns towards you, who has escaped the festivities only moments before. You sit in a chair next to Aegon’s cradle, rocking it slowly as you can’t tear your eyes off of him. 

“Tell me truthfully,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting into the faintest hint of amusement. “How much longer must we endure your sister’s court before Oldtown returns to its senses?”

He crosses the room, and reaches for the goblet of wine that rests on the table beside you. “I have spent the better part of the afternoon being lectured by maesters and your nephews alike about dragons. Another hour, and I may throw myself from the top of the Hightower.”

You still glance down at the sleeping babe, your lips softening into a smile that seems to belong only to him—so untouched by courts and politics, and the endless expectations placed upon noblemen and noblewomen. 

Being far too engrossed by the babe, you don’t notice how his expression softens as he looks at you, and much less how the sharpness in his voice fades in a way it rarely does around anyone else. “Though I suppose you have enjoyed having them here so far,” he says, studying you for a moment while he puts the goblet back down. “Your sister, your nephews… the babe.”

The words linger between you, carrying a meaning neither of you needs to speak aloud. Two summers of marriage, two summers of hopes raised and dashed, of whispered prayers and polite assurances from maesters. 

Ormund reaches for your hand, absentmindedly tracing his thumb across your knuckles. “You’ve been smiling all day.”

His touch is what seizes your attention, and you crane your neck to meet his gaze. “Mhm, your suffering has been truly heroic, husband,” you reply with a smile. “First dragons, then children, and now maesters discussing the same. I shall ask my father to have songs written of your endurance.” There is mischief hidden beneath the sweetness of your voice, though you deliver the jab with all the grace expected of a princess. 

You slip your hand from Ormund’s grasp to rise to your feet, leaning over the cradle to lift little Aegon from it. He is cradled against your chest, stirring only slightly with his tiny fingers curling around the neckline of your gown as you rock him absentmindedly. 

“I enjoy having them here,” you admit quietly, your eyes never leaving the child. “It reminds me of the Red Keep when we were younger. Before everything became so… complicated.”

The laughter from the courtyard drifts through the open windows, and for a moment, you stand there, bathing in the afternoon light with an expression your husband has come to recognize all too well—the look that always carries hope, no matter how many disappointments have come before it. 

Behind you, Ormund says nothing. You just hear his footsteps cross the floor, and a moment later, his presence settles at your back. He’s close enough for the warmth of him to reach your shoulders, close enough for his breath to fan across your skin, and close enough that you can feel his gaze linger on the babe nestled in your arms. 

You sigh softly. “He is beautiful, isn’t he?”

Aegon’s other tiny hand has escaped the blanket, curled loosely around your fingers. You smile at the sigh, and brush your thumb over his knuckles. 

“He has your sister’s nose,” Ormund murmurs softly, not looking away from Aegon. “Poor thing.”

But the joke fades into the quiet between you, and by the tenderness in his voice it’s evident he’s just as mesmerized by Aegon as you. 

Ormund’s chin hovers near your temple. His silence seems deeper now, more thoughtful. He has spent his entire life studying people—the subtle shifts in their expressions during council meetings, the tension in a knight’s shoulders before a tournament, the exhaustion hidden behind polite smiles. 

And lately, there have been changes in you. 

It’s been little things; the mornings you linger in bed longer than usual, or the evenings you grow tired before supper has been served, the way your gowns sit slightly differently upon your frame. Changes so subtle, that anyone else might have missed them entirely. 

But Ormund has never been anyone else when it comes to you. 

There even is something different about the familiar scent of lavender and sea air that clings to you—a sweetness beneath it that he can’t quite place, something new and strangely familiar all at once. 

“You have been strangely quiet this afternoon,” you murmur, a smile tugging at your lips as you turn your head just enough to glance back at him. “Should I be concerned?”

He remains silent.

Then, slowly, his hand comes up to rest against the windowsill beside you, caging you in without intention with his gaze fixed on the curve of your neck. Beyond the windows, the bells of Oldtown ring in the distance, mingling with the cries of gulls drifting in from the harbor below. 

“You’ve changed your perfume,” he mutters, almost in disbelief. 

You let out a soft laugh. “I have not.”

“No.” His brow furrows slightly. “No, I suppose you haven’t.”

He turns his head just enough to look at you properly now, his eyes tracing the curve of your cheek, the silver strands that have fallen loose from your braid and the shadows beneath your eyes that have become more pronounced these last weeks. 

“You’ve been sleeping later,” he points out. 

But you are quick to object: “I have guests to entertain.”

“You hardly touched your supper three nights ago.”

“I was tired.”

“And yesterday morning, you nearly sent the maids into hysterics when you fled the table.”

Blinking slowly, it’s evident you’re caught somewhere between amusement and confusion. “My lord, are you keeping an inventory of my habits?”

“I keep an inventory of everything,” he replies matter-of-factly, and adds more softly: “especially yours.”

Heat rises to your cheeks. You look back down at Aegon, carefully tucking the blanket beneath his tiny chin. “And what conclusion has Lord Hightower reached after this thorough investigation?”

Ormund’s gaze has fallen onto the child in your arms again, studying the slight part of his lips and the faint flush on his cheeks, before your eyes meet once more. “I don’t know yet.”

It’s perhaps the most honest thing you have ever heard him say. 

His composure seems to crack, if only slightly. His hand leaves the windowsill, and hesitates before it sets carefully at your waist. 

“You've been different.” The words are barely louder than a whisper, almost as if he’s suddenly too afraid to wake the sleeping child in your arms. “And before you accuse me of imagining things—as I know you are about to—I would like to point out that I have spent more than two summers watching you more closely than I’ve watched anyone else in this world.”

The silence between you stretches long enough that you almost look away again, until he very slowly lowers his head towards yours; not to kiss you, gods be good, not even to speak to you.  

He simply breathes you in. 

Now that he is this close, your scent suddenly is unmistakable. It’s still mostly lavender and the sea salt from the harbor breeze that drifts through the open windows, but beneath it is something softer, warmer, honeyed. 

His hand comes to rest lightly against your belly, and you feel the hesitation in him, the rare uncertainty that almost never surfaces beyond the privacy of your chambers. And with his hand now splayed over your stomach, his words echo within your own thoughts. You weigh them carefully, and begin to gather the scattered pieces you have ignored for days.

“Ormund…”

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he murmurs, almost afraid of the answer. “Tell me this is merely another one of my absurd conclusions.” But even as he says it, his gaze drifts to his hand on your stomach and to the life he is beginning, against all reason, to suspect you carry. 

“You smell different,” he continues.

It prompts you to laugh softly, because although the possibility might be there, you remember the days after the last disappointment. You have memorized them with such careful precision, as though the recollection of them alone might protect your heart from breaking again. 

“That–That is a remarkably romantic thing to say to your wife,” you say, “but we have been wrong before.”

His thumb barely moves against the fabric of your belly, while the rest of him remains still. “I mean it.”

The amusement fades from your expression, and you turn a little more in his arms to search his face. “You are frightening me,” you admit. 

Ormund looks down at the sleeping child and then back to you. There’s not the hint of the usually stern, perhaps even arrogant, mask he wears around court, no, there’s only a man that stands too close to a dream he has taught himself not to trust. 

And that’s what frightens you most. It’s not the possibility itself, but the look in his eyes. You have seen people around you wearing hope before—the maesters delivering remedies, the septas offering prayers, some ladies speaking kindly after another moon’s disappointment. Their hope has always felt light enough to brush aside, but his does not. It settles heavily in your chest. 

You can feel your throat tighten at the sight. “Don’t,” you whisper, the plea escaping your lips before you can stop it. “Don’t look at me like that unless you are prepared to be wrong.”

A part of you wants him to laugh gently and tell you he is imagining things, that this is only another false alarm, a passing fancy born by seeing the babe in your arms, because that would be much easier and safer. 

But he doesn’t laugh. 

“My love,” he says quietly, a name you hardly hear him say. “If I am wrong, I will grieve it with you. But I would rather stand here hoping beside you than spend another summer pretending I do not.”

The words undo something in you, not having realized how lonely your fear has become until this moment. You close your eyes briefly, leaning into the hand that rests against your stomach, and feel him step closer until the warmth of him surrounds you completely. 

For the first time, you allow yourself to think the forbidden thought without immediately pushing it away. What if?

The question is so small, yet it fills your entire chest. 

Aegon stirs softly in your arms, and you both look down at him at the same time. 

When you lift your eyes again, they immediately find Ormund’s, watching you with the same tenderness again as though he is waiting for you to decide whether the dream is allowed to exist or not.

It was a pleasant day : a gentle breeze cooled your skin whenever the suns ray lingered too long upon it , and the familiar scent of old book it carried had comforted you since childhood.

Yet, the day's serenity felt almost cruel.

The weathers seems to mock you, just as it's mocking every wife whose husband is about to march beneath the banner of house Hightower. For all the solace it offered, the wind could not blow away the simple truth that had arrived at the great door of the beacon.

They would depart at the first light. They were going to war, and for what ? To put an incompetent brat on the throne, all because he shared some vague kinship with your husband.

The sheer stupidity of this whole charade infuriates you. It’s nothing short of disgraceful for your house. It’s beneath Oldtown and everything it has to offer. Yet your husband seems not to care in the slightest. He claims it’s his duty, but you know better.

You spent years of your life by his side. Years sharing his bed, bearing his children. Years trying to understand how his mind works, what drives him. Years deciphering each of his little habits, in the hope of uncovering the secrets his mouth refused to reveal.

So, you know that he cares little for duty, at least as far as the crown is concerned, and even less so when it is supposed to be represented by his nephew. You realised, the moment he announced that he would set out with his men to support Ageon, that it was not duty that motivated him, but ambition.

He was prepared to risk his own life, Daeron’s, and the lives of all his men, just to have some hightower blood seated on the iron throne.

He would deny your children their father, as well as their brother for him to decide who would next warm that ugly chair. For despite all the dragon’s blood that flowed through his veins, Daeron was your son just as much as your true-born children.

You even considered him your eldest, as he was sent to Oldtown when you had only just been granted the title of Lady of House Hightower, long before you bore Ormund a child.

You learnt to be a mother through him. You learnt the right way to discipline a young child, as well as to reward them, through him. You learnt how to nurse a child back to health, just as you learnt how to comfort one thanks to him. Although you know that this journey was not without its mistakes, you know that Daeron, kind as he is, forgave you for those mistakes and probably forgot most of them.

It pains you to admit it, but he certainly didn’t inherit that trait from you, as it most likely stems from his true father, the late King Viserys, for you would never forget the torment Ormund is about to inflict on your family. On your growing family, no less. Tough he knew nothing of that. He had been far too occupied weaving his own scheemes to notice that your fourth child had begun to grow within your womb.

That revelation, combined with the knowledge that he was soon to leave for war, had prompted you to leave the marital bed. At first, he had protested, but when he brought up the matter over supper a week later, the icy look you fixed upon him made him drop the question altogether.

However, he prefered to claim that he needed peace and quiet to consider his next move, but you both knew it was an excuse.

He could have demanded your presence, of course. Any septon would agree that it was his right as your lord and husband. Yet he would insist that such a thing was beneath him and unworthy of a lady born to a noble house like yours. His way of saying he respected you too much to inflict such a thing upon you.

He would never speak of love, and neither would you.

What bound you together is different, but no less solid. Mutual respect first formed its fundation. Upon them rose the wall of understanding and intimate knowledge ot each other qualities, flaws and hidden truths, learnt over the years. And at it summit, lay trust and loyality : absolute and unconditional.

So, finding you sitting on his desk, doing gods knows what with his pomander, was surprising to say the least. He had expected your resentment to linger far longer. Two months of silence is far too short a time for you.

" Wife." he calls once he had enough of you ignoring his presence in the room.

" Husband." you echo.

Only owhen you were sure the pomander was properly sealed did you look at him.

" What brings you here ?" he asks

" I was under the impression these were my chambers. Unless I am mistaken I gave birth to three of your sons in that very bed."

"That is not what I asked."

" This is the only answer you will get from me."

You study each other in silence for a long moment, him standing motionless in the middle of the room, you sitting down witht the pomander turning slowly betwen your fingers.

" I would prefer you did not send me away in silence." he says, his low voice breaking the silence." It is a poor thing to carry on the road."

" And what would you have me do ?" you ask." Pretend I agree with this folly ?"

A faint tightening of his jaw signaled you of his rising irritation.

"Yes." he answers. "You are my wife." he adds as tough that should settle it.

"Yes." you agree. " That I am."

" And as such I would have you not question my decisions as if I have not already made them with all the care i am capable of."

" Then you would have me be dishonest to your face, husband. That goes against the vows I made before the High Septon." You tilt your head in that condescending way you know he detests." You would not have me lie before the gods, would you ?"

He rushes closer, seize the chair before the desk and drag it across the floor, the screech of the legs against the wooden floor makes you wince. For a moment, you thought the wood was going to split under the force of his movement.

Another outbrust. Typical of him when events do not go the way he wants them to. He then sits and leans forward over the desk, forearms resting on it.

"Then be my guest." a restrained smile plays at the corner of his mouth "Share your thoughts with me, dear wife. I have been dying to hear them for the past two months."

"I think you have acted as you always do." you begin confidently " With more concern for how history will remember your name than for what it will cost you"

You drop your hand to the wooden desk, and the silver ball clatters against it . "To what it would cost us."

He rubs a hand over his mouth in frustration before answering.

"You know why this must be done"

"I know you want me to believe that." you reply, " You only want to put Aegon on the throne because the idea of Hightower ruling over the seven kingdom flatter you."

"That is true." he admits, " But is also because it is the only way to spare the realm from the rule of a savage race like the Targaryen."

" By seating another white-haired brat one the throne ?"

" By putting a Hightower on the throne"

A dry laugh escapes you, loud enough for him to not miss your obvious contempt.

"Aegon is the furtherest thing from a Hightower."

" Daeron is."

The sound of his name as it rolls off his tongue makes your blood run cold.

"Born and raised a Hightower."

You stand up so abruptly that your chair nearly tips over.

" Don't you dare bring him into this." you threaten while he remains comfortably seated.

"I have already accepted that you are taking him and Tesarion with you. you say, voice hardening." Do not test the limits of my patience."

You round the desk until you stand over him, one hand gripping the carved arm of his chair.

" Do not cross me, Ormund. I could always ask my father to take back the men he has lent you. You should consider fortunate that I have shown more support than this schemes deserves."

He raises an eyebrow at you.

"What you ought to do is stop fighting me on the matter. This is the best course for the realm."

You exhale slowly in a vain attempt to steady yourself before you settle your hands on his broad shoulder.

" Do not take me for an idiot. You do not care for the realm Ormund." you state, not as an accusation but merely a fact.

"And neither do I."

You hand slide from his shoulder to the side of his neck, finally resting again his jaw. His own hands rest on your hips.

" I have always known you to be an abitious man. If you are determined to set the realm ablaze and kill half our men to place Aegon on the throne, then so be it."

Your fingers tightened against his jaw, forcng him to hold your gaze.

" All I want is for my husband and son to remember where their rightful place is. Beside me."

You take his one of his hand and place it on your stomach.

"Beside their family."

His eyes immediately fall to where his hand rests under yours, where he feels the slight swell beneath your emerald dress. His shoulders, so tense just a few moments ago, relax as he pulls you toward him until you find yourself straddling his lap.

" I suppos this is an excellent reason to conclude this matter quickly." his thumb traces a slow circle against you stomach. " You have kept quite an argument in reserve."

" So our sons and I are no reason enough ? " you ask, arching a brow in offense.

" Of course you are." He takes your hand and place a kiss on your palm. " I just find myself eager to meet our next son."

"No."

His brow furrows. "No ?"

"No more boys." You fold your arms." I am surronded by them. This one is for me. This one is a girl."

A faint smile spreads on his lips.

" That is for the Seven to decide" he replies with quiet amusement.

" I am the one doing all the work. I think the Mother might indulge me this once."

You glance at his hand resting over your belly.

"Tough, as long as they have their father to greet them when they are born, I suppose I won't be too particular."

"They will."

His response is marked by the confidence that characterizes him.

" And once I am done with Rhaenyra and her brood of bastards, I will come back and put another child in you."

" Gods preseves me."

He leans back, brimming with confidence as his gaze rests on your figure.

" Brace yourself. It should not be long. Only a fool would believe she posses the mind to wage a war."

“What I believe,” you interrupt him, “is that you have your wife sitting on your lap on the eve of your departure, and yet you’re insistent on discussing battle plans.”

You brush a strand of hair from his forehead with the back of your hand.

“I know you can’t make me any more pregnant than I already am, Ormund, but I’m sure we can still work something out, can’t we?”

" So you leave our bed for two months and you expect me to give in to your desires so easily?”

Yet even as he speaks these words, his hands slip under your skirt to rest on your thigh, warm and soft in his palms.

“You can refuse, of course, but you’d only be depriving yourself of what you’ve been longing for these past two months.” you reply.

He hums, slowly kneading the fat of you thigh as if it helps him concentrate.

“I suppose so. But I can't just let your tantrum slide that easily.”

“It wasn't a tantrum.”

“Yes, it was,” he interrupts sharply, his fingernails digging into your skin. “But unlike you, I’m a devoted husband, and I’m all about forgiveness.”

He then leans in toward your neck to plant kiss on your bare skin.

"So if my wife is so eager to have my cock then I won't deny her. After all, I cannot really blame you for your past actions. Such behaviour is typical of pregnant women.”

His touch, which had been gentle until then, suddenly grew heavier. Harsher.

" But I have no intention of making it easy for you. If you desire your husband cock so much, wife, I expect you to work for the privilege."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes at his theatrics and remarks. On any other day you would have left him there, but even for you two months was a long time.

You keep your colorful remarks to yourself this time so you can press your lips against his in a messy, slobbering mix of tongue and teeth. At least that would shut him up.

You stifle a soft moan as you begin to rub yourself against him. You dig your nails into his doublet for support, so you can deliberately rub your growing wetness along his clothed cock.

He allowed only a grunt to escape his mouth as his head tilted back against the back of the chair, his gaze fixed on you with unwavering attention. As composed as ever.

However you make it your purpose to tear down the façade he stubbornly maintains, it begins to crumble when you grab him through his trousers and his chest heaves as he holds his breath in surprise.

" You fucking minx." he growls

You ignore the insult and instead place your palm on his hardening cock, feeling through the fabric the effect your touch has on him as you begin to jerk him at a slow, measured pace . The one you know he despises.

He grab you wrist in his hand, stopping the slow torture.

“You’ve tested my patience enough over the last few weeks." he growls through clenched teeth." So stop fucking playing with me."

You suppress the triumphant smile that threatens to spread across your face and, instead, quickly reach for his trousers and pull them down to his knees. The sight before you makes your mouth water, his cock lies heavy against his stomach, red and dripping, just for you.

Truth be told, you don’t have much patience left yourself, but you still take the time to rub yourself on his cock a little more, taking care to spread your slick along its entire length, from the base to the tip, before taking it in your hand to guide it towards your drooling cunt.

You wrap your arms around the back of his neck whilst his circle your waist and he buries his face in your neck, where you can already feel his mouth busy leaving its mark.

You lower yourself slowly onto him, pausing for a moment when only the head of his member is inside you, before sliding down in one swift movement all the way to the hilt. Its thickness fills you completely, and the sensation of being stretched as you take him in right down to the base is so ecstatic that you cry out his name in a trembling moan.

You start off gently, your hips thrusting down with purpose, your cunt clenching around him every time you take him all the way in and swirl your hips to hit that sensitive spot inside you, before rising up again with a loud squelching sound.

Every thrust makes his trousers a little more messy, his breath shorter and warmer against the skin of you neck and your forehead a little more glistening with sweat. The pleasure of clothed sex.

Although the weighty fabric of your dress makes it difficult to pick up the pace, you start riding properly, finding a rhythm that steals both of your breaths away, yet drives you to moan the other name.

The pleasure is irresistible,the tension building inside you is overwhelming. It makes you squirm and cry out, whilst you lose yourself completely to his cock throbbing inside you with every thrust. The tension and the burning sensation in your thighs make it all the more unbearable.

He takes over, his hips pressing relentlessly against you as he feels your walls flutter around his cock, his movements pause for a moment, then resume in jerks as your orgasm overwhelms you, whilst he strives to reach his own.

" I’ll fill you up again if it’s a boy, do you hear me?" he rasps with effort, his thrusts so powerful that the chair begins to creak under the pressure. " I’ll do it again and again until you have the daughter you wish for."

He then follows after you with two more thrusts, shooting thick streams of cum deep inside your womb, emptying himself completely, as if he wanted to make absolutely sure you knew he’d keep his word.

You lay there in his arms, drenched in sweat, your clothes clinging to your skin as his warm semen remain deep within you. You remained silent until you heard him chuckle softly, a deep, hoarse laugh.

"What a devoted husband I make, don’t I?"

You do not dispute him. You find you have neither the heart nor the desire to argue with him.

It had not even been a day since he had left Oldtown, and Ormund was already missing the comforts of the city, which had given way to dust, sweat and the acrid smell of men and horses on the march.

A gust of wind swept past the marching column, carrying that foul smell away with it. His hand rested on the pomander hanging from his belt. This gesture had become a habit from his childhood.

Ormund pressed his lips together before he slipped the silver sphere beneath his cloak and held it to his nose.

Orange blossom and lavender.

The scent spread gently, cutting through the dust and sweat of the road.

So that was what you’d been busy doing the night before, when he’d caught you twirling the little silver sphere between your fingers tough he hadn’t paid any attention to it at the time.

He took another slow breath, letting the scent linger.

It smelled like home, or rather, it smelled like you.

Now that I've written for that good-for-nothing and finally satisfied my urge to do so ( Can't believe I wasted the four first days of my vacations writing for him ) I'm going to return to my glorious Storm King : Lyonel Baratheon.

A smattering of candles light on the table of the dining hall of the Tumbleton seat illuminated the three men eating their supper in relative silence for some time, wine having not been spilt by the cupbearer and even the Lord of House Hightower was not all too bothered by the faint scent of a dragon in the otherwise well-scented room:spices, lavender, leather and a soft musk.

"Remember the second born of Viserys?" Lord Ormund Hightower asked his cousin Ser Gwayne over dinner on the 10th night since the battered and forlorn arrival of said knight at Tumbleton. "Princess Alysanne, named after the Good Queen herself? Dragonless and boyish?"

Gwayne's head perked up a nail at the name and descriptors, but not enough to satisfy his cousin. He was intent on not goading Ormund or playing to his teasing tunes. Daeron silently prodded at his carrots on his plate with his fork, knowing stillness would bring the least attention to him.

"Your betrothed wasn't she?" Ormund plopped a piece of seasoned corn into his mouth with a certain flair when he was needling his honourable cousin. "And left you at the altar of the sept, if I remember. Probably knew of your proclivities for-"

"What has she got to do with any of this, Ormund?" Gwayne asked making Ormund look far to pleased with himself and Gwayne regretted cutting in. "The betrothal was called off. Her whereabouts have been unknown for… for many years."

"Yes, until now. A fortunate thing that there have been whispers of a sword-wielding maiden in Lys, with the darker colouring and scruffier appearance associated with your dear princess. Whispers that have been longing to be heard, I'm sure." Ormund paused to soothe his throat with a sip of sweet wine. The Tumbleton cellar had nothing on the Hightower, certainly. "And when Daeron will sit the Iron Throne once we've defeated the bitch queen, he will need a Queen. Whom better than the cunt's sister, who has so long been away from court no one would rally behind her claim over his?"

Gwayne could not hold back the not so subtle rising of his brows, setting down his cutlery his grip having grown too tight. Looking from Ormund to Daeron, who remains still as a statue, eyes downcast on the vegetable on his ceramic plate, toying with a sprout. It took a specific type of audacity from Ormund to admit such a scheme aloud and not keep it to himself until a proper time. In the earshot of Daeron, whom he was not pretending to play puppetmaster with. To so openly speak of a victory that seemed to distant and dreamlike to Gwayne (and any sane person who heard of such plans).

"He is but six and ten, while she is…" He had to confess to not knowing how old the woman who had been his former betrothed would be, since it had been a blip in his life when he was, though not so miserable that he would bare him any ill will that Ormund must've had in store for her. "… much older than him. And as you said, she is far away. How do you propose to retrieve her, based purely on whispers of where she might be?"

"You will bring her here, dear cousin." Taking another reprieve of wine. "And Daeron will join you. The time is ripe for the king to wet his wick, Lys is an appropriate a place as any for that. A relatively harmless excursion, a reprieve from the fight for you, cousin. A piece on the board for us and will strengthen Daeron's claim."

"What of Tessarion?" Daeron manages to gather enough confidence to raise his eyes and ask Ormund. He knew the Blue Queen could not saddle two, let alone three, and they would be seen from leagues away no matter how discreetly she flew.

"That beast will remain here to guard us from the queen of bastards and await your return."

"Might we discuss-" Gwayne begun, hoping to smooth over this inane idea of his cousin's.

"There is nothing to discuss. You two will leave tomorrow during the hour of the owl, ride hard to King's Landing -" King's Landing! Gwayne wished to interrupt again, but Ormund went on. " - A ship leaves from the port in three days time, I've secured passage for you two. You will be on it and on your way. It is a months journey, we shall not waste time for these whispers to reach the bitch queen and her dragonriders to go find her themselves. Now, eat and then to bed. Wash before, Daeron, you reek of dragon."

And that was that, Gwayne understood. Ormund would remain, intent on paving the mad way for Daeron to the throne while he and Daeron would be sent to a pleasure island in search of a lost princess, who had shown no sign of wanting to be found.

--

Written by a human in Ellipsus, h-l-vlovesvintage ©

do not copy, reupload, translate or feed to artificial intelligence.