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“Sire. Sire, please!”

You had followed Ormund all the way to his bedchamber. Inside of it, his manservants awaited him, two of which held the room’s oaken doors wide open to receive their lord. Ormund Hightower’s feet carried him through the entrance swiftly.

“Out!” He screamed at his manservants. “All of you!”

Ormund’s fingers busied themselves with massaging his temples as his servants left, one by one, in wordless fashion. The men rushed past your idle figure; when the last man had gone, you stood alone at the foot of Ormund’s door, wondering where your courage had gone. The door was creaking quickly to a close in front of you when you finally gathered your bearings; placing a hand on the wood, you pushed the door forward.

“Sire..”

His back was to you. You stood, staring at Ormund’s silhouette, and in the dim candlelight of the room, you took a step forward, gently shutting the door behind you.

“I understand. If you’re angry.” You started warily, fearful of his ire. “But truly, I-I didn’t mean..I-I wasn’t trying to-“

It was then that Ormund turned to face you. The sparseness of the candles and the dimness of the setting sun made a flickering, vague shadow of him, but you could still discern the finger that he put up, towards you. Immediately, you went silent.

Ormund took in a breath, sucking the air in through his nostrils. Your eyes grew in their anxiousness as he began to walk in your direction.

You hadn’t once been inside of his bedchamber, and standing within it now, you felt as though you’d crossed some sort of line. Ormund was your older relative, your sire, the man who’d raised you in the faith of the seven throughout your youth. Where you had no present mother or father, Ormund had stepped in as a sort of substitute. Ever critical and perfecting, he’d hung over your life as a guiding force, but in his bedchamber, you saw the man that he was beyond that—the enigma of a man who walked over to you now, a tense cadence to his pace; the man whose very footsteps sent jolts of fear shooting through your body.

When he stood a few feet’s distance from you, Ormund spent a moment studying you in silence. His heavy and strained breaths rippled through his chest, his sighs being the only other noise amidst the silence.

Stiffly, he spoke. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“I..” You could feel your lips quivering as you spoke. “I was trying to keep quiet, I didn’t want to cause a fuss. Daeron..he tried to protect me, but-but now we’ve lost everything, and it’s all my fault-“

“He touched you? Whilst we spoke?” His steps stole more of the distance between you, and you fought the urge to shrink in on yourself.

“Tell me the truth of it, Y/N. And tell it plainly.”

And so you did as he demanded.

“He..his hand..reached for me, for my-my legs.” You described, ripples of nausea and discomfort washing over you as you recalled the experience. “Between them. I tried to stop him, but Lord Orwyn, he-he was insistent. I tried to be quiet, I did, but Daeron noticed, and then, it all unfolded so horribly-“

“Shh, come here.”

Then, you melted into him.

Ormund Hightower’s embrace was warm, warmer than you’d previously thought for a man so cold and calculating. You melted like putty against his body, surrendering yourself to his utterly consuming touch.

“I’m sorry.” You sobbed, and you buried your head against the cushion of his broad chest. You felt his hand burrow itself into your hair, his fingers enveloping themselves into the flowing locks of your hair.

“This is the very duty that I was raised to fulfill, and I failed. I failed, I’m sorry, sire, I’m so sorry-“

“You truly believe that I blame you?”

He pulled your head away from him and took your face in his hands. “I do not fault you for the sins of men, Y/N. What that man did to you was heinous, unforgivable by all rights—such wickedness will be punished in the sight of the Gods. It is most..inconvenient, however, that the man happens to be Boros Baratheon’s heir.”

A tear slipped down your face; your lips shook, now contorted into the shape of a saddened frown. It was a relief to hear that Ormund didn’t hold you responsible, though a part of you still felt that you were. The agreement that he had bartered with the Baratheons would have secured the Hightowers a crucial alliance, and you knew well that your house was in desperate need of supporters.

“If you wish it, I will marry him, nonetheless.”

Your gaze was downcast, but proceeded to Ormund gently tilt your head up; your damp eyes glittered as you looked up at him.

“My good girl.” He praised softly. “Willing to do anything and everything that I ask, hm? Is that right?”

His shadow covered you, and within the darkness that it casted, you nodded your head obediently.

“It is a wicked thing, indeed, that a dishonorable man such as Orwyn Baratheon laid his hands on you.” His gaze slipped away from yours, flitting towards your lips. “Your virtue is sacred, you must remember that. No man should ever be allowed to sully it.”

Your lips were already parted when his thumb grazed against them; the soft flesh of your bottom lip yielded easily to the pressure of his finger, which gently pulled your mouth open.

“No man..shall ever lay his hands on you again.” He was only looking at your lips, now. “Not on you—you’re such a delicate thing, so undefiled and innocent..”

Whatever sensation fluttered inside of you now, you were sure that it was profane. How he held you now, how Ormund seemed to mold your very flesh underneath his fingertips—how you liked it. How you wanted him to truly indulge you for once, to lose control, to lay you on his bed and do whatever it was that he wanted with you..you were sure that it was sin and lust that coursed through you, and though you’d been taught to be a better girl than this, your teachings seemed to have been rather fruitless, now.

“He touched you where?” He asked, demanding an answer of you. “In what way?”

“Between my legs.” You told him. “I tried to..stop him, but his hand kept reaching further and further.. he..he entered..me.” It took effort to utter the words; Ormund’s eyes darkened, his blue irises stilling in the way that they did when he was losing control.

“I would geld him.” He gritted out. “Or worse.”

You watched as Ormund’s gaze slid down the sight of you. “A woman, in all of her delicacy, should be treated tenderly..and with care.”

The thread was stretched thin, just near snapping—you silently awaited for the shattering moment when Ormund would inevitably pull back, snapping out of the daze of his desire, but then, he didn’t. That tension was there still, and you knew, now, that he was too far gone to look back. As if testing the water, he moved forward just enough to feel your breaths mingle in the little space between your lips. Then, sweepingly, he took your lips into his own.

He was tender; he kissed you with deliberation, as though he was relishing every sensation, every sound that you hummed beneath him. He seemed to understand that you lacked experience, as he took the initiative to guide the pace your lips. Upon your neck, his hand kept a gentle but firm grasp, tightening and tugging you close when he needed to, deepening the kiss as you fell into rhythm.

When he finally broke the kiss, he crept a hand towards the slope of your nape.

“A woman should be honored..” He guided your hair from your shoulder, baring your neck; he proceeded to then bury his nose in your exposed flesh, and you moaned softly at the contact. “..pleasured.”

His lips pressed kisses against your sensitive skin, mapping out the uncharted expanse of your flesh. And just as you began to think that he’d gone as far he’d date, his hands started to pull the fabric of your gown up your legs. Before you could process it, his hand reached beneath the layers of your garments, and you took in a sharp breath—he’d ran a finger across the slickness of your cunt and now watched as your expression buckled from the sensation.

He hummed, holding you against him with one hand at your back and rubbing circles against the bud of your clit with his other. You shuddered from the deftness of his fingertips, whimpering at the newfound sensation.

“He didn’t have you this wet, did he?” You moaned—he was hitting the sweet spot that you’d never known that you had, and somehow, the piercing shame and humiliation of his words had fueled the tension that was building inside of you. “Gods, it’s just dripping out of you.” He said, and your fingers clutched around his arms.

“S-Sire..” Helplessly, you bucked into him, your own body betraying all sense and rationale. More, you wanted more, and your body was chasing the high in all of its chaste deprivation when all of the sudden, Ormund removed his hand from the heat of between your legs.

You looked up at him, aching without his touch.

“Get on the bed.” He told you, the command ringing as sharp as a whip against steel.

You did as he demanded. Obediently, your legs carried out his command, pulling you towards the mattress across the room. When you sat on top of it, directing your body towards him, you could feel your nerves tingling in anticipation as Ormund came to you.

“Lay down. And spread your legs.” As he stood before the mattress, Ormund’s scrutiny laid itself upon you, as sharp and exposing as the breeze that swept into the room. You laid down for him, and not breaking your eye contact once, you spread your legs apart before him.

“Just like that.” He sunk his knees onto the sheets. “Perfect.”

Your chest was rising and falling on the mattress—the gilded necklace that rested upon your breast, forged into in the ecclesiastical shape of the seven-pointed star, glimmered in the candlelight as Ormund hovered over you. His fingers found your exposed cunt again, and, tugging your legs further apart, his fingertips gently felt around your entrance, daring to enter you.

“This is going to hurt a little.”

You nodded meekly, and with his body pressed against you and his face watching and hovering above yours, Ormund buried a finger into your cunt. The sound that spilled out of you was almost a cry—you were untouched there, having never even dared to attempt to pleasure yourself. And so you squirmed, struggling to accommodate to the newfound feeling of him inside of you.

“Breathe into it. Hm?” His gaze was intent on yours, as though he relished the sight of you as you broke apart. “Relax.” And you did; you took slow, deep breaths as he curled his middle finger into you, and you did your best to take it well as he then fitted another digit inside of you.

He was knuckle-deep inside of you now, and you’d stretched out for him. Warm, eager flesh closed in around his fingers, and your wetness had spread onto his hand—you were sure you’d cursed the Seven gods above by now, how you cried out taking him, but you were heedless of it. You heeded nothing but his fingers as they pierced you, as they reached parts of you both unexplored and awfully sensitive.

When he’d found his rhythm, Ormund lowered himself to your cunt. He went beneath the fabric of your dress and began putting his mouth to your flesh—you whimpered as you felt his tongue brush curiously against your cunt, finding the sensitivity of you clit, then relentlessly attending to it.

Your back formed an arch against the bed, your fingers finding his soft curls. “Gods, p-please..” You moaned as his fingers continued to curl into you, digging further and further until you’d all sense of yourself.

“Please what?” He took his mouth off of you momentarily to watch for your answer. “Use your words, Y/N.”

“P-Please..” You begged, the warmth pooling in your gut. “Please..don’t stop.”

And he obliged you. With his tongue pleasuring you and his fingers plunging into the wetness of your cunt, you reached for the sheets and tried to grasp for something, anything. You were fucking shuddering, begging him endlessly until your pleads had strung into a mindless litany, moaning until you didn’t know what else to do. He was fucking you dumb, and it was all you could do to let out a strangled cry when your orgasm finally took hold of you, leaving your thighs shuddering and shaking around Ormund as he carried you through your high.

He’d made a mess of you; your orgasm had left your cunt and inner thighs drenched, and his hand was coated in it. You were still senseless when Ormund rose from between your legs, coming up to your parted lips—gently, softly, he kissed them, and you reciprocated him eagerly now.

You put a hand on his shoulder, letting your tongue slip into the kiss. You felt comfy and warm beneath the weight body, the way that he pressed into you, and you’d been so caught up in the feeling when, with a start, you realized something.

Something else pressed against you, something growing beneath the fabric of his leather tunic. Though you were unfamiliar with such things, you soon understood that it was him—his cock, just against your stomach, now roused and hard against you. When you broke the kiss, you looked up into Ormund’s eyes.

“S-Sire.” You said gently, searching gaze. “D-Do you want me to..” Though nervously, you offered it to him. You tried to reach down to touch his hardness beneath his tunic, tried pleasure him as he’d pleasured you.

“I-I can help you with..with that-“

Then, suddenly, he grabbed your wrist.

You looked into his eyes again, yet the indulgence which previously overtook them has morphed into shame. Shame, guilt, something of the sort—the blue shade of his irises had dulled from their glistening hunger, and it seemed as though he’d grown ashamed of his appetite.

“Don’t.” He warned, but you tried, still. Your hand reached again.

“But-“

Your arm met even more resistance; he pulled it from away from where it reached, pinning it at your side.

“No.”

For a moment, he seemed to consider letting it loose—letting go of the reigns freely, allowing you in, allowing you to touch him. And you wished that he’d indulged that urge, but he didn’t; all of a sudden, he’d lifted himself off of you, depriving you of his warmth.

You sat up. He stood on his two feet, now, and he failed to meet your gaze.

“Get out.” He said. You hesitated in a moment of vacillation, but the tone of his next words made your decision for you.

“I said..get out.”

The septs which Tumbleton had to offer were utterly pale in comparison to what you were a accustomed to; in Oldtown, the Starry Sept could be seen towering over all else, and you could remember how its interior had glittered with the numerousness of its painted stars as though it was yesterday. In the sept that you kneeled within now, however, there was no such grandiosity, no starry sight to behold—the walls were dull in their sand-packed texture, the pillars around you and Daeron bolstering a rather small and humble structure.

Despite longing for the comfort of Oldtown, the candlelit altar before you did give you some semblance of it. And with Daeron kneeling close beside you, bringing the warmth of home with him, this could have been just another Sunday night engrossed in prayer. You spent a lot of your days like this in Oldtown, devoted to your faith, removed from the circumstances of Westeros. Yet, you could no longer afford such obliviousness, not anymore; your fate loomed over you, now, like some dark cloud, and even the candles upon the altar seemed to quiver beneath the weight of it.

“It will not happen.”

“Daeron-“

“I will not allow it.”

Neither Daeron or you had ever had much control to exert over your lives. Autonomy was a cuisine which you’d simply never had a taste of, and because of that, you and Daeron coped in your own ways.

Where you were eager to please, desperate to be perfect and to perform without mistake, Daeron was more hesitant. He was always the more wary of the two of you, the more conflicted one. And though he had remained utterly compliant throughout the years, he could no longer stand it. He couldn’t sit idly by as numerous lords of Westeros attended you; he couldn’t truly watch as his sister was bartered like a tool for trade.

“And what could you possibly do to sway Ormund’s mind?”

“I could smother him in his sleep.”

You turned your head to him. “Daeron, we’re in a sept.”

“I would burn it all.” He met your eyes, and a fire was raging in his own. “If it meant that you would stay here.”

Your brows furrowed, a sad smile now tugging at your lips. “You’ll do no such thing. For the Gods’ sake, we’re likely to burn in here, anyways.” You remarked, glancing around you, at the town which you feared may soon be consumed in dragonfire.

Your situation was perilous. Most of the lords so far had been wretched, unappeasable. As frightful as it was, being sent off to with a stranger and then made to serve at his very pleasure, you could admit that it would be much safer than awaiting the encroaching war in Tumbleton. What you were afraid of most, however, was the possibility of leaving Daeron to succumb to such a scorching fate.

“I don’t know how, Daeron, but this is not the end.” You told him, taking his hand in yours. “Ormund..our sire will raise our house from the ashes. Maybe we will reign over Westeros once again—maybe you will. He’ll keep you safe.”

“If you’re shipped off to some pampered lord like Orwyn Baratheon, it won’t matter, anyway.”

“It will take a lot more than a marriage to pull us apart. The fates will bring us together, I’m sure.” You paused. “If I am..to leave, though, Daeron, I need you to be strong.”

Daeron winced, as if terrified of the very prospect. You then took both of his arms in hand.

“Look at me.”

He faced you begrudgingly.

“We’re Hightowers, but the blood of the dragon runs through us, too. Not that it counts for much, we hardly even look the part. But it matters; it has to count for something.” You squeezed his arms. “You’re stronger than you know.”

There was a moment of silence; in the candlelight, Daeron’s eyes flickered, and you thought that you could see them watering. Then, he shook his head, pressing his lips together.

“Only because of you.”

“No.” You said, and though you wanted to be strong for him, your voice cracked quietly beneath the pressure of your melancholy. “..You’re much taller than me, anyway—I can see you’re growing some muscle.”

In an attempt to relieve some tension, you bumped your shoulder into his, prompting an embarrassed laugh from your twin brother’s lips.

“No, I’m not.” He chuckled sheepishly.

“Your skill with a sword is better by the day.”

Back and forth, you and Daeron carried on like that, teasing one another playfully as people passed by with lingering looks. The two of you were giggling so hard that, when Ormund Hightower approached from behind, his booming voice startled you both in your mirth.

“Y/N, Daeron.”

In near perfect sync, you and your brother threw a glance over your shoulders; within the dimness of the sept, Ormund’s green-cloaked figure emerged from the darkness.

“I regret to interrupt your prayers, but we must head off to treat with the last of the lords.” He informed you.

Paired with his usual green tunic, Ormund Hightower wore a velvety green sash on his shoulder. His head turned quickly when he glanced in Daeron’s direction. “Daeron, go ahead and make them feel welcome.”

Daeron’s gaze quietly found yours—you saw the way that his fear flashed in the whites of his eyes. You then nodded, hoping to provide him consolation, and your efforts were proven successful; though he was begrudging, Daeron left you there, kneeling still before Ormund.

Ormund approached you steadily, now. The fabric of your emerald gown shifted beneath your knees as you got to your feet. Turning your back to the candlelit altar, you turned towards his direction, soft velvet fabric whooshing about your legs.

The last steps that he took towards you were diminishing. Ormund’s hands were folded behind his back, and his brown eyes trekked up your figure, examining you in your gowned splendor.

“You look exquisite.”

You bit your gum upon hearing his words. Compliments from Ormund Hightower used to be a seldom but cherished currency; with standards like his, Ormund never wasted a single breath on simple mediocrity. However, since the past few days, his compliments had carried a weight; the flattery which came with them had a certain edge, a momentary beat of tension when the compliment seemed to crawl just beneath your skin.

“Thank you, sire.” You said, and that moment washed over you. Ormund Hightower was a tall man, especially compared to you, so he always had a way of looking down upon you—the way his blue irises would slide to bottom of his eyes, flickering and analyzing silently.

After a cryptic beat of lingering silence, he spoke. “I will finalize the decision today—who you are to be married to.”

You swallowed and nodded, your fingers fumbling into endless knots in the front of you.

As you glanced nervously to the ground, he seemed to notice your growing anxiety. “Are you afraid?”

You looked up, meeting his gaze fearfully. “N-no.” You stuttered, stilling your fingers.

Your heart was a stuttering thing inside of you. You felt an enormous amount of pressure to perform well, to do well so as to please Ormund. But for the first time, you had begun to the loathe your duties. A part of you had thought, before, that maybe you’d never have to fulfill your duty as a wife; now, with that fate just at your doorstep, you couldn’t help but be terrified.

Ormund came forth and put his hands on the both of your shoulders. “You’re shaking. Breathe.” His fingers clutched your quickly rising shoulders, bared for the strapless style of your dress. “The lords will not see you quiver like a leaf.”

The warmth of his touch was quickly consuming you; without removing his hands, he continued. “Today is what matters most. We’ll choose the most advantageous of your prospects, and then, it’s your duty to seal their interest. As long as you are compliant and pleasant—both of which you are the very image of—then, I’ll have simply gained a new ally to support us in our ambitions.”

He withdrew his gaze for a moment; you looked for it, watching as he cast his eyes aside before taking another step closer.

“I understand that I’ve never been one make my gratitude known much, or..ever, really. But I appreciate your efforts, Y/N.”

He’d come close—close enough so that’s your shadows merged as one against the ground of the sept, emblazoned by the candlelight. Close enough that you could’ve sworn that he’d heard the accelerating beat of your heart.

“You and your brother are good and kind, such a meek bunch. And while Daeron has his own capabilities, you..” Pausing, he clutched your chin between his fingers and tugged your face up, towards him. “..you’ve never failed to disappoint me.”

He’d tilted your head upright. The soft puffs of his breath sent chills rolling down the bareness of your nape.

“Thank you, sire.” Your voice answered softly. The orange glow of the sept seemed to coat him head to toe—within the light, Ormund’s eyes glittered dimly, his clutch on your chin not once relenting.

Throughout the years that you’d known Ormund Hightower, you had learned that, though he maintained a very tight reign over himself, Ormund’s control had its limits. It was moments like this where you saw it—when the string was stretched thin, pulled tight and near close to ripping. When his eyes were no longer unbudging—when they looked where they shouldn’t, when his composure seemed to just teeter on the edge of abandon.

“That smell..that scent..” Ormund took a deep sniff of you; he lowered his head in momentary indulgence, and your lips parted for a weak breath. “..that you have.”

For a moment, so fleeting and unreal, you thought that he might have finally lost his reigns. How his head hovered just beside yours, how he seemed to ponder it, for a second. Yet, just as quickly as you’d begun to fear it, Ormund withdrew his hand from your chin; when he looked at you once more, his expression revealed absolutely nothing.

“Any man will be lucky to take you as his wife.” He narrowed his eyes in on you. “Do your duty for me, hm?”

Your own eyes flickered; his shifting attitudes and the fickleness of them had left you disoriented, wanting, in a cruel and terrible way.

“Okay.” Was all you said, and Ormund turned from you.

He waved his hand faintly towards you. “Walk with me.” He told you. Burdened by the weight of your conflicting emotions, you followed.

…

“Prince Orwyn. We are honored to offer you a seat, here, alongside the rightful heir to the Iron Throne and the fairest princess in all of the Seven Kingdoms.” From his seat at the head of the table, Ormund rose, lifting his bronze chalice to the air. “A toast—to the longevity and the fruitfulness of your marriage, soon to be.”

“Yes.” Orwyn Baratheon followed, the man at your right side, and he then tilted his chalice towards you. “Y/N is a magnificent beauty, indeed. I look forward to having her as my own. I can hardly wait for the bedding—I mean, wedding ceremony. Excuse me.”

The man’s flowing mane of black hair shook as he guffawed at his own remark. Ormund laughed simultaneously along with him; Daeron offered nothing more than tepid chuckle. Yet, as their laughs died down, Orwyn Baratheon’s gaze set on you—his brown eyes nearly darkened in the light, and you swallowed stiffly as his gaze swept across your bosom.

“..Thank you, my lord.” You uttered, hoping that your words appeased him enough.

Orwyn Baratheon was the sole male child of Boros Baratheon and, therefore, he stood as the heir to the Stormlands. Orwyn was everything that you’d expect a pampered, conceited, and privileged first and only son to be—his heavy chest seemed to be permanently puffed out, and his sharp chin always jutted forward in pompous fashion. It had been clear from the start that Orwyn had the most to offer the Hightowers, yet, that didn’t make the blow much softer.

After treating with lord after lord, Ormund had arrived at the decision to make you a Baratheon by name. It was all but sealed in writing now—the conditions of the agreement were set, the logistics soon to be at work. You would soon be sent off, away from your brother, away from your home.

“So.”

Ormund, overjoyed at the settled agreement, leaned towards Orwyn, who was seated at his right side. “Your father—how does he fare during this troubling time in our realm? Is he inclined to choose a side?”

At first, you thought that it had been a slip of his hand, maybe a misplaced palm. The realization came slowly at first, then, at a quickening and alarming rate, it hit you: Orwyn was touching you. In your horror, you glanced down and saw his hand proceed to grip your clothed thigh.

“With the marriage between Prince Aemond and my sister secured, and now, with my betrothal to the Princess, he will be most pleased.” Orwyn remarked. You looked up; you tried to convince yourself to dig into the roast lamb before you, but the presence of Orywn’s hand on your thigh had sucked the appetite out of you.

“My father is a man of pride.” The Baratheon man droned on. “With no marriage prospects from the Queen—or shall I say, pretender—he most certainly will shun her and swear himself to the rightful heir, Prince Daeron Targaryen.”

Bunching the fabric between his working digits, Lord Orwyn began to hike the velvet fabric up your legs. You looked over at him, trying to wordlessly stop him—he couldn’t do this here, not now, not with Ormund and Daeron seated just across the table. Yet, you could see so clearly the savage hunger in Lord Orwyn’s eyes, and you realized then that you would have to endure the man silently, if you wanted to maintain your unbroken favor with Ormund.

“A wise decision. We have much to offer him, shall he come to our side.” Ormund gloated on, heedless of what Orwyn was doing to you beneath the table. “In all of our holiness and righteousness, the Hightowers shall lead the way. The Gods will have no choice but to grant us victory in the end.”

“I do wonder, though.” Just as Orwyn began to speak, you whimpered all of a sudden, your eyes shooting wide open. You hadn’t meant to, but his hand had already begun to scale the length of your bare thighs; his fingers were probing, clawing towards your entrance.

“In your choice to thrust Prince Daeron up as the heir apparent, what do you suggest Prince Aemond’s role is in all of this? By sealing the marriage pact between him and my sister, you, therefore, agreed that my sister would one day rule as Queen.” Lord Orwyn said, his voice hardly wavering.

Daeron was looking at you now. Seven fucking Hells, you thought. It was then that the internal panic started to settle in—it wouldn’t be much longer until Ormund caught on, and what, then? You couldn’t cause a scene, not now, not when Ormund was so close to getting what he wanted. Your discomfort couldn’t ruin this—soon, this dinner would be over, and you would retreat to your bedroom, ensconce yourself within it you decided. Yet, his hands were already halfway up your legs, and though you were trying to keep them at bay, he was horribly insistent.

“Aemond, yes.” Ormund began, and he chuckled to himself. You were only looking in Daeron’s direction, however—your brother’s eyes were wide, the shock plain in them, and yet, you were shaking your head, trying to convince him to stay quiet.

“Prince Aemond has yet to reveal himself; the boy rides the largest and most ancient dragon alive, yet he cannot follow through with even the simplest of tasks. I am inclined to believe that the boy will, in no way, prove himself capable of being the heir to the Iron Throne.” Ormund pronounced casually, now waving a hand towards Daeron, who seemed to be turning red with rage. “Daeron, conversely, has shown time and time again that he is most suited for the task of being King.” Despite struggling, the man had forced his way up your legs; in a single thrust, your panic spilled over, and you jerked in your seat, a noise of discomfort leaking through your lips. “I mean, look at him. He is the very picture of strength and virility-“

Then, with an unceremonious abruptness, Daeron stood, his chair screeching as it slid against the cobblestone.

“Take your hands off of her.”

All eyes were on you and Orwyn; the panic rushed through you, scorching hot as it filled you head to toe.

“Daeron!” You immediately whispered to him. The terror was fresh in your voice; now, Daeron had intervened, and there was no point of returning.

Though he’d been caught in the act, Orwyn laughed Daeron’s command off casually.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I said. Get your hands off of her.”

Orwyn pressed his vacant hand against his chest, clearly shocked at Daeron’s audacity. “Excuse me?” He scoffed a couple of times, his laughter spilling in shocked spurts. “She is my bride to be—the girl is promised to me. I only wish to acquaint myself with her, and in what better way might I do so?”

And as though your worst nightmare was truly coming to life, you watched as Ormund stood from his seat as well. His chest moved with his heavy breaths; already, the rage was already building inside of him.

“You dare to defile her?” He uttered gruffly.

Orwyn clearly didn’t understand the gravity of the situation, even less, the type of man that Ormund became when he was provoked. Because the only thing that the Baratheon man bothered to do was roll his eyes and then wave his hand dismissively through the air.

“I think defile is an exaggeration-“

“The girl is a Hightower. She will remain unspoiled.”

“All of that pious Hightower bullshit.” Orwyn spat, the disdain a cutting edge in his voice, and you winced—Ormund would never let him get away with a comment such as that. You could see the ire simmering and flaring within his eyes as he watched your groom-to-be stand from his seat. “You must think yourselves saints. You should’ve seen the way this girl was squirming.” He scoffed. “There’s nothing innocent about her-

“You’ve laid your hand upon my blood, and my blood is sacred.” Ormund stated forthrightly. “To debauch yourself upon her well before the wedding ceremony is treason, and the highest degree of it, even to merely suggest that the girl is anything but innocent.”

“Sit down, you holy cunt.” You and Daeron both gasped softly in your engendering shock. “The marriage is already sealed in writing. It’s only a matter of time, anyways, until I bed her-“

From his position against the wall, Jon Roxton had come forward and unsheathed his sword; the blade’s edge was pointed at the small of Orwyn’s back before the man could react.

“You’ve left me no choice.” Ormund’s nostrils were flaring, his hands gripping the oak table so hard that you thought it might splinter. “You will leave, now, and scurry back to that unruly cesspit that you call Storm’s End. If you make it in time before my raven arrives, tell your father of how you made a treasonous fool of yourself here. If I think myself generous enough, I shall offer you a chance to take her hand in marriage again, but so long as your sinful and lustful character still stands, I will not have you married to my own blood-“

“You dare to insult my character!” Orwyn Baratheon roared, and his exclamation was met with the crash of Ormund’s fist hitting the table.

“Remove yourself, or you may just lose a limb on your way back!” Ormund all but growled, baring his teeth in his heightening anger. “Ser Roxton, keep that sword at his throat, if you must, as you escort him back-“

“My father will not take this lightly!” Though his ego had suffered a critical blow, Orwyn knew when to back down—the sword at his back did the trick, at least, anyways. He puffed his chest out as he retreated from the table slowly, glancing at you once more before angrily meeting Ormund’s seething gaze. “The Hightowers have fallen far from their forgotten glory. The Seven Hells shall await you for this!”

You could hear Jon Roxton ushering the Baratheon man along, a chorus of sharp threats coming from him as he escorted the Lord away; you could see Daeron approaching you quickly from across the table, worry bleeding onto face, yet your attention was only on Ormund. Your older relative stood, frozen in place; the hand that had gripped the tabletop now formed a quivering fist, and you stared at it in fright.

“Y/N! Are you hurt? What did he do?”

“Sire..”

When his hand came whistling down onto the dishes in front of him, you curled in on yourself; the discord of the platters and cups and various meals clattering onto the ground remained in your ears for some time, even after Ormund’s fit of rage had been done with. You could feel tears forming, unbidden in your eyes, as you watched Ormund curse, failing to meet your watery gaze; in one last act of anger, he threw his chair onto the floor, and the crash was echoing in the room as he began to march off.

“No, sire, please, I didn’t mean to-“

Ormund was exiting quickly; you frantically smoothed your dress back over your legs, rising from your chair to try and attempt to stop him.

“Y/N, leave him-“

“No!” You yelled at your brother’s face, your anger and desperation caught in your throat. “I have to fix this. You never should have said anything! Now, we’ve likely lost the Baratheons for good..oh, Gods, it’s all my fault..”

Upon Ormund and Daeron’s arrival at Tumbletown, an opulent feast of roast lamb and exotic fruit assortments had been laid out to greet them in their decisive victory. You were there, waiting for their arrival, and you’d taken it upon yourself to wear one of your most splendid silk gowns—the one which would shine an iridescent shade of emerald green in the daylight. The sun ceaselessly shone upon Tumbleton, so when your sire and brother walked into the dining table, your copper hair seemed afire in the sun, and your dress all but gleamed in its signature Hightower tones of green and gold.

You bowed reverently as the doors croaked open to receive them.

“Sire.” You addressed Ormund Hightower. “Brother.” You addressed Daeron. They bowed their heads upon seeing you.

“Y/N.” Ormund addressed you. Daeron glanced warily over towards the older man, and it was only when Ormund gave him silent leave to do so that Daeron approached you, thrusting you into a heartfelt hug.

“Daeron could hardly bear to be apart from you.” Ormund remarked as he watched the two of you embrace one another. Daeron kept the hug short, but his eyes continued to glisten warmly as he pulled away from you.

“But we did what we set out to do.” Ormund continued, and when he slid his chair back, you and Daeron quickly rushed to follow his lead. “And now, we sow our victory seed by seed.”

You weren’t privy to Ormund Hightower’s schemes—your older relative was a sly and cunning man, and you, his young heir, all but flocked to the demands of his ambitions. With you and Daeron as his wards, he had the both of you in the palms of his hands—Daeron, whom he would thrust unto the Seven Kingdoms as the heir apparent, and you, a pretty maiden who could be used to secure an alliance with one of the great Houses.

Although Ormund recognized that the two of you were budding youths, he also recognized that the two of you required much molding. There was a meekness that you two shared that seemed unbefitting of the blood of the dragon, and Ormund liked that. He used that, often treating you two as his two pawns in the ever-shifting and dangerous realm of Westeros.

While Daeron’s place was to blend into the role of the virile, daring new heir, your job was to flaunt your beauty for all of the realm to witness. You needed to be the picture of Hightower pulchritude, the vision of purity and elegance. Every hair had to be brushed in its right place, every mannerism both gentle and graceful. It is what he wanted of you, and whatever Ormund Hightower wanted, he got.

“This place reeks of dung and cowardice.” Ormund had been strenuously cutting up his lamb; he grunted in vexation as his dull knife finally cleaved the meat.

“I can smell it on them.” He said disdainfully. “Their allegiance is with that cunt Rhaenyra Targaryen, yet we have seized their grounds, and they will bend to the will of the Hightowers. We will treat with them, we will consider them because we have need of them.” He stuffed a piece of meat in his mouth and worked through it before clearing his throat. “See, you two must understand what it is that you need in this world, and you must seize such things carefully. Be sycophantic in your pursuit if you must, but if you play your hand right, your small efforts just may eventually lead leagues and armies against the enemy. Then, you can snatch-“ he took an apple in his hand, snatching it out of the fruit bowl, “-the power right out of the dragon’s claws.”

You and Daeron’s eyes met. This was the game that you two so often played at the dinner table—who would offer to speak first? Who would put themselves forward to say the first word, to stroke Ormund’s insatiable ego? Of course, it almost always ended up being you, as you notably had a way with your sweet words and courteous manners. It only took a fleeting gaze with Daeron for you to understand that it was your move now.

“A thoughtful and concise musing, sire.” You pronounced gently, and your voice chirped softly, as though a birdsong, amidst the quietness of the room. “The pretender Rhaenyra could not dream to match such a cunning mind.”

Ormund nodded at that. “Mm. No, she could not, Y/N.” He murmured as he chewed, his eyes set upon you. “With flattery like that, you could win over all of the Great Houses with but a word.”

His dark brown eyes suddenly slid over the sight of you; you gulped down a bite of lamb, feeling the way his cold and appraising eyes scanned the image of you.

“You have been growing in all of the right places, I see.” The compliment made your heart flutter, but with what, you were unsure. It was certainly an unfamiliar sort of flattery, and you sat with it for a moment until Ormund abruptly slapped his hand against the table—suddenly, you remembered yourself.

“I think it’s just about the right time to put you on the market. Give the lords of Westeros a sight for their sore eyes.”

Daeron’s eyes had grown frightened. “..Now? Already?”

Ormund turned to the boy, chuckling incredulously. “Did I stutter? Yes. Rather, I think we should begin the preparations soon. I shall write to the Great Houses and propose marriage alliances. How might a lord resist such a pretty and pliant girl like Y/N?”

Daeron was not happy with the news. First, his uncle Gwayne had gone off to fight in the war; now, his twin sister would soon be married off to some lord far across the lands of Westeros. You were, of course, unhappy with Ormund’s sudden change of mind, as well. You’d known your fate since early on, from the time that you were a young girl, being raised in the ways of motherhood and domesticity. Yet, you were only 16–you’d heard of other girls being married off much earlier, no doubt, but you’d never envisioned yourself being given away so soon.

Alicent Hightower was your mother by blood, but she had deserted her post long ago. It was Daeron who had been by your side through thick and thin. You had shared your womb with him, and though it’d been only mere seconds which officially declared you the older sibling, you took those precious seconds to heart. You sought to protect him, to be by his side no matter what. But what would happen now, if you two were forced apart?

You did not want to know, but you were also not keen on turning your back on Ormund’s wishes. Ormund’s temper was easily kindled, and it was hardly a pretty sight when your older relative snapped. He hated when things didn’t go his way—he was a control-freak, meticulous, obsessive, and you knew what might happen if you tried to work your way around his wishes. Throughout the years, You and Daeron had grown to fear him, and so, when your handmaidens announced Ormund Hightower’s presence at your door, you tensed in your bed.

The breeze of the shifting midnight winds was subtle but sharp against your bare skin. You were donned in a silken nightgown and nothing else; your hair was down, your skin delicate from the bath that you’d just been given. It was the dead of night—why was Ormund waiting at your door?

Getting onto your feet and draping your tresses against one shoulder, you hesitantly told your handmaidens to let him in.

“Sire?”

The image of Ormund Hightower was a dimly lit one—he wore a green leather tunic, his signature outfit of choice (minus his sheathed sword at the hip), and though his face was cloaked in darkness in this light, you could feel the way that his presence seemed to change the gravity of the room.

“Y/N.” You searched for his eyes in the shadows; he stepped forward, and his features came into the distant candlelight. He was inscrutable.

“Leave us.” He ordered your handmaidens, who casted a wary look towards you before doing as they were told.

It was the shuffling of feet, the faint whispering of your servants, then it was just silence. You heard your own, successive breaths in your ears, the pitter-patter of your heart pumping blood, but otherwise, there was nothing but the night and its stillness—a delicate thing, which you were hesitant to shatter. When you did speak, your voice faltered for a moment.

“Sire, it’s..it’s late.” You then said gently, disoriented by the circumstances of his visit.

You thought that he might explain himself, that he might fill in the blanks of his sudden presence. Yet, Ormund only began to step towards you silently, his footsteps leaving soft patters against the cobblestone.

“Some of the lords may arrive as early as three days’ time, if they are to answer the requests of my letters. It is now, more than ever, a dire time for house Hightower.” Before you could hardly blink, Ormund had covered the distance between you two, leaving but a few feet to separate yourselves. As he now stood in front of you, you couldn’t help but feel terror beneath the weight of his gaze—how quick might he snap? How suddenly might his temper flare? You had not a clue what to expect from your older relative, and though you found yourself mentally bracing for a reason to flinch away, Ormund did nothing of the sort. Instead, he took one other meager step towards you, quietly beckoning you to face him fully.

“You must understand that, hm? My dove?”

He was tall, his voice gentle and coaxing amidst the silent hum around you.

With fright thinly concealed in your voice, you spoke. “Yes, sire.” You told him.

Then, he picked up his foot and took a step just to the right; slowly, you realized that he’d begun to map out the space around you, now circling you with enclosing steps.

“Your twin brother, the chink of light in a dark and desolate time.” His voice trailed to your right side, and his eyes remained intent on you as he sauntered silently about your unmoving figure. “Rhaenyra reigns in King’s Landing by conquest, yet soon enough, the people will turn from her and set their eyes upon Daeron. A budding young boy raised in the comfort of Oldtown—a vision of a true leader, a king who shall rule with both piety and promise. Daeron, with copper hair rather than silver; Daeron, who was raised in the faith of the Seven. Daeron, a boy in no way akin to his inbred and ungodly Targaryen father. His blood runs thick with the strength and the holinesss of the Hightowers, but there is a taint in his blood, as there is in yours.”

When he circled back to his place in front of you, his words chilled you down to your bones, as did his eyes. You were aware of Ormund’s visceral hatred for the Targaryens, and though you and Daeron were of his blood and raised in his likeness, Ormund still looked at you in this way—the wary, speculative way with which he picked you apart, as if trying to drain the very Targaryen blood from your body.

“You are the vision of a Hightower woman. Your hair is spun red velvet,” You almost flinched when his hand outreached towards you, but a breath released thinly from your lungs when you realized that Ormund had started to run his fingers through your hair. “even more so than your brother’s is. You are more receptive of your religious teachings than he is, I’m sure. I see you visit the sept day by day, night by night. You have proven yourself to be the most obedient pupil.”

Then, he put his finger just under your chin, and you hiccuped as he tilted your face up to his.

“And you will continue to be such. Do you understand me?”

Your lips parted, a soft sigh blooming between them; Ormund’s eyes flickered towards your opened mouth fleetingly.

“Yes, sire. I will.” You said quietly.

Ormund Hightower’s eyes were of a warm almond color, but in this light, they were as dark as onyx as they gazed upon you. Ormund had most often looked upon you with cold appraisal—always looking for something to improve, to fix, to correct. But tonight, in their cloak of darkness, his eyes seemed different; they still flickered across you observantly, however, they lingered now, seemingly indulging the sight of you in a way that they never had done before.

His hand came forward, and your gaze followed it as his fingers found the string of your nightgown; just at the middle of your chest, your gown was held together by a bowknot, yet in silence, Ormund began to unravel it.

“The men that attend us, the men whom you must enchant, they may be old or young, rough or gentle, honorable or heinous.” The bow undid itself quickly; your chest was heaving beneath the silken fabric. “What matters is their title, what they may provide us in our time of need.” He slipped two fingers beneath one strap of the gown and pulled it off of your shoulder. “Whomever presents himself as our most convenient ally, that is the man whom you must entice. With those blue eyes of yours, your sweet words-“ With the other strap now dragged from your shoulder, your gown fell to the floor. “-and your body.”

The breeze left you frigid; Ormund’s scrutiny of your naked body left you even colder. His gaze slid down your flesh, halting every once in a while to linger upon a certain part of you. As his eyes fell lower and lower, your body tensed, nearly shuddering beneath the heat of his gaze.

“..You have been bleeding, yes?”

In your nonplussed state, you stuttered. “Y-Yes, sire. Monthly.”

He shifted on his heel, slowly resuming his path, leading him to circle about you again.

“I trust you have not bedded another?” He asked, disappearing behind you.

“Of course not.” You answered, stunned to hear him ask such a thing. “..S-Sire.”

The lids of your eyes seemed to be wrenched open, as the fright and the uneasiness kept them permanently widened. He had bared you fully before him, and now he was circling around you like a predator stalking its vulnerable prey.

“Such alabaster skin; it glows in the moonlight. Your breasts have grown supple.” Some strange, wet feeling roused between your thighs, and you reddened; for all of your piety, you feared that this moment might make a sinner of you. “Your adolescence has gifted you such pleasant curves, though you must be shaved and groomed before you are visited.”

Just as the fear and shame began to subside, Ormund had returned to the front of you, and he now started to examine your face. There was such calculation in his eyes; it was almost as though was inspecting some exotic creature or perhaps some marble sculpture with intrigue. Instead, he was inspecting you—every curve, every bit of your flesh, perhaps looking for a flaw in your very body, too. But why did he linger so?

With a tenderness unbefitting of him, Ormund grasped your face, his hand nearly large against the small expanse of your cheek.

“An innocent face, as well. Men like that; they like purity, so that they may defile it.” He held you there for a moment, bared in the moonlight, anchored only by the hand upon your face. If not for it, perhaps you’d crumble right there, shrink in fright. But he wanted you like this—looking up at him, shaking in your nakedness, completely pliant to the whims of his control. He seemed to want it, because the moment was already stretching on too long, and there was a tenseness in the air which indicated that this was leading into perilous territory.

Just before he let go of you, his dipped his head, and for a fleeting instance, you realized that he was smelling you. The scent of your recent bath lingered upon your skin, and he seemed to delight himself with it for a second before he finally released you from his touch.

“Put your nightclothes on.” He ordered you, waving a hand at your nightgown, which had bunched around your feet. “Have your handmaidens trim your hair, shave every inch of your body. I expect perfect behavior from you, this week. Soon, you will be married, and I will have earned myself a powerful ally.”