theia

A chestnut tree spread its branches with a sense of dignity. The tree looked proud, full of color. Among the lush greenery, reminiscent of your future husband's house colors, lush white flowers peeked through, resembling candles. A sweet, almost honeyed aroma filled the morning air. Looking at the plant, you could not help but think how this garden reminded you of Ormund himself. He carried the same unshakable calm, the same majesty, with an air as if it meant laughably little. Lord Hightower wore a heavy velvet cloak in a deep emerald color. His body seemed tense almost all the time, as if he held an entire sky on his broad shoulders. In this, he reminded you of the crown of a majestic tree.

You awkwardly touched the cold silver of your earrings, adjusting them periodically, not because they sat unevenly, but because you wanted some way to calm yourself. The trinket was a recent gift from your betrothed. They were heavy, the lobes of your ears felt the pressure, like a promise that being the wife of the head of such a house would not be simple. The earrings swayed slightly and settled against your neck, kissing your skin with the points of their rays. Two little stars with seven points and pearls set in the middle. This generous gesture from Ormund had become a nagging thought for you. You wanted to be worthy of it, and that extended far beyond just the earrings. You wanted to wear seven pointed stars in your ears with the same honor with which he carried his faith. You wanted to be part of his world, steeped in beeswax and quiet, devoted prayers.

You were the middle daughter in your family, and perhaps because of that, you did not receive the same attention as your older sister. This applied not only to your parents but also to your septa. You did not want to blame that good woman for not instilling in you the necessary love for faith. But as far back as you could remember, you recalled fingers pricked by a needle more than hands folded in prayer. You felt somewhat detached from this world. You had never been particularly religious, and before, you had never even thought about it. But now, walking shoulder to shoulder with your future husband, Ormund Hightower himself, you could not help but ask yourself many questions about your previous life.

The head of House Hightower noticed how your expression had changed. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, as your head was covered in a white cloth like a dove's wing. Ormund could not help but admire you involuntarily. You looked so innocent and pure, like an angel descending from the heavens directly into his arms. The curve of your cheek was softly outlined, and the fabric clung to your beautiful face. Your gaze was captivatingly hidden beneath the shadow of your lashes. You could not have imagined that your image radiated so much temptation. You were a mystery covered in a patterned veil.

"You've grown quiet. Has something happened? Is it because of the wedding? Have you changed your mind?" Ormund chuckled quietly. You guessed he was trying to tease you sweetly, but his shameless nature pierced through this armor of sweetness very successfully.

You shook your head with a slight smile. This marriage was desired by both of you. It was almost surprising. When you were a very young maiden, you had already resigned yourself to an arranged marriage, because that fate had befallen many of your friends and acquaintances. Some of them married so young, and their husbands were much older, that you were involuntarily grateful to the gods each time for the love you shared with Ormund.

"I wouldn't refuse. Too much has already been done. It would be a shame if all the flowers prepared for the wedding went to waste."

The irony that slipped into your voice gave Ormund a slight thrill. Those rare moments when you teased him while still looking like such a pious lady made him weak. All good and proper thoughts left his head. Lord Hightower turned his head away, pretending that a neatly trimmed bush was occupying his attention. He did not allow himself to cross the boundaries of propriety, for later he would never forgive himself. Such sweet lies, convincing himself that he was not waiting for the wedding night as much as a starving man waits for food.

"But something is bothering you, isn't it?" Ormund rasped quietly, his voice hoarse from pent up emotion.

"I would like everything to go perfectly. I don't want to do something that will later become a constant reminder of my ignorance regarding religion."

"Ignorance is too strong a word, and I would say unworthy of you."

"Lord Hightower, you don't understand. I don't even know how to pray properly," you whispered with some desperation. These words had slipped from your lips, and you regretted not being able to hold them back. Your cheeks warmed with a blush that spread across your skin.

The man stopped and looked at you intently. Something predatory flickered in his spring like eyes. He smiled with the corners of his lips. You blinked in confusion. Shouldn't he be outraged? Did this not truly make you ignorant? But Ormund simply extended his hand to you silently. In this gesture, there was barely a hint of authority. You obediently reached for him. Something was pulling your body, tugging at the strings, forcing you to obey.

His hand covered yours, and it felt pleasantly right. His fingers were long and elegant, like swords forged by a skilled master, clinging to your fingers with a sense of ownership. Ormund still tried to hide the fact that you belonged to him no less than Oldtown. In his "my betrothed," there was a rough love. No one doubted that the marriage would take place, because it was the will of Lord Hightower.

"It's pleasant to be the first at something, hmm?" he purred quite ambiguously. You were slightly less innocent than he imagined, so you caught his hint. The upcoming wedding night troubled you no less.

You nearly gasped when you saw where you had ended up. You had walked through these gardens before, but you had never wandered into this spot. Before you stood a white marble gazebo with a dome of green stained glass and silver swirls that reminded you of ripples on seawater. There were seven columns, unsurprisingly, each representing a familiar figure. The silhouettes of the Seven bathed in golden sunlight, and their smiles at this time of day looked blessing and kind. The work was so masterful that you could make out every fold in their garments and every wrinkle on the faces of the statues. In the center of the gazebo stood an altar, a massive square polished at the edges, made of the same white marble but with graphite veins.

You froze, overcome with reverence. You could not believe that your future husband had brought you to such a sacred place. For you, this meant the same as opening his soul. Ormund gently urged you forward, or rather pulled you along, slowly ascending the low steps.

"This is not the sept, but I tried to make it a little like one. There is a little less strictness here and more freedom." Ormund nodded at the ivy that wrapped around the railings with its green tenacious paws.

"I think for a first time, it will do perfectly." His voice became deeper and quieter, as if he was afraid to disturb the peace of the Seven.

Lord Hightower's knees touched the cold floor. The cushion remained peacefully lying beside his feet. It was clear that he had never performed a prayer with anyone before. You pressed your hands to your chest. Unease gripped your entire spirit. The faces of the Seven could not set you up for confession, nor could Ormund who spoke so gently. His hair caught the light, glowing with copper threads, sparkling almost like amber.

"Come here, my lady. There is nothing to be afraid of." He insisted softly. Your cheeks warmed again. A bad, unrighteous feeling made the pit of your stomach clench into a tight knot.

How intimate it was to see the man who would belong to you kneeling before you. Ormund seemed ready to pray not to the gods, but to you alone. It would cost you nothing to step closer and run your hand through his thick hair. It would cost him nothing to leave a kiss on your stomach and travel lower.

You swayed and quickly sank onto the cushion he offered, afraid that he might hear your bold fantasies. Or were you already sharing one fantasy between the two of you as spouses?

"This might seem humiliating, but it is a posture of humility. Pride is a terrible vice, and how else are we to atone for it if not before the gods?" he whispered softly, like a gentle breeze against your trembling back.

His fingers picked up a thin wax candle, fingers that could easily break it in half, but they held it with the tenderness of a lover. He lit his candle. The flame danced smoothly, swaying from side to side. The glow of the lit candle played in your eyes. Ormund held his breath almost imperceptibly. A protective feeling spread through his chest. One of your locks slipped from under your headscarf and fell onto your soft cheek.

He cleared his throat hastily, realizing he had been caught openly devouring you with his eyes. Ormund offered you the candle so you could light your own, but he could not let go of your fingers. He squeezed your flesh with hidden passion. Desire clouded his mind. Would the Seven approve of him imagining biting your lower lip to push his tongue into your sweet mouth?

The marble face of the Mother now looked stern, and perhaps she was saving you from some foolishness right before your wedding, because Ormund pulled back, trying to straighten up. You watched the dance of your candles' flames standing close to each other. Two thin wax pillars desired each other no less than you and Lord Hightower.

"Place your palms together, warm them, feel the blood in you, that you are alive, and that it is thanks to the Seven, my lady." Ormund sighed quietly. He closed his eyes with extraordinary submission. With each new word, a composure awakened in him. He only occasionally glanced at you, checking how much you were giving yourself to the prayer or to his gentle commands.

"You can pray aloud. That is usually how it is done in the sept. That way you feel your involvement, and also that you are not alone, how faith fills you, making you the strongest person in the world. But you can also pray silently. That is your conversation with the gods. They will hear you because you are their daughter."

Lord Hightower whispered something completely unintelligible, but so tender that it made an indescribable impression on you. Your heart trembled, afraid of bursting. You were not praying. You were looking at your future husband without blinking. He was so devoted, so removed from the whole world, and the Seven, how beautiful he was! You forgot how to breathe. You wanted to immediately confess to the gods for all your sins, especially for the sin that had soaked into the skirt of your dress. Sometimes nature conquered any morality.

"Are you still worried about the upcoming wedding?" he suddenly asked, lazily opening only one eye like a cat. "You are not praying, dear."

"I am praying silently! And yes, I am worried, because I want everything to follow the strict traditions of your house." You began playing with your earrings again to occupy your trembling hands.

His blue eyes watched your nervous fingers. He was curious to feel your pulse, not just to run the pad of his thumb over your thin skin, but to warm your wrist with his lips, to trace the beating vein with the tip of his tongue.

"Everything will be as my wife wishes." Ormund swallowed. "And I appreciate that, my lady, your devotion. I swore to the Seven that my wife would lack nothing, that I would be everything to her that she desires."

You lowered your head so he would not see the wide smile that had appeared on your face. His words warmed you like strong Dornish wine.

Ormund approached without asking, lifting your chin with his fingers and kissed not your forehead or cheek, but your lips. His lips pressed against yours hotly and tenderly, his tongue tracing the outline of your upper lip, and you timidly allowed him to deepen the kiss with a shameless sigh. All you could do was part your lips a little more, letting your betrothed kiss you with pressure. His tongue slid against your inexperienced one. He was teaching you again, but this time there was no trace of anything as pure as prayer. Ormund's teeth grazed your soft lips, gently biting them and kissing them as if immediately comforting you, apologizing. Your moisture trickled down the inside of your thighs, which you pressed together to keep it from spilling onto the silk cushion.

You moaned pitifully, and that became something sobering for him. He did not pull away immediately. Ormund kissed you again, but tenderly this last time, unhurriedly sealing your swollen lips together. A wet thread stretched between your mouths, not allowing you to part so soon.

"The gods are merciful, as you can see, my lady." Lord Hightower whispered with eyes darkened and gleaming with arousal. "For I asked them for this."

You still could not calm your heart and your ragged breath, let alone the ache of your pussy craving sin.

Ormund did not look so agitated, or he hid it well. He meditatively dipped a sprig of hyssop into a bowl of water. With his brows furrowed in concentration, he ran the plant across your heated forehead. Water dripped onto your skin, but could not cool it.

Something vaguely told you that it would be different in the sept, certainly without that beastly kiss between prayer and aspersion, but your future husband looked as if he had done everything exactly as the rules you had so sweetly insisted upon required.

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