He does not have an immediate reaction, as you expected. He’s quiet; his brows lift ever slightly. You think that he’s just too stunned to speak.

"A child..." He repeats, as if his mind was elsewhere.

“Yes!” You chime with the same excitement, though your chest heaves slightly as you await his approval. “I wanted you to be the first to know.”

He smiles finally, though you see plainly that it is his practiced smile. The controlled, polite one you often watched him give pestering low lards and servants that made mistakes. He stands and leans to kiss your forehead, “This is…wonderful news.” 

“Is it?” Your laughter falters; he’s speaking in that displeased tone you had come to know. “You- you don’t seem very happy?”

“I am pleased.” He falshes his smile again.

“You don’t look it.” You frown.

“And how should I look? I am happy.”

“Ormund.” Your voice wavers slightly, enough to draw his full attention back to you. He exhales, reaching for you as he sits back down. 

He pulls you between his knees where he sits. “You have just surprised me, is all.”

“Surprised you?”

“We have been married such a short while.” He explains, dragging his hand up and down your arm slowly.

You flash a smile. “Perhaps the gods have been extra kind to us!” 

He leans back in his chair. “Perhaps.”

He retires later than usual that night. He comes into your chambers well after you turned in, expecting you to be sound asleep, but he finds you still perched up in bed. A book lay open in your lap, the candlelight beside you dim and flickering. “You need to rest.” He comments, walking about the room.

“I wanted to wait for you.” You comment, looking up with a small smile.

Ormund smiles to himself, coming to his side of the bed and sitting down carefully. “You need lots of rest in your condition.” He says. He sits up beside you, and you’re quick to come to his side, wrapping an arm around his midsection and cuddling up. He listens quietly as you sleepily talk of names you like, how you hoped it was a girl, but ought to hope for a boy to be Ormund’s heir.

"If it's a girl... perhaps she'd have your mother's eyes." You look up at him when he only hums absentmindedly. 

“Ormund?”

"How long did the maester say?" He asks suddenly.

You blink. "How long?"

"The babe."

“Oh, right, nearly two months!"

“It’s just been such a short time since our wedding night.”

You do not pick up on his change of tone, or his raised brow.

“You be proud. It seems my lord husband required only one attempt.” You tease, pressing the side of your face into his side and squeezing him.

“One try.” He repeats. 

“You remember it, surely.”

“I remember.”

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“As though I've said something troubling.”

Ormund opens his mouth to say something, but catches himself. “How far along did the maester say you were?”

“Nearly two months, he thinks.”

“Two? He is certain?”

Your smile falters. “Why wouldn't he be?”

“I did not say he isn’t.”

“No. But you're asking very strange questions for a man who's just learned he's to have a child.”

“No, no,” he murmurs, taking your hand and pressing a light kiss to your knuckles. “Forgive me. I just imagined I would have more time before we were blessed with a child.”

Ormund presses his lips, slowly recounting every night since your wedding. His expression changes subtly; you think he’s just tried so you blow the candles out and settle for bed. 

He doesn't sleep

In the following days, Ormund finds time to summon the maester. Privately. He sends you off with Gwayne for a walk amongst the gardens; the fresh air should do you good, and your favorite flowers were soon to begin their bloom.

"Tell me... when would conception have occurred?"

The old maester answers matter-of-factly. "There is no way to know the precise hour, my lord."

“Approximately." Ormund bites out, sterner.

The maester stumbles a bit over his words, eventually giving him an estimate. 

It's close, Ormund knows. But not exact, enough to unsettle him further. 

He’s distant the next few days. Quieter at supper when you mention the babe and how excited you are for it to come. He doesn’t attend the maesters with you, though you ask him to. He shrugs it off, simply saying he has work to do.

The final straw is when he moves you to a separate room. Claiming it is best to have your own chambers to rest in, where he won't disturb you coming in late, or entice you to stay up into the late hours waiting for him. “Have I done something wrong?” You finally ask/

"No." He sighs, flipping another page of the report before him. You huff, stomping over to slam your hand on the pages.

"Then why won't you look at me?" He flicks his eyes up to you momentarily, annoyance clear in them. 

“I’ve been occupied; this is the busiest time for me.” He states.

“You don’t speak to me much anymore.” You frown. “You’ve hardly touched me since I told you.”

His jaw tightens. “I don’t want to risk harming the child.”

You nod slightly; yes, that did make sense. However, it did not change the fact that your husband had been acting odd- odder than he may usually behave. “Take a walk with Gwayne.” Ormund tilts his head to the door. “Relax so you may sleep well.”

“I do not want to walk with Gwayne; I want to walk with you! Are you not my husband anymore?” You cross your arms, albeit childishly, as you glare at him. 

“Tomorrow I’ll attend you on your morning walk.” He brushes it off.

It is no use arguing with him when he’s in these kinds of moods. You assume, maybe, a lord or some petty matter was nagging at his mind. Maybe the weight of fatherhood was beginning to frighten him. You leave, scurrying off to find Gwayne upon his demands. 

In the morning, you wake to find Gwayne waiting. Ormund would not attend you on your walk once again; he would guide and protect you this morning.

You return that night, spending the evening in town with Gwayne. It was pleasant; you loved Gwayne and Gwayne despite your complaints. They were kind to you, treated you well as Lady Hightower; they were perhaps your only true friends here in Oldtown. But they were not your husband.

“You’re avoiding me.” You spit plainly. The clatter of Ormund’s tableware stops suddenly. You had stormed in, leaving Gwayne in your wake as you marched to the dining hall to find Ormund eating alone.

"I am doing no such thing."

"You are."

He set his silverware down carefully. “What has given you this idea?”

You almost laughed. It was such an absurd question that for a moment you could only stare at him. "You no longer walk with me."

"I have duties."

"You had duties before. You scarcely speak to me. You send Gwayne to sit with me in the gardens, or Gwayne to accompany me into the city. You have not come to my chambers in nearly a fortnight."

"You require rest."

"I require my husband." You step closer. "I thought you would be happy."

"I am happy."

"You keep saying that."

"Because you insist upon asking."

"Because you do not behave as though you are!" Your voice cracks. “You no longer find me appealing?” You swallow hard, blinking as the sting of tears enters your vision. “My body is changing. I am tired constantly. I have been sick nearly every morning and-"

"Enough." Ormund stands with a soft clang to the table. “Do not think of such things.” He walks closer to you. "Do not ever think that."

"Have I displeased you?" You continue quietly. “Have I embarrassed you? Do you regret our union?”

His eyes harden. “No.” He hisses, “How dare you question-”

"Then what have I done?"

He takes a long moment to reply. "You are carrying my heir." His voice is quieter now. "You require more sleep than you did before. You should not be wandering through Oldtown without escort. Gwayne enjoys your company, and Gwayne is perfectly capable of accompanying you when I cannot."

"When you cannot," you repeat. "Or when you will not?"

His jaw clenches. "Do not twist my words."

"I am not twisting anything. I am asking why my husband will no longer sit beside me."

"I sit beside you every evening."

"In silence."

"Must every silence be an insult?"

"It feels like one." You whisper; finally he quiets himself. His eyes soften just slightly.

"I told you we were going to have a child, and somehow I have felt alone every day since." He keeps quiet. His eyes wander to your stomach. 

"Is it the babe? Do you not want it?"

"Do not be ridiculous." He gives you an offended look. He steps closer, reaching for your arms, but you turn away. “There are matters you do not understand." He speaks slowly.

"Then explain them to me."

His temper finally cracks; annoyance takes his face once more. “I do not know what to believe!” He snaps.

"Because I do not know what I am meant to believe!"

“What do you mean?” 

Silence falls over the room, stark and deafening. Ormund simply stares at you. 

“We shared a bed only once.”

“The dates do not make sense to me.”

“Tell me there has been no other laying hands on you.”

You pull away when he reaches for you again. Ormund cannot bring himself to speak his concerns.  "You wanted me to rest?" you whisper. "Very well. I shall."

He catches your hand as you turn to leave; you only yank your hand away and continue walking. “How much more of my husband am I expected to surrender before he decides he wants me again?"

Agner passed his features again. For weeks he had held his tongue. Swallowed every question and suspicion- every ugly thought that clouded his mind.

He had watched Gwayne walk beside you through the gardens when once that place had belonged to him. He had watched you smile when Gwayne whispered some foolish thing into your ear at supper. He had watched his cousin offer you his arm when you were tired, watched him bring you books when you were confined indoors, watched him make certain you ate when your stomach rebelled against nearly everything placed before you.

Ormund had arranged most of it himself. That was perhaps the cruelest part.

"Tell me what you have done." He finally exhaled.

"There is nothing to tell."

"Do not lie to me."

"Lie?" You scoff, “You tell me you are busy every hour of every day; you are the one lying! You tell me to rest, to have Gwayne keep me company when you clearly cannot be bothered to-”

"Say his name," he hissed.

"Gwayne?"

"Of course." He laughed bitterly.  "You mean to stand here and pretend you don’t understand?"

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about!"

His weeks of restraint were crumbled. The hours of silence he spent alone simply thinking drove him from the ledge. “You are nearly two months along?” “Three now, if you paid any mind to my condition!”

"I have counted the days. Again and again. I thought perhaps I had mistaken them. Perhaps the maester had. Perhaps you had." He settled his hands behind his back, his expression icy. “We shared a bed only once, and suddenly my wife is carrying a child.”

You looked at him, brows furrowed, and mouth parted slightly as you took in his words. The tone behind them, how he spoke so cruelly in this moment. “It doesn’t make sense.” He trails closer to the desk, while you take a weak step following him. Before you can speak, he cuts you off; his hand slams onto the table. “It does not make sense; nothing you say will convince me otherwise.”

You jump, startled. Your face grows pale, and your stomach churns. “There must have been another man.” He finally lets out. 

"No…” Your voice is quiet, uncertain as you watch him.

"Do not lie to me."

"I am not lying!"

"Then explain it!"

"I cannot explain something that requires no explanation! You came to my bed. That is all!"

"Once."

"Once can be enough!"

"So everyone keeps telling me."

"You think I've betrayed you?” Your voice wobbles; you bite back the tears swelling your eyes and chest. “Who would I lay with if not you? You are being ridiculous!”

Something vicious flickered across his face. "Gwayne."

"Gwayne?"

"Do not pretend the thought is absurd. He is forever with you."

"Because you send him to me!"

"He wants you. I see the way he looks at you. How he finds reason to touch you.”

"He takes my arm! I am carrying a child; sometimes I become faint, and he helps me.”

"He has always been too familiar with you. He knows when you are ill. He knows what foods you can stomach. He knows when you have slept poorly. He knows when you wish to walk and when you wish to sit and when you would rather be left alone."

"Because you refuse to!” You shout. “You haven't been here!”

"I have spent days wondering why Gwayne was so eager to take my place."

"You gave him your place!"

"I gave him nothing."

"You gave him me!”

His expression darkened. "Do not say that."

"Why? It is true! You sent him to walk with me. You sent him to dine with me. You moved me from our chambers. Every time I asked for you, there was some excuse and another man sent in your stead!"

"And you seemed perfectly content with Gwayne. Too content.” Tears spilled down your cheeks; Ormund only scoffed. “You asked for my truth. This is it.”

“I asked why it seems my husband no longer cares for me.” You choke out. 

"I never said I did not love you."

“You accuse me of carrying your cousin's child! You truly believe it- there is no arguing with you.”

"Gwayne has access to you. You trust him. You spend hours in his company-"

"At your command!"

"Stop saying that!"

"Why? Because it reminds you that this great betrayal you've invented was arranged by your own hand?"

"I did not arrange for my cousin to fuck my wife!"

Your hand struck his cheek. Suddenly. Without thought. Silence fell over the room once again. "How dare you." You willed yourself ot sound strong, but your resolved curmbled more and more as Ormund kept countering your every word. Your voice tightened, and tears spilled freely now. "I have never thought of another man. I have never allowed another man into my bed. I have never wanted another man." 

You turned from him, heading for the door. “There is nothing more I can say to convince you this is your child.”

"Where are you going?"

"Away from you."

"You will not leave the Hightower." His voice rises, cold and demanding.

Gwayne was not gentle or kind.

He had approached Ormund in the days following your argument, venom dripping from his tongue as he slammed the solar’s door behind him. “You are a damned fool.”

Ormund's head snapped up at his cousin's interruption. He twisted his face in a sneer, “Mind yourself.”

“I have minded myself long enough. As your wife weeps herself so sleep every day because she has married a daft fool.”

“Do not speak as if you know what is transpiring between us-”

"I know enough.” Gwayne interrupted, “You have asked me to accompany her. You asked me to walk with her when you were occupied, to make certain she did not wander through Oldtown alone. And then you accuse her of bedding me for obeying your desires of me."

"I know what I asked."

"Do you?" Gwayne stepped closer. "Because you seem to have conveniently forgotten it while convincing yourself that every moment I spent in her company was laced with ill intention.”

Gwayne looked to him with disgust. “Nothing happened between us, and you know it. I have never touched your wife improperly.  I have never entered her chambers without invitation and servants present. I have never desired to dishonor you." Gwayne paused. "And she has never given me reason to believe she desires anyone but you."

“It does not make sense-”

"She loves you," Gwayne continued. "Apparently more than you deserve. You have convinced yourself you understood a woman's body better than the maesters. And when the maester told you conception was entirely possible, you decided even that was not sufficient because suspicion suited you better."

Ormund remained silent and still. Gwayne approached, resting a hand on his shoulder. “We may argue and prod one another, cousin, but I would not do such a thing. Your wife would never dishonor you in such a way; do you not remember your wedding day? She looked to you as if you had arranged the stars just for her- complete adoration.”

Ormund turned his head away. He could remember very well how you looked to him at the altar. So beautiful, eyes brimmed with excitement and love as you smiled through the ceremony. 

Gwayne hesitated, "She is ill."

"What?"

"She has been abed since yesterday."

"What illness? Is she fevered? Has there been bleeding? Is the child-"

"The maester has seen her." Ormund rips away from Gwayne’s soft touch, straining for the door. 

"Why was I not told?"

"She tried to." He sucked in an annoyed breath. “You dismissed the servant ordered to tell you this morning. She asked them not to trouble you again after that."

By the time he reached your chambers, which he now realizes is so painfully far from his own now, his heart drums in his chest and up to his ears.

The room was dim. The curtains were drawn tight against the afternoon light, and a fire burned despite the warmth outside. A basin sat beside the bed alongside half-finished cups of water and untouched food.

And then his eyes found you. Curled beneath the covers, skin pale against the white sheets. He called for you and your eyes opened slowly. Confusion came first, followed by recognition. You struggled, turning away from him to face the covered windows.

He lowered himself beside you. "My love."

"Are you in pain?"

"No."

"The child?"

"Fine."

"Has the maester—"

"The child is fine, Ormund." He reached for your hand, but you weakly brushed it away and pulled it beneath the blankets. “

"I should have come to you sooner." You could only close your eyes and pull the covers tighter. “I spoke with Gwayne,” he offered quietly.

"You would not believe your wife, but Gwayne tells you he has not bedded me and suddenly you come running."

"I should never have needed another man's word. You told me the child was mine," he continued. "That should have been enough." Your face softened only slightly; tears brimmed in your eyes once again. “Why didn’t you follow me when I left?”

“I was angry," he admitted after a long pause. "After seeing what I had done to you, some vile part of me still wondered whether I might be right." His voice cracked. "I have regretted it from the moment that door closed."

Your face crumpled. Ormund moved instinctively toward you, then stopped. For perhaps the first time in your marriage, he waited for permission.

You began to cry. Heavy and hard, your shoulders trembled beneath the blankets as weeks of loneliness and humiliation finally spilled from you. “You hurt me,” you rasp, “I was so happy to tell you and all you did was hurt me.”

“I know,” he whispers, repeating it over and over. Slowly your hand crept from beneath the covers, fingertips brushing his. 

"I thought you didn't want me anymore," you whispered.

"I wanted you every miserable moment I spent away from you."

"You are an idiot."

“I know.” he almost laughed. “Gwayne has made sure I never forget it.” He reached for the water at your side, carefully drawing it to your lips. “Drink, my love; you must.” You choke it down, your fever leaving drips of sweat at your forehead.

“I will give you a proper yelling at when I recover.” You rasp, settling back into bed. “But I suppose, for now, your words will have to do.”

He smiled, reaching to fis the blankets at your shoulders. “Rest for now, my love. I intend to make all of our time apart up to you, and more.”

You nod slightly, “Will you stay?” You ask uncertainly, “Until I fall asleep?”

“Of course.” He sighs.

And when exhaustion finally pulled you into sleep, and your fingers went slack within his, Ormund remained exactly where he was. Through the night he sat by your side, dismissing whatever work had to be done. He didn’t summon Gwayne or Daeron to take his place; he did not leave until morning light broke and your fever had begun to dissipate. 

“You do not find me attractive?” You ask one evening, sitting at your vanity. Quietly plucking your jewelry off for the night. Gwayne was behind you, changing to something more comfortable to sleep in. Your quiet, nervous question left him stopped in his tracks. 

“Why do you say that?” He asked carefully.

You scoffed, “It is obvious; you have not lain with me since our wedding night. What is so undesirable?” You turned to him, lips pressed thin to a frown. “You are perfect in every way, husband, but I cannot keep ignoring this- I have desires and needs- what of an heir? You father asks often of when we will bless the house with one.”

“It is nothing like that,” he breathes, flustered. “You are not undesirable at all, love; you are kind and beautiful. Cleaver, to talk to you comes with such ease; you are very desirable.”

"You've never once made me feel unwanted," you continued quietly. "Yet I cannot help but wonder if you find me... lacking."

"No” He jumped quickly. "No," he repeated, softer. "Never think that."

"Then why?" He took a long time to answer. "I've waited because I thought perhaps you wished to take things slowly. But I can’t help but wonder if I have somehow failed you."

"You have never failed me." His voice cracked. “You are more patient than I deserve." He reached to take your hands. “The fault is mine and mine alone.”

The guilt weighed on him heavily; it grew with every passing night. Unspoken glances of servants, harsh questions from her father. Gossip from court and smallfolk: why hasn’t Ser Gwayne given his wife a child?

You deserve a husband to give you everything- companionship, devotion, children- but it remained painfully, impossibly beyond his reach. 

Gwayne runs his thumb over your hand carefully, seemingly unsure of what to say next. He draws you closer to the bed, sitting down beside you and sighing. “I had hoped to grow fond of you when we married; I thought that with time I could bring myself to give you children. However much I care for you, love you dearly, I cannot bring myself to lie with you again.”

Your brows knit together. “I don’t understand. If you love me as much as you claim, how can you refuse to lie with me?”

“I’m not…fond of women.” He admits quietly, hand still clasped tightly with yours. “I have never been very fond of women…However, I know that I cannot openly reject them; my father would never allow it.”

"...Oh."

It was the only word you could manage. Your shoulders dropped as the truth settled over you. "So..." you whispered. "It was never me?"

"Never." He insisted. “I cannot bear that you have believed yourself unworthy because of me.”

A stray tear rolled down your cheek. “You should have told me.”

"I know."

"I thought..." Your voice grew weak. "I thought perhaps you looked at me and wished for someone prettier. Someone smarter. Someone who knew how to be a better wife."

"I have never wished for another wife." He frowned, “I have only wished myself to be a different husband.” 

You sniffled, more tears slipping from your eyes as you took him into your arms. “You're foolish,” you laughed weakly into his shoulder. “You’ve kept this burden to yourself this whole time?”

“It’s not yours to bear.” He murmured, “If you wish to leave this marriage, I won’t stop you.”

"No."

"It would be deserved."

"It would not."

"You deserve the chance to marry a man who can give you everything."

"And you deserve someone who doesn't ask you to become someone you're not." A faint, weary smile curved his lips. "Do you wish to leave this marriage?"

"No." He admitted softly. “I love the life we’ve begun. Our morning together, our walks. Even how you cheat at cyvasse-”

“I do not cheat!” You laugh through wavering tears. 

"You absolutely do." He smiled softly, bringing a hand to brush away the drying tears from your cheek. 

You stare at him, holding his eyes for a long moment. “Gwayne,” you sigh, “you’ve been trying to make this marriage fit what you believe it should be; perhaps it’s time to accept it will never be what others may expect from us.” The truth of Gwayne’s desires put to rest the restless twists in your stomach. “I wish for us to remain partners; we are happy and kind to one another. I see no reason for annulment.”

“What of the rest? What I cannot give you?” He asks, voice uncertain as he watches you.

"The rest..." you said carefully, "may have to come from elsewhere."

"You would truly consider such a thing?"

"I would consider whatever solution allows us both to live happily." You brushed a loose strand of hair from his face, hand moving to settle at the side of his face. “We will do this together, honestly, carefully.”

Your arrangement settled a few days after that night. You would remain married and happy as you had always been. Still, his family questioned why it was taking so long to provide a child. For now, their worries settled; you claimed that it was not for a lack of trying; you simply were having a hard time conceiving.

So of course, Otto ordered everything to be done to help your condition.

The Maesters visited often. You sat through their lectures and tips to conceive, only half listening as they went on and on. Gwayne always attended with you, the both of you hiding faint smiles as they drummed up every possible solution to help put a child into you.

“I don’t think your father will give up.” You comment one night, giggling as you fall back onto the bed. “He demands it.”

“He can demand all he wants; it will not change a thing.” He sighs, exhaustion weighing heavier on him. “I’m sorry I can’t give you a child.” He looks down at you with a frown. “Maybe we should try…I got through our wedding night well enough-” “No- no,” you hush up, sitting up immediately. “I don't want you to do anything you won’t enjoy. I can bear our family’s expectations.”

“They speak ill of us.” He admits, “I hear the gossip every day.”

“I don’t care. Are we not happy the way things are?”

“I am,” he smiles, “you are my most trusted friend.”

“And you mine.” Gwayne’s smile falters a bit; he puffs out a small breath as he turns to pace the room. “I don’t like how to speak of you.” He admits. “As if you’re doing something wrong, or that you're cursed to be barren, when it is not true. When the blame is solely on me.”

“Don’t listen to them; I can take harmless gossip.” 

“Your family pressures me; they are angry.” He admits, “So I have been thinking.” You tilted your head, watching him pace before the hearth. He rarely wore such a troubled expression. 

"That is never a reassuring way to begin a sentence." You tried to laugh to lighten his mood, but only a breathless laugh escaped him, though it lacked its usual warmth.

"I cannot continue allowing you to bear the burden of my shortcomings." You fell silent; he stopped his hands behind his back, eyes watching the flames of the hearth dance. "My father grows more impatient with each passing moon. Your family asks about heirs as though they might appear if they simply inquire enough." He sighed. "They look at you with pity."

"I've survived worse than pity."

"But you should not have to." His voice softened.

"You have given me nothing but kindness since the day we wed. You accepted a husband who could not love you as husbands are expected to love their wives, and never once did you resent me for it.”

"I have never had reason to."

"You should have."

"I could never."

"I love you," he said quietly. "Just... not in the way this marriage requires."

"I know."

"And because I love you..." He swallowed. "I would rather endure any shame myself than watch them place it upon your shoulders."

"What have you been thinking?" He turned, for a long moment; he searched your face, as though weighing whether the words should ever leave his lips.

"When we married," he began carefully, "we promised there would never be deceit between us. I have no intention of breaking that promise." His jaw tightened. "If House Hightower must have an heir..." He paused, choosing each word with painful precision. "Perhaps... we ought to seek a solution together.”

The room grew quiet, save for the soft burning of the fire. "There is... one possibility," he finally sighed, seemingly unsure if he should continue his thought.

“Finally going to tell me what’s troubling you?”

A weary smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I've spent the better part of a fortnight trying to convince myself it was a terrible idea."

"And?”

He exhaled slowly before crossing the room to sit beside you. For a long moment he simply studied his hands, as though the words refused to come. "If House Hightower must have an heir," he began carefully, "perhaps that heir need not be mine by blood."

You frowned, uncertain whether you had heard him correctly. "I don't understand."

"You know my cousin Ormund?”

You laughed, a surprised shrill in your tone trying to bring some kind of levity to his dead serious tone. “I do. What does he have to do with this?”

"I find him impossible. He is vain."

You nodded. "Insufferably so."

Gwayne sighed through his nose, almost reluctant to continue. "Unfortunately, beneath all that arrogance is a man fiercely devoted to our house."

The amusement faded from your face as his words slowly began to settle into you. "Gwayne..."

"I have considered every other solution." His voice softened. "An annulment would only punish us both. Pretending the gossip does not exist has accomplished nothing. 

"They're only whispers!”

"They call you barren. They pity you. They speak as if you've failed me, when the truth is that you've done nothing wrong. If..." He hesitated, choosing every word with care. "If you were comfortable with it... I could ask Ormund."

You stared at him. "Ask him... for what?"

"To father our heir."

The air seemed to leave the room. He watched you, allowing the weight of his proposal to settle over you.  "The child would still carry the Hightower name," he continued gently. "They would resemble our family well enough that no one would question it. The rumors would end. Our fathers would have the heir they demand, and no one would dare cast blame upon you again."

"You've truly thought this through." You finally breathed.

"For weeks."

"And... Ormund?"

A tired laugh escaped him. "I dislike admitting this more than you know, but my cousin possesses an unbearable amount of confidence."

"Arrogance." You corrected. "You think he'd agree to father a bastard to us?”

 "Ormund's pride is matched only by his devotion to our house. He would never acknowledge the child as his own. He has too much ambition to willingly father a bastard or embroil House Hightower in scandal. Whatever else he may be, he understands discretion."

You lowered your gaze, trying to gather your thoughts. "Gwayne..."

“You do not need to rush to answer me.” Gwayne hurried closer to you; he took both your hands in his own. His thumb brushed gently across your knuckles, his eyes drifting from your hands to your face. "I would never ask you to sacrifice your comfort. If this plan upsets you, then we shall figure something else out.”

“I will think about it.” You whisper, smiling slightly and lifting your hand to cup the side of his face. 

"Take all the time you need," he murmured. "Whatever we decide, we decide together."

You had never truly looked at Ormund Hightower. You had seen him often around Oldtown. He occupied every feast, gathering, and anything else of importance. He lingered with confidence that bordered on being insufferable. If praise was to be earned, he always found himself standing closest to it.

You had long ago decided he was impossibly arrogant. He was an exhausting man. Forever smirking and teasing Gwayne. The gods had been especially gracious when fashioning him, he would comment. You rolled your eyes each time he said such things. He thinks far too highly of himself- that opinion had not changed.

However, ever since Gwayne’s proposal, you had found yourself noticing him more and more. Innocently enough, your eyes lingered on him longer now. When he entered rooms, crossed the courtyard and gardens. His voice caught you when he spoke with Knights and lords.

He was, unfortunately, handsome. There was no honest way around it. Tall, broad-shouldered, and tidy. Tunics impeccable, hair carefully kept, no matter what he was doing. He always looked as how a Hightower lord should look. You could not help but think that if a child held his features, they would resemble a Hightower no doubt. There would be no questions of parentage; there would be no more whispers that dared to suggest you were barren. No one would look upon you and Gwayne with disappointment and pity anymore.

You disliked the thoughts that clouded your mind. To think of the man that way, though it was practical. The strength of his bloodline was no doubt.

So, as the days passed, you began to pay closer attention.

For all the arrogance, he had never been viciously unkind to you. He teased everyone, favoring Gwayne when he was around. His barbs were more irritating than hurtful; he truly expected everyone to laugh along with him in such moments. In the rare moments that you spoke to him, he was pleasant. Asked about your day, exchanging idle conversation when Gwayne attended to matters elsewhere.

He had a habit of making even the dullest stories entertaining, embellishing them with dramatic gestures and expressions until, despite yourself, you laughed and he flashed an unbreakable grin.

“There,” he would smirk, “I knew I could make you smile.”

Perhaps there was some redemption for his unsavory traits. And, as Gwayne said, he was unmistakably loyal to House Hightower. Enough to keep such a secret…

“The servants have been taking wagers.” Ormund’s voice floated through the study. “Half believe you to be impotent, the other half…” His voice trailed, eyes moving to where Gwayne stood unamused at his desk. “Find you to be selective.”

“Have you finished yet?” Gwayne sniped.

“Not remotely, you know; you truly have managed to find the one duty expected of every lord that you cannot stomach."

“Shall I resend my proposal?” Gwayne turned to leave, brow furrowed and scowling. 

“Shall I thank you? You’ve found me a spouse without any of the tedious marriage vows.” He snickered.

“Don't test me today, cousin.” 

“Ah, a bit late for husbandly possessiveness, isn’t it?”

“Ormund,” Gwayne bit out with a sigh, “this is a matter of preserving our house and stopping any shame from falling upon my wife. The gossip, I know, has been bothering her even if she claims otherwise. It is not her fault.”

“Why marry then?” Ormund questions, leaning back in his chair. “Why not refuse and allow her to pass to the next?”

“I care for her deeply; there is no denying that.”

Ormund raised his brows, nodding slightly. “It seems you do. You care for her enough to ask me such an… unorthodox favor.” Gwayne remained still, his expression unmoved.

“She has agreed to this, but you will not pressure her or charm her into anything she doesn’t wish to do. You will not make light of what I am asking.”

"I may be arrogant, Gwayne, but I'm not dishonorable. For what little my word is worth to you," he said, straightening his back. 

"And the child?"

"The child will be yours." Ormund spoke plainly, “Yours and hers- never mine; I have no desire for it. It will bear your name, title, and your legacy."

"Thank you."

Two nights later, you found yourself sitting in Ormund's room alone. Waiting for him to come to you, finished with whatever business he needed to tend to before retiring. Gwyane had snuck you in without anyone seeing, and he would remain in his chambers, pretending as if he did not exist. Gwyane was to be believed in bed with you for the night, neither of you to be disturbed for any reason. Ormund would retire alone per usual, not to be disturbed.

You looked about his room, nerves weighing your stomach as you waited for him. You were trying to stop yourself from counting every second that ticked by

"My lady." Ormund's voice was smooth and quiet as he entered his chambers. Locking the door behind him and stopped just a few steps before where you sat on his bed. "You look disappointed."

"I was hoping someone less insufferable had knocked." You breathed, watching a grin spread across his face. He looked around the chamber, taking in the quiet fire and the untouched goblets of wine waiting on the table.

"You know," he said eventually, "Gwayne has given me many lectures leading up to this night.” You smiled faintly; you knew he had. He had given you similar talks, that you could back out whenever needed, not to feel like you had to do this for him, etc., etc., etc. 

"I've been ordered to behave." Ormund stepped closer, slipping his coat off and tossing it aside. “It wounded me deeply, his mistrust.”

"I somehow doubt that.” You tutted, watching him swipe a cup of wine and take a sip. You took the other that he offered to you, though you wanted it more to occupy your hands than to drink. "He also informed me," Ormund continued, "that if I so much as upset you, he'd likely throw me from the Hightower."

“I’ll throw you off myself.” You laugh. “He worries.”

“Only because he cares for you.” 

"I know."

Though I confess, I still don't understand it. You deserve a husband who looks at you and forgets the rest of the room exists." His brow furrowed. "Forgive me, but I cannot understand how he could..." He trailed off, watching you purse your lips slightly.

"He can't help who he is." You spoke, “But he has loved me since we were children. 

"Then why stay?"

"Because he is my husband."

"That cannot be the only reason."

"It isn't. Believe it or not, I love him. He is my dearest friend. He has never spoken cruelly to me. Never raised a hand or his voice. He knows when I'm troubled before I do. He remembers every little thing that brings me joy." A fond smile touched your lips. "He cannot love me in every way, but that does not diminish the love he gives."

Ormund nods, but you know by the look on his face that he still can’t quite understand. You drop the subject, though; there is no need for him to understand the unique bond you and Gwayne shared. Truthfully, you thought there was no need to talk at all.

"If, at any point this evening, you wish for me to leave..." His voice was calm, stripped of its bravado. “Just say the word.”

Ormund moved to sit beside you now. You stared down into the goblet of wine, nerves suddenly getting the best of you. "I'd almost forgotten how many words a man can string together when he's determined to remind his cousin to behave." Ormund comments, tilting his head and watching you smile into the cup.  "He carries an awful lot of guilt."

Your smile disappeared. “He shouldn’t.”

"No." Ormund took another sip of wine. "But we all carry our own afflictions. One man has a weak knee from the tourney field. Another cannot read. Some are born with tempers that ruin every friendship they make." He shrugged. "Some are vain. My point is this—everyone is lacking in something. Gwayne's burden just happens to be one the realm refuses to ignore."

“I expected more mockery from you.” You commented, “You seem to love to poke at him.”

“Oh, I intend to mock the man until death.” He laughs; you glare at him with a pout. 

“You will not.” 

Ormund hums, and suddenly becomes painfully aware of just how close he had gotten. It feels natural, yet so unnatural as he leans in to kiss you. He presses his lips to yours, careful and slow.

“I overheard you the other day,” he murmurs, “tell Gwayne that I am handsome?” 

“Handsome enough.” You reply quietly; he’s still close enough that his nose nearly brushes yours. His eyes lidded as they search yours. This time you lean to meet him with a kiss, and he moves to cup the side of your face. 

“Has he touched you at all?” He asks breathlessly.

“None of your business,” you mutter. 

Ormund hums; his hand slides from your cheek to your neck. Resting heavily upon the side of it, he leans in and kisses you again. Slowly, his lips find the corner of your mouth, trailing to your jaw. You sigh gently in content. Oh, how you loved Gwayne- but how badly had you craved such affection as this?

Ormund's lips tickle your neck; his teeth nip at your skin gently. Your breathing picks up a bit; he smirks into your neck. “Breathless already?” He asks, “We've scarcely begun.”

“Our wedding night was the first and only time we…” You trail off, face beet-red. 

“Oh, my poor needy dove.” He teases as you feel his hands run over your bare arms. Your nightgown, nothing special or particularly pleasing to the eye, was loose against your body. The straps are thin and ruffled; Ormund picks at them gently but doesn’t push them aside just yet. “Do you want me to satisfy the hunger biting at you?” He asks, “I can tell- you need me, do you not?”

“Ormund-” You suck in a soft breath; his hand skims up your side. “Do you ever stop teasing?”

“It is the best part,” he murmured, lips coming to brush against your ear. His warm breath bit shivers down your spine. You lean closer to him. “You need me?”

You pause, the feeling of his breath against your ear. His fingers skim delicately at your waist. Your mind swirled; words left your mind in that moment. “I need you,” you finally muster out. It is all Ormund seemed to need to hear. His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you closer. His lips returned to your neck, his teeth scraping and nipping at it. One of your arms wound around him, hand coming to rest at the back of his neck to encourage him further. His hands bunch up the fabric of your nightgown as they run back up your sides and stomach, meet your breasts. You shiver at the sudden warmth of his touch, your nipples already hard and brushed against the silk. You squirm as he lets one hand drop back down to your waist, the other envelopes your breast. Kneeding the soft flesh absentmindedly.

“Did he touch you like this?” He asks, voice almost feverish as he demands details from you. His hand had dipped lower, raising goosebumps over your thigh as he slipped past your undergarments. You gasp at the sudden feeling, the pads of his fingers rough and cold against your heat. “Eager for me?” He laughs; your thighs shake slightly as a finger brushes from your clit down your entrance. “Dripping already, just from light kissing? You needy you are, how pent up you must be.” Slowly, he presses his finger into you; your walls flutter and twitch around him, the feeling briefly unfamiliar as you suck in a breath to calm yourself.

The room suddenly felt too hot. The feeling of his strong hands gliding over your body overtook your senses. His touch was so different than Gwayne’s; his fingertips dripped with desire in a way you had never experienced. You could feel his erection prodding against your thigh as he settled you on his lap. 

“You seem eager as well,” you breathe.

“I have shown tremendous restraint thus far.” Your arms wrap around his neck, your thighs ache from the slight stretch to settle over him. His head dips back to the junction of your neck and shoulder; slowly, he adds another finger. Your back arches slightly, your breasts press against him. You shudder at the feeling of your nipples pressing rough into this clothing. He seems only content with sinking his teeth into your shoulder; he bites hard momentarily. 

Your body jolts; his thumb finds its way up to your clit, his fingers pushing inside of you as he presses rough at your clit. “That’s it,” he murmurs, watching your body tense and jump for him. Your eyes squeeze shut, brow knit as pleasure takes your body and mind. You whimper as he continues to circle your clit and you come undone on his fingers. “Good girl,” he breathes, fingers digging harder into your soft skin as he tries to hold you in place over him.

He gives you little time to recover, your body slick with sweat, your chest heaving as you come down from your high. He moves you off of him; you settle into the mattress, arms propped up to watch him begin to undress. “There’s no turning back after this,” he chides, “if you wish to stop, say it now.”

“N-no.” Your breath catches in your throat at the sight of his bare body. Chest broad, stomach strong. Your eyes trail down as his hands begin to undo his pants. “No,” you repeat, lifting your gaze back to his. “I need you- need more.”

“Of course you do,” he snickers, “finally getting a proper taste of how a man should treat his wife.” You bite at the inside of your cheek, his cock springing free as he tosses the last of his clothing aside. Flushed red and hard, you peel your eyes away from it reluctantly as you notice Ormund’s smugness grow. “I’m going to fuck you,” he begins, slowly crawling onto the bed and over you. “Fuck you good, until you forget whatever half pleasure my cousin may have afforded you on your wedding night.”His words pinch the air from you, unsure of what to say other than “yes.” Your pussy clenches around nothing, greedily. The absence of his fingers long forgotten as you eagerly await the feeling of his cock. 

The first push is slow, deliberate, the thick head of his cock stretching you inch by inch. You gasp, nails biting into his biceps, eyes stinging.

“Gonna fill you up,” he grits out, the words tumbling free like he can’t hold them back. “Gonna stuff you full of my cum, I want to see you so full of me you can’t take another drop.”

“Please,” you whispered. It came out desperate. His eyes darkened. He shifted his hips, and his hard cock dragged between your thighs as he settled over you. He takes in the scene of you lying beneath him. Nightgown bunched and hardly concealing anything, hair a mess against his sheets, face flushed and chest heaving- he groaned at the sight. Your eyes flutter close as you feel the tip of his cock slide against your wetness, bumps against your clit a few times. You squirm, a tight coil of heat in your body spreading all over.

“Look at me,” he groans. “I want to watch you take my cock.” You struggle to keep your focus on him, as your mind goes into overdrive thinking of how badly you needed a cock in you. It had been so long; you had convinced yourself that you did not need such tedious pleasures, to spare your husband, you supposed. But as you felt the head of Ormund's cock slowly ease into you, you could not help but realise how badly you had longed for such intimacy. Whatever filth Ormund is spilling to you goes in one ear and out the other; all you can think about is the comfortable stretch of his cock within you.

His hips rock into yours, and you meet each thrust with eagerness. Your fingers twist into the sheets as he fucks you; your eyes cannot help but fall closed as you writhe for him.

“Would you like everyone to know who’s fucking you tonight?” He bites out suddenly. “With how loud you cry for me, the whole wing may hear you.” You shake your head half-heartedly, unaware of the crude whines and moans filling the room.

“I can’t help it,” you moan again, his cock sunk deep inside you as he grips you. 

“You’re made for this,” he groans, “perhaps your union was a blessing in disguise- such pretty noises just for me- fuck.” His thrusts grow unsteady; pleasure takes his movements with eagerness. You moan, pussy clenching around him greedily. “I’m going to fill you up-” he manages to get out. “That is all you want, right? For me to make a mess of you? Fill you up-” He hisses. You cling to him, nails scraping into his skin without care.

“Give it to me,” you cry, “now- please- Ormund!” His hand is quick to press over your mouth.

“Am I fucking you too good? Can’t even keep discretion?” His hips stutter a moment, his face twists, he’s close but desperately hanging onto the moment. You cry out one last time, moan muffled as Ormund fucks you through it, chasing his own pleasure wildly.

He his swift to get off you once he’s finished. He takes just a moment to trace your body, his eyes soaking in your heavy breathing and shaky legs. His cum slowly leaks from you; he is quick to use his fingers to stuff it back inside of you before it can make a mess on his sheets. 

The night grows quiet after that. He allows you a few moments to rest, to catch your breath and come down from your high. He cleans you up carefully, watches as you redress and try to regain your composure. 

A self-satisfied smile tugs at the corner of his mouth the whole time. You're ready to leave, to return to your chambers for the night unnoticed by anyone. “Do you still find me insufferable?” He asks, moving to grasp your hand and help you center yourself on still weak legs.

“I will never stop thinking that,” you laugh, “though, I may be more tolerable to it…after tonight.”

“I would hope not,” he hummed. “I quite like proving you wrong. Gwayne warned me you wouldn’t tolerate my ego, though you seemed ever…responsive to it.” 

You could only roll your eyes. “No, he was right to warn you. But… perhaps it is only tolerable when I am getting something out of it.”

Ormund's expression softened for the briefest moment before his ever-familiar arrogance returned. "He was wrong about one thing."

"What's that?"

"He seemed to think I'd fail to put you at ease."

"You don't have to prove anything to me," you say, tutting as he moves to lift your chin to him. 

“No, I don’t.” He thumb brushes carefully over your cheek, “but I do intend to prove something to every gossip that dares to whisper your name cruelly.”

“Oh, don’t grow so attached to me, Ormund.” You tease, “I need you only to do this one task.”

“I know; you so eagerly await our next night together.” He laughs, “No need to worry; I have every confidence House Hightower will have its heir soon enough."

So in your eyes, Ormund was the perfect husband. He had courted you so sweetly, brought you to Oldtown, and guided you most carefully. He was difficult only when needed, only when he could see just how much better you were than any mistake you could make. You had long since learned that your husband's temper was swift, coming without warning and fierce enough to make the strongest of men lower their eyes. You had fallen to it just once, and had no desire to again. One mistake was forgiven, a second was careless. Despite his sharpness, you loved him. Oh, you loved him.

You remembered fondly the man who had once ridden for days just to spend an afternoon at your side. Who promised you would know not a single hardship as his Lady. he kept every promise. There was not a comfort that he did not provide; oftentimes, you didn't even need to ask. In his own way, Ormund loved so fiercely, and you had never doubted that.

Duty weighed hard on him, though. The burden of House Hightower hardened his edges. But the gentleness deep within him was reserved for you. He looked to your warm smile after returning from council meetings. Kind praise when his patience wore thin. His approval warmed you, and his praise lingered upon you longer than anything. He had chosen you, placed his expectations upon you; you would do all you could to please them.

Today, like most other days, you walked the gardens in the evening. Ormund was occupied in his study with some minor lords of the Hightowers- something about grain or cattle, or something you had no care to worry about. Ormund had been tense lately. Petty matters drove him up a wall; even your comforts hadn’t calmed him last night.

It brought a lasting pout to your lips. He was not upset with you; however, you hated to see your husband so worked up. You would do something kind for him, you thought. Flowers picked and delicately arranged by your hand, you thought. Holding his favorite scent, perhaps to liven his study or to decorate beside his side of the bed. To go with the needlework you had finished that morning. You had embroidered delicate patterns on one of his favorite tunics. He praised your needlework every chance he got and wore your intricate work with a swell of pride.

It was not dark yet, but the sun was beginning to sink low. Golden orange filtered through the plants, shadows slowly cast from the high walls. Your guard lingered at the entrance, upon your request for some privacy to slowly build your husband's gift. He was an impatient man, with little ability to simply watch you pick flowers. You wanted a new one, but had decided to wait to ask Ormund; he was far too stressed lately.

Slowly, you looked over the different flowers; something clean and full of fragrance would do. Your fingers traced carefully over their petals, humming softly to yourself. The Gardens had always been your favorite place in Oldtown, your little sanctuary; it reminded you of the ones back home.

“My lady, there has been a disturbance within the tower; I shall return at once.”

“Do not worry, Ser Warren, I shall remain here.”

Silence settled over the garden once again; Ser Warren scurried off with haste. You continued your humming and picking until you realized just how quiet it had become. The birds no long sung along with you; even the buzz of insects was interrupted.

“Ser Warren?” You call out, receiving no answer but the rustle of leaves. Before you could turn fully to look around, a rough hand clamped around your wrist. You gasped, whirling around and dropping your basket of flowers. A stranger now towered over you. He stunk of sweat and ale. An ugly scar split his brow, certainly no man of the Hightowers.

"You must be the lord's pretty little wife." His voice was low and gruff, so deep that it froze you where you stood. His eyes swept over your gown, to the emerald lace against your throat. "You'll do just fine."

"What...what do you want?"

"The prince." 

"I know nothing," you pleaded, twisting your arm in his grip, heels digging into the dirt as you tried to pry yourself away.

"I don't care whether you do." He stepped closer, forcing you to stumble back towards the wall. "You'll scream," he commented. "The guards will come. Your lord might even come running himself." His mouth twisted into a smile. "And while they're busy saving you..."

The rest needed no saying; your stomach turned. Tears stung your eyes, despite your efforts to remain calm. You had never known men like this. You grew up peacefully with your family, then when Ormund took your hand, you had never worried about what kind of men could be out there. Violence had always been a distant thing, spoken of in council meetings and carried out on battlefields.

Your eyes searched the gardens desperately, but it remained empty. You were alone. Alone at this man's mercy, and his fingers were digging into your arm so painfully. 

"Now," he growled, drawing the dagger free, its steel glinting in the afternoon sun, "you're going to be very quiet." His hand clamped over your mouth, silencing the shrill scream you had yearned to let out.

"Don't," you trembled agains him, “please.”

His fingers dug painfully into your cheeks. “Make another sound, and I’ll slit your throat before anyone even gets here.” Tears welled in your eyes, a few falling stary down your cheeks and over her fingers. He laughed, cruel and ugly. “The might Hightower’s little wife cries before she’s even bled? I should give your tears a reason to swell.”

He shoved you harshly against the stone wall, and the back of your head struck it with a dull whack. You cried out, vision swimming as you desperately clawed at his skin.

You had never fought anyone; you did not know how. Nor did you possess the brute strength needed to fend this man off.

"Quiet." He ordered, his hand moving down to catch your throat while his free one took the dagger from his side.

"I know nothing of Prince Daeron," you whispered, voice breaking. Your knees were weak as they threatened to give out. The dull blade of the dagger pressed to your chest.

"I didn't ask what you knew." The dagger slid, gliding down your neck soft enough not to tear your skin. It caught on the neckline of your gown, and with a swift jerk, the fine silk tore. "No one is coming," he murmured. "Your guards abandoned you."

A shout echoed somewhere beyond the garden walls, distant and undiscernible. Still, the assassin drew his attention away, his grip on you loosened just a bit. You mustered whatever courage was left within and stamped the heel of your boot into his. He hissed, loosening his hold again, enough for you to be able to twist and wrench yourself free.

Branches and thorns clawed at your skirts as you trampled through the winding garden paths. You could hear him snarl after you, telling you to get back, but you didn’t dare look back or slow your running.

“Ormund!” You cried, crossing the gardens and shoving open the gates. “Ormund!” You nearly slipped over the smooth stone paths, catching yourself on the wall, tossing your head around to look for the man. 

Still, he dared to follow, and you had yet to see any guards. "Ormund!" You shouted, finally coming around the corner into the courtyard. The distant glisten of armor caught your eyes. At the head of them stood Ormund, Daeron at his side per usual.

“Ormund!” you cried, throwing yourself to him with little care for who was around. You clutched to the front of his shirt, sobs wracking your body as you struggled to get out any more words.

His arms tightened around you, his gaze over your shoulder and fixed upon the man who had emerged behind you.

Ormund scarcely looked at the trembling woman buried against his chest. One hand firm at the back of your head, pressing you close to his chest while the other anchored around your waist.

"Alive," he said, his voice low. "I want him alive." The half dozen men at his side had already moved in on him. “If he dies before he tells me who sent him-” Ormund's eyes traced the man with disgust, “I shall hold the lot of you accountable.”

As the guards descended upon the man, Ormund slowly peeled you from his hold. “Daeron, escort her to my Chambers.” He ordered calmly, too calmly. Daeron looked to him before carefully taking your arm. His gaze was careful to avoid the tear in your dress, and his hand took you gently as he led you away. “I’ll come to you later, after this mess is sorted.” He explained, his voice heavy with a sigh as he watched Daeron escort you back inside.

Ormund turned back to his men. “Take the prisoners to the cells, question them extensively. I want Ser Warren and every man that was supposed to be posted at the gardens brought to my study immediately.”

He dismissed them, turning to head back inside. The frantic movement of the household around him went unnoticed as Ormund made his way back to his study. The swift apprehension of the two assassins sent to strike at his House brought satisfaction for now. They would be questioned, broken, and hanged from the battlements of the Hightower. Though these thoughts did little to ease his mind as he thought of you.

You had called for him; his name tumbled desperate and teary from your panic. Your skirts dirty and torn, clasped in your trembling hands. Your face red and tear-stricken,

You had been terrified. His sweet wife. His precious treasure. His prize- disheveled and frightened, running right into his arms. The neckline of your gown torn, slashed open with that filthy blade. Surely, he thought, ugly bruises were already blooming over your arms. 

His jaw tightened until it ached. Another man had dared to lay a single finger on you. The thought alone filled him with such rage. The thought festered; those filthy hands wrapped around your wrists- violence did not belong in the sanctuary of the Hightower, not when his sweet wife wished only to pick flowers and tend to him. 

It had been Prince Daeron they sought. Or perhaps Ormund himself. Unable to reach either of them, they had turned to the nearest weakness they believed they could exploit: you. The insult was unforgivable. You were not theirs to touch, to threaten, nor to scare. You were his to do as he pleased, his Lady Hightower. You bore his name, embodied everything he wished you to, you were under his protection and- Ormund’s jaw clenched hard. His men, his own men, had failed you.

The room was quiet, deathly so. The captain of his guard stood stiff before the long Oak table. The men assigned to the gardens stood at his side, as did Ser Warren.

"Tell me," Ormund said quietly, "who gave the order to abandon the gardens?"

"The disturbance within the tower, my lord," the captain began carefully. "We believed-"

"You believed?" He slammed both hands onto the table. "You believed?" He repeated, louder. "You believed it prudent to leave my wife unguarded?"

“Of course not, My Lord-” “I am not finished!” Ormund snapped, “You call yourselves Hightower men?” He looked over each one of them. “I have seen stable boys with more sense. Deceived with a mere disturbance- a distraction.”

The men dared not to look up; their eyes remained glued to the floor. Ormund's hands slid across the table. The parchment and ink bottles hit the ground harshly. "I entrust her to you! And you-” His voice grew rougher as he laid eyes upon Ser Warren. "I entrusted you with the most precious thing I possess- you duty is simple: ensure my prize is protected at all costs. One duty- one damned duty and you abandon it?” His fists crashed into the table.

"My lord, I believed the disturbance-"

"I do not care what you believed. There is no excuse. Do you know what I found, Ser Warren?" He didn’t wait for an answer; the knight had dropped to one knee already- pleading his case as Ormund paced the room. “I found my sweet wife hysterical, gown torn, her precious skin marked with filth- she clung to me, called my name with such desperation- she called my name, for help, several times I can only assume. Where were you?”

"...Gone."

"Gone," Ormund repeated bitterly. "A fine epitaph for a sworn sword."

"My lord, I beg your forgiveness."

"Forgiveness?" Ormund scoffed.

"I failed." Ormund reached forward without warning, grasping the green cloak fastened at his shoulders, tearing the clasp free with a swift jerk. 

"You are no knight of mine." His voice dropped lower, almost calm. "You are stripped of your service."

"My lord—"

"You will gather your belongings before sundown." Ormund stepped aside, gesturing toward the open doors. "Get out. I ought to strip every one of you of your cloaks." He spat, turning back to the remaining guards. “Pray to the Seven that my lady never again suffers because of your negligence."

It was a long while until Ormund made his way to your chambers. You had bathed and changed to something more comfortable. Your gown, your favorite, lay against the chair. The torn seems open to the world. You had already begun to mend it with shaky hands. Daeron remained at your side quietly, watching you try to calm the tremble in your fingers as you tried to sew.

“You may leave us, Daeron.” Ormund’s voice was still gruff from the yelling. “Thank you,” he spoke quieter, “the guards outside your room have been doubled; stay vigilant and rest now.” Ormund’s hand brushed over his shoulder a moment before Daeron gave an obedient nod and hurried off. 

Now alone, Ormund approached you. Sat up in bed, the covers pooled loose around your folded legs. 

"My lord..." you croaked, voice a bit hoarse from all the yelling. Ormund sat before you, reached to take your hand into his own.

“Sweetling,” he sighed. The chaos of the day weighed his features as he finally took a calming breath. The men had been questioned, the castle searched from cellar to battlements, new guards assigned to every entrance.

He turned your hand in his; the bruises had darkened. Purple marks circled your wrists, the small gash near your collarbone carefully cleaned and stitched by the maester. "You should be sleeping," he murmured finally.

"I tried," you sighed, "I closed my eyes, and all I saw was…”

Ormund's jaw clenched, though his touch remained soft. “You needn’t fear him anymore; he’ll draw his last breath by morning.” 

You nodded solemnly, clutching at his hand tighter. “I’m sorry.”

"For what?" he tilted his head slightly, 

"I should have insisted Ser Warren remain. I only wanted to walk among the roses and collect the best bouquet for you- I was foolish.” You sniffled.

“No, my sweet. You’ve done nothing wrong. The fault lies only with the men who abandoned their duty to you and me.” His hand brushed over your cheek, cursing you to lean closer for his touch. Without another word, Ormund slipped beneath the covers and gathered you into his arms. Your eyes had already begun to swell with tears; you pressed into your husband quietly. Not wanting to sob dramatically once again, you nuzzled your face into his chest and let your eyes fall closed. 

“No one will ever frighten you again.” He murmured, voice carrying certainty and firmness. “So long as I draw breath, no one will lay hand upon you.” He pressed a light kiss to the crown of your head. You could only nod quietly into his chest. 

He would replace every guard whose judgment had betrayed you. The halls would be watched with twice the vigilance. You would never wander the garden alone. Ser Warren was replaced swiftly, Ser Gwayne now appointed to be your sword. Though the prodded and jested so feicly with one another, Ormund knew his cousin too honorable to let any harm befall his sweet wife.