#dark!ormundxreader

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People whisper of a beast that lives in House Hightower.

A beast that bludgeons men who anger him, destroys rooms, and burns down buildings.

You hear the servants warn each other of it, their whispers reaching your ears during quiet spells in the night.

During your first months at House Hightower, you wondered if this beast actually existed, or if it was a mere horror story told between serving staff to keep them on their best behavior.

But slowly, as more time passed during your stay in Oldtown, you began to hear it.

Shouts carry through the hallways. You hear screaming from areas you did not know existed. You see servants running from something that you have not witnessed yourself.

Prince Daeron is the one to finally explain it to you.

The two of you sit together in the Hightower library reading through histories of the Gardening when you hear the sound of glass shattering on one of the floors above you. You then hear heavy footsteps, and a crash that is so loud it makes you flinch.

Two guards run past the library doorway, and you begin to fear something is wrong.

“It is only my Uncle Ormund,” Prince Daeron tells you, noticing your expressions. “You needn’t worry, he will not come down here.”

“Lord Ormund?” Your shoulders jump as you hear another crashing of glass. “Is he okay?”

“He must have received a letter he did not like.”

“It sounds worse than an ill-received letter.”

“It is actually quite tame for him.”

You don’t understand it.

Lord Ormund Hightower appears to be the very definition of prestige and class when you are near him.

He is a man that never slouches, never curses, never complains. He is a compass of what a good man should be, and he carries himself as if he is the role model for the world.

“He hides that side of himself from you,” Daeron once confessed to you. “He is easily angered, and is quick to react with violence. He tries to pretend he is well tempered but he is not.”

“I have seen him angry,” you tried to reassure him. “You have not seen him angry. You have seen him upset. He is different when he is angry. He will break everything in his path. He will destroy an entire room. He will wound servants that are near him.”

“It is a sin to harm an innocent in anger-”

“He is different,” Daeron insisted. “That is what I am warning. He believes you to be too gentle to see such a thing, so he hides it, but he is a beast at times. You must be careful.”

A beast. His word choice set you on edge.

It was difficult to believe the almighty Ormund Hightower was the beast everyone spoke of, and not the dragon that lived in the lowest level of the tower.

Even after all the warnings, you still thought people must have been exaggerating to scare you. For months you lived in Oldtown, and you never once saw Ormund raise a hand to anyone.

Until you reached your second year with the Hightowers.

That was when you first saw him physically punish Daeron with a slap to the face. It had been a petty crime Daeron committed, being caught having a taste of his uncle’s wine when he thought he wasn’t looking. It scared you so badly you could not look the Lord in the eye for a week.

By the time your third year here came around, Ormund would frequently discipline the Prince by striking the back of his hands with a leather rod.

Seeing such things made you…wary of him. But he never placed an unkind hand on you.

Daeron says he’s soft for you.

Now, as you neared your fourth year in Oldtown, you find yourself unsure of your attitude towards Ormund. He was a Lord, so you respected him. You try to remember how you have been raised, all the politeness you must show, so you put your personal feelings aside so that you can do your duties properly.

Your duties, which involve the education and faith of Prince Daeron, are difficult at times.

Especially today.

You have sat Daeron down in the library, and you are attempting to get him used to more diligent notetaking, yet he is fighting back with everything he has.

“We spend so many hours in this library,” he complains. “Can we not go somewhere else?”

“We can visit the Sept.”

He lets out an uninterested grunt.

“We can take a break once we reach mid-hour,” you offer. “We’ll take a walk through the gardens.”

Daeron fidgets in his seat. “I wish to visit Tessarion.”

“You know that is not allowed.”

“It’s not recommended. I am the Prince, I can order you to take me anywhere if I really want to.”

“It would be much easier if you just finish your notetaking.”

He sighs as he looks down at the paper. His quill finally starts moving again.

“Perhaps we can ask your uncle at dinner if he can take you down to Tessarion.”

“He would never agree to that, he dislikes her.”

“There is no harm in asking him. The worst he can do is say ‘no’.”

You hear Daeron chuckle, like you have made a joke. “Only you would say such a thing.”

You place down your book. “And why is that?”

“Because you are the only one he does not throw a fit in front of. He’ll hold his tongue for you.” Daeron risks another smile as his quill scrolls across the paper. He uses a mocking voice. “Uncle Ormund says that you are a proper woman, and should not have to bear witness to such foul, abhorrent language.”

You straighten yourself to better posture, surprised by the comment. Lord Ormund was one of the most prestigious, well-classed men you have ever met. To hear such a compliment from him was beyond meaningful.

“Well, that is true,” you say. “Foul language should not be said around ladies.”

“And what of your foul language?”

“I do not use foul language, it is a sin.”

Daeron’s smile turns to a smirk. “You do not think of the word ‘bastard’ as foul? Or do you assume your context of calling the street merchant a ‘bastard’ acceptable?”

Your shoulders slouch, and you feel heat rush to your face. “That was a moment of wrongfulness, and you heard me pray for the Mother to forgive me for it.”

“Perhaps I should tell Uncle Ormund all the words I’ve heard you use so that he is less worried about exposing you to such language-”

“You will not.” Your words come out flustered. “I hardly ever use such language and-and if I have it was well deserved.”

Daeron is even more amused. He leans closer, and fakes a gasp. “You dare believe someone deserves such a name? And here I thought you were supposed to be aiding me in my ethics of the Seven.”

“You stop it,” you tell him. “I have prayed for my wrongdoings. But even if I didn’t...that merchant ripped my coin pouch right from my hands. Had you not retrieved it, your uncle would have never allowed us back to the market again.”

Daeron chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Alright, I agree. The bastard was deserved. And I have to admit it was quite humorous to hear my proper teacher shouting that word across a crowd.”

“You should be finishing your notes, not trying to rile me up,” you tell me. “Let me see your paper so I can be sure you complete your studies before dinner.”

“Let me see your paper,” Daeron counters.

He reaches over, but you quickly flip the book over. “I am not the one who needs to take notes.”

“But let me see yours, so I know I am taking notes correctly.”

You pull your book away.

He smiles wider. “Unless, perhaps, my teacher has not been taking notes. Perhaps she has just been drawing.”

Your face grows hotter in embarrassment. He knew how to get under your skin so easily.

“As the teacher, I am asking to see yours-Daeron!”

He reached over and snatched your parchments from you. He laughs, flipping it back towards you to say, “It is a beautiful flower you have drawn.”

“I have learned these lessons before, I can draw if I wish.”

“Shall I tell Uncle Ormund that you are wasting time in the library with such drawings?”

“You will do no such thing.”

You would be humiliated. You could picture it now. His stern stare looking down at the stupid flower, and then back up at you, silently labeling you as incompetent for the rest of your time here.

“I will keep my mouth shut if we end lessons early today,” Daeron says. “And you allow me to visit Tessarion.”

“Lord Ormund is displeased when you visit her.”

“He would also be displeased by this,” Daeron countered, waving your drawing in front of him.

You are tired of the library anyway, so you figured there was no harm in a quick visit downstairs. You sigh. “Fine. But you must wash before dinner so that he does not smell her on you.”

Daeron smiles again, like he tricked you into giving him the upper hand. Though, in all honesty, he was the Prince. He could have left the library at any time, and you had no true power to stop him.

“May I at least see that you have taken notes?” you ask.

He flips his book around to show you his parchment.

There were no notes. There was only a drawing of you sitting in front of him, drawing a flower.

You open your mouth to lecture him, but quickly shut it. “We will be going to the Sept tonight, and we are going to pray about your lack of enthusiasm for your education.”

He paid no mind to your words. “Come on. I’m sure Tessarion had been missing me greatly.”

The days are always like this with Prince Daeron. Amusing. Frustrating. Happy. Exciting. Nerve wracking. You feel every emotion with the boy everyday.

And it brings you more joy than anything.

When you first arrived at House Hightower, nearly four years prior, Daeron hardly spoke to you.

He had recently turned the age of ten, and at the time you were barely ten and six. He was a quiet boy, and you were a quiet girl. It was extraordinary to see the difference in him now.

Originally, you had been sent to Oldtown by your father, who was a strong believer in the Faith of the Seven. He wanted you to learn how to pray from the Septas of Oldtown, the most devoted women in the realm.

It was Gwayne Hightower that offered for you to stay in House of Hightower, your mother having been a dear friend to Alicent and him in their younger days.

You were meant to be in Oldtown for one month, and then you were to be sent home.

But the gods had a different plan for you.

It was Ormund Hightower that spoke to your father about you becoming an aid for the young prince.

Lord Ormund was a man of religion. He visited the Sept every morning and every night. He was quick to notice, staring on the morning of your arrival, that you did as well.

He admitted to your father that he was impressed with your faith, and even more impressed with how often you partook in prayer.

“Daeron has become very lonesome being so isolated from his siblings,” Lord Ormund had said to you. “It would be beneficial for him to have the company of a girl as mindful as yourself. A girl proper in her ways, and a devoted servant to the Seven.”

When the offer of a more permanent stay was first given to you, you were wary of it. “This is the first time I have been away from home,” you admitted. “I do not know if I would be able to assist the Prince as well as a Septa could.”

“Septas know only scripture,” Ormund reasoned. “They are the education of the spiritual world, and you will help teach him the ways of the physical one.”

In honesty, you felt too young for such a position. Ten and six, you still felt like a child. You were frightened to be so far from your mother, and even more frightened to be in a position responsible for royalty.

And in the beginning, you were frightened of Lord Ormund as well. You had been so scared to talk to him the day he brought his proposal up to you. You had never spoken to him prior to it, and the only reputation you knew was that he was a serious man who was easily disappointed.

So you try to be honest with him, hoping he would understand your hesitancy. “I do not know if I am equipped to handle such a task, my Lord.”

He had smiled at you. A warm smile that made him appear as such a kind and considerate man.

Placing a hand upon your shoulder, he told you, “You are a good girl, (Y/N). All I need is your help in raising my nephew to be just as good.”

Now, nearly four years later, Oldtown feels more like home than your homeland ever did.

Because your brother is here.

Daeron Targaryen, Prince of the realms, will always be the brother you never had. Not a blood brother, like the ones from your homeland, who were cruel to you in your childhood and would throw things your way when you became bothersome. Daeron was a real brother, and seeing him grow up to be kind was the best gift the Mother could ever give you.

“Come,” Daeron hurried you as the two of you descended down the staircase to where Tessarion was kept. “She has been alone for so long, she must be dying for company.”

You disliked the way the Hightowers treated Daeron’s dragon. But you knew it was not your place to interfere with such a thing.

Daeron’s face lights up like the boy he is as he sees her. You stay back against the staircase as Daeron jogs down the steps and over to the creature. “Here I am, girl. I promised I would return to you.”

The sight of the large dragon always makes you wary. Even as she makes screeches of joy as she sets her eyes on her rider, you feel yourself fearing for him.

Yet, he nuzzles his head against hers, and she appears to nuzzle him back. “There you are,” Daeron whispers with a laugh. “Shh. Shh. I told you, I can come down here more often if you are quiet.”

“Be cautious of her claws,” you say as she paws near his feet.

“She knows her strength, she will not harm me,” Daeron assures you.

You rest against the wall, and listen to him whispering soft words of admiration to her.

You are patient as he takes a brush to draw over her scales, grooming her body. He glances over to you. “She is not a monster like they say,” he tells you. “I have raised her to be good.”

You give a soft nod. “She is good, I know.”

“Would you...” He hesitates. “...Would you like to pet her?”

You take a quick step back, shaking your head. “I will keep my distance.”

“She will not harm you, you have my word.”

“Lord Ormund warns they are unpredictable with those that do not have the right blood.”

“Please,” Daeron says. “She sees you so often. I want her to actually meet you.”

Your eyes take in the creature. You stiffen as she stares right at you.

Daeron holds a hand out. “I will be right beside you.”

“What if she dislikes me-?”

“She will not. I promise.” Daeron steps close to you with his hand out. “Trust me, Lady (Y/N).”

It takes a moment of contemplation before you finally decide you do trust him. And if your trust gets you burnt, so be it. You take his hand, and he leads you to the dragon.

He lifts your arm and slowly places it on Tessarion’s head. The texture catches you by surprise and you flinch back.

He chuckles. “It is an odd feeling, isn’t it?”

You choke back a scream when Tessarion moves her head against your stomach. You stumble back, but Daeron places an arm out to steady you. “Daeron-”

“It’s alright. She just wishes to feel you too.”

You force yourself still. The dragon runs her head along your abdomen. Slowly, you lower your hand back onto her. The scales are not so frightening now.

“See,” Daeron smiles. “She likes you.”

“That is very relieving,” you laugh.

“Sometimes I think she can sense how I feel about people,” he tells you. “And that’s how she judges them.”

“Does that mean if you decide you hate me, she will eat me?”

“I would never hate you,” Daeron says. His voice grows more somber. “You are the only true companion I have ever had.”

“For now,” you say. “I am sure you will gain allies over time.”

“Allies,” he repeats. “Not friends.”

“I have no other friends either,” you tell him. “It is not so bad.”

As an aid to royalty, you are secluded from the outside world. Lord Ormund has insisted on it.

‘There is no room for distractions when it comes to your care of my nephew,’ he told you when you first arrived. You were just a girl then, so it made sense to you. But now, nearing your twentieth summer, you feel the seclusion is less necessary. Yet, he still insists on it.

It does matter your opinion, however. It never does with him.

Lord Ormund is the man of the house, so you must bend your knee to his orders.

Daeron is quiet for a moment. He brushes along Tessarion’s back.

“...I wish you were my true sister,” he whispers. “So that I did not have to fear you leaving.”

He has said this before. It makes you feel sympathy that he is so far from his real family, he sometimes forgets he actually does have a true sister.

“I would not leave,” you quickly insist. “I promised I would remain at your side for the rest of your youth.”

“And after?” he asks.

You sigh. “I do not know the plans my father has for me after.” You look again at the creature that has settled comfortably with leaning against your body. “But Tessarion will be here forever, at least for that you are certain. So be good to her.”

“I am,” he swore to you. He leaned his head against the dragon’s once more. “Aren’t I good to you?” he whispers to the dragon.

He was so gentle with the creature.

Daeron was always so gentle, and so kind.

You could not be more proud of him for it.

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A few weeks pass, and the weather becomes warmer. It causes Daeron to lose energy in the day.

“It is shameful to sleep in the Sept, Prince Daeron,” you chide softly, “It is best you wake before someone else sees you.”

The boy barely stirred. Head resting on the pew in front of him, arms folded beneath him, he muffles, “I am not sleeping, I am praying.”

The yawn was still in his voice, and it made you chuckle. “You’ve been unmoving for fifteen minutes.”

“Deep in prayer,” he insists.

Another laugh. “It is almost time for dinner, Daeron. Come. Raise your head, and pray with me once more before we go.”

Daeron slowly lifts his head. He rises from the bench, and comes to kneel beside you in front of the candle altar. He clasps his hands together, and waits for you to begin.

You let your eyes flutter closed and pray, “Mother, please grant us peace of mind in these upcoming weeks. Give us honor in what we do.”

Daeron repeats, “Mother, please grant us peace of mind in these upcoming weeks. Give us honor in what we do.”

“Warrior, please send strength to King Viserys. Please give him health and extend his kingdom.”

Again, Daeron repeats after you. “Warrior, please send strength to my father. Please give him health and extend his kingdom.”

“Crone, please give Prince Daeron wisdom in his studies, and the foresight to see the consequences of laziness-”

“I am not lazy.”

You laugh, and continue, “Please make him into the best scholar he can be.”

Daeron eyes you, before praying, “Mother, please give (Y/N) a kinder heart that is less overbearing-”

“Shh,” you laugh, sticking out your hand to cover his mouth. “Do not say that to her.”

Daeron smiles as he continues, “Crone, give her the wisdom that reminds her I am her Prince, therefore I am in charge-”

“Daeron,” you scold with amusement, “We do not play with the gods.”

“I am not lazy. Take it back.”

“You were sleeping in the Sept.”

“Exhausted, not lazy.”

You huff, yet a smile still plays on your face. “Fine. You are not lazy. But you better be careful. What would you have done had Lord Ormund heard you snoring?”

“I do not snore.”

You shrug. “You would not know.”

You catch him rolling his eyes, to which you criticize, “Do not roll your eyes in the house of the gods.”

“Then let us leave the house of the gods. I am starving.”

“In a moment,” you tell him. “Allow me to do a prayer for our food.”

He sighs, but he stays kneeled beside you. He is patient with you in the Sept, just as you are patient with him with his dragon.

When you two are finished, the guards escort the two of you to Lord Ormund.

It became customary over the last few years for Daeron and yourself to have dinner with Lord Ormund in his private study. The Lord often complained that the Hightower dining hall was unappealing, that it was too close to the kitchens, the aromas were too strong, and he was unable to eat there. The difference in rooms mattered very little to you. You did not mind eating in his study. In fact, it felt like a compliment that you were even invited. It made you feel more valued that your company was enjoyed by both the Lord and Prince.

You are still laughing with Daeron over mundane things as you make your way through the halls.

“What brings such laughter from my nephew?” Ormund asks as the two of you arrive at his study.

You greet the Lord with a curtsy of respect. “Good evening, Lord Ormund.” You rise and smile, “Daeron speaks of plans for his fourteenth nameday.”

“Ah,” he grins. “Yes, that is arriving soon.”

As always, Lord Ormund stands as you enter, and he pulls out your chair for you. You take it with a gracious, “Thank you, my Lord.”

“What kind of celebration would you like?” Ormund asks as he takes his seat. He sits at the head of the table, as always. You take the left side of him, Daeron is sat on the right.

The prince smiles shyly. “I need nothing extravagant. I only wish to have a feast with the three of us, as always. With cake. Perhaps Uncle Gwayne can be here.”

“I can prepare you a cake,” you tell him. “It would be my honor.”

“You need not do it,” Daeron quickly says. “We will pay a baker.”

You tilt your head. “You do not trust my cooking?”

He chuckles. “No offense, my Lady, but I have yet to see you in a kitchen. It seems you do not get much practice at it.”

You let out a laugh. “Is that so?”

“Careful, Daeron,” Ormund chides. “Insulting a woman’s cooking is as if she were to insult your sword fighting.”

“She knows I jest,” Daeron says. “But either way, you should not waste time on such things, Lady (Y/N). Any day that honors me should honor you as well.”

The words warm your heart, and you wonder if this is what motherhood is meant to feel like. “You flatter me.”

“It is true. I feel I am becoming a great man due to your teachings. You as well, Uncle Ormund. I believe I am growing into my strongest self here in Oldtown.”

Ormund smiles proudly at his nephew. He reaches over and places a hand on his shoulder. “The Father smiles upon you, Daeron. You are a blessing to us all.”

“My father sends coin on my nameday,” Daeron says. “I would like to purchase gifts for the two of you. As well as Uncle Gwayne.”

“That is very thoughtful of you, Prince Daeron, but it is not a day you must buy gifts for others. Others should buy gifts for you.”

“I want to,” he says. His tone becomes shy. “I…would like to show my appreciation. With something you will be able to cherish.”

The idea warms your heart.

“Besides, I need nothing,” Daeron says. “And I want for nothing. I would donate my coin rather than hoard it.”

You smile wider, and you meet Lord Ormund’s eye. “He is a very noble boy, your nephew. You should be very proud of him.”

“I am,” Ormund smiles. “My nephew is growing to be flawless.”

“Flawless.” Daeron chuckles. “Except for the snoring, I suppose.”

You laugh. “Yes, except for the snoring.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Lord Ormund lean back against his chair.

“I am very much looking forward to hearing from my mother,” Daeron continues. “She writes to me an especially long letter on my name day each year. My father as well.”

“Perhaps you can have a portrait made to send them,” you suggest. “I’m sure your mother misses your face dearly.”

He lights up at the idea. “A portrait. Yes. I have not had one of those done in a few years.”

“Me neither,” you admit. “I fear my mother has not seen a new portrait of me since I was the age of ten and seven.”

“Then we could all have portraits done. Uncle Ormund, do you think you could call upon an artisan to-” Daeron’s smile drops and his words cease.

Your attention turns to Lord Ormund. A pit forms in your stomach.

He is not looking at either of you. He is simply staring ahead, silent.

Daeron becomes tense. “…Uncle?”

Ormund continues staring ahead, only his finger moving as he taps upon the table, quickly and precise, as if counting the seconds.

“I need no portrait,” Daeron quickly says. “It was only an idea.”

Lord Ormund is angry. You do not know why, or over what, but you know that this is his first stage of anger.

He stares.

He stares, and it gives him time to think. And the more he thinks, the angrier he gets.

Daeron becomes a shade paler at the lack of response. “I-I do not look forward to hearing from my mother as much as I look forward to seeing you, Uncle,” he spurts out, going through every last word he said to think of what could have angered him. “I do not take my place here for granted.”

Ormund’s head tilts to the side, his stare still blank and ominous.

When his eyes land on you, his gaze is so piercing that you flinch.

“My nephew snores?”

You blink, caught off guard by the question.

His hands open and close. “How would you know my nephew snores, Lady (Y/N)-?”

“I fell asleep today,” Daeron quickly cuts in. “I apologize for it. I drifted off, and she-she merely teased me for it.”

Ormund’s eyes don’t leave you.

You have been scolded by Lord Ormund before, plenty of time in fact. But there is something different in his voice now. Those scolding were small corrections, his voice never, ever rose at you. Even now, he speaks calmly. But the look in his eye makes you feel cold.

He does not speak again, simply waiting and watching for you to answer.

“It was only for a moment,” Daeron repeats with worry. “No wrong was done.”

Ormund continues to wait for your response only.

You swallow before speaking, “The Prince drifted off today, as he said. I allowed him to rest for a few minutes because he was tired. I should not tease a Prince about such things, I am sorry.”

“Where did he fall asleep?”

Daeron’s posture is rigid. You bite your lip, considering the consequences of your answer.

“Lady (Y/N).” He speaks your name softly, but there is an edge to his voice that you did not want to press.

You look again at Daeron, and feel as if it would be against your faith to tell on him. Daeron must’ve seen it in your eyes that you were unwilling.

Internally, you make the decision not to answer. You did not fear his uncle harming you for your silence.

But Daeron feared it.

Daeron quickly answered for you, “It was in the Sept.”

His uncle frowned. His head slowly turned to his nephew. “In the Sept?”

“Yes-”

“In our most sacred place of prayer?”

His voice is only a whisper. “I am sorry.”

Ormund slowly pulls his napkin off his lap, folding it and calmly placing it onto the table. He stands to his feet, his boots heavy on the floor as he walks to stand behind Daeron’s chair. He asks, “Did you pray for forgiveness before you left?”

“I...” He swallows. “I did not think to pray for that specifically-”

“Both hands flat on the table.”

Daeron’s face goes completely pale.

Ormund crosses the room to his bookshelf.

Your heart slams in your chest as you rush to your feet, hurrying over to Ormund’s side, trying to match his quick strides. “He said prayers before leaving, my Lord.”

He ignores you. He grabs the leather strapped rod he keeps on the shelf.

The sight of it surges your panic. You struggle to remain by Ormund’s side, placing a hand on his arm to slow him. “He did not mean to offend the gods. He was only tired from the heat of the day-”

“If he did not pray for forgiveness, I will administer punishment.”

“He will not commit the offense again.”

“Spare the rod, spoil the child. He will receive seven lashes. One for each god he offended.” He snaps at Daeron, “Both hands flat on the table. Now.”

Daeron shuts his eyes tightly, doing as told.

You run forward and force yourself in front of your prince. “The lashes should be mine,” you tell Ormund.

Daeron tries to push you away. “No-”

“I was in charge of him, the fault is mine. Allow me the lashes, not him.” In a surge of protectiveness, you try to hide Daeron behind your body. “I offended the gods, not him.”

Lord Ormund watches you with critical eyes.

You knelt down, and place both hands flat on the table.

Daeron’s voice is a quiet whimper as he says, “(Y/N), get up, this is not your punishment.”

You physically push his hands back to his lap, and lay yours flat on the table once more. You stare up at Lord Ormund, whose eyes are still so meticulous.

He stays staring at you a moment longer, and every second that passes, you feel your heart will give out from beating so fast.

Finally, Ormund drops the rod onto the table. Slowly, he kneels beside you and rests his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together. “Lady (Y/N), lead us in a prayer of forgiveness for Daeron’s offense.”

A shaky breath of relief escapes your lips. “Y-Yes, my Lord.”

Daeron quickly kneels beside you as well.

“Mother, please forgive the transgressions of Daeron. He has committed an offensive act that he shall not commit again. Please, allow him grace and hospitality.”

Daeron quickly repeats, “Mother, please forgive my transgressions. I have committed an offensive act that I shall commit again. Please, allow me grace and hospitality.”

Ormund speaks next. “Mother, please forgive the transgressions of Daeron. He has committed an offensive act that he shall not commit again. Please, allow him grace and hospitality.”

Another nervous breath. “Mother, please-please put mercy in the heart of Lord Ormund. Please allow him to grant us the patience and grace that you would.”

Daeron hesitates, his eyes shooting to his uncle, as if terrified of the consequences of this prayer.

“Daeron,” his uncle urges.

Daeron follows, “Mother, please put mercy in the heart of Lord Ormund. Please allow him to grant us the patience and grace that you would.”

Ormund finishes, “Mother, please put mercy in my heart. Please allow me to grant them the patience and grace that you would.”

“And so it is.”

“And so it is.”

“And so it is.” Ormund rises to his feet. “Let us finish dinner.” He pulls out his chair for you to sit.

The rest of the dinner is silent. You have lost your appetite, but try to finish the plate anyway. Lord Ormund is strict with your diet, and if you do not eat now, you will not be allowed food again until morning.

The time ticks by slowly. Daeron fidgets more and more as each minute passes.

“Daeron, you are excused,” Ormund speaks after he is finished with his own meal.

You see in the prince’s eyes that he does not want to leave you.

“Go on,” you tell him. “I will see you in the morning at the library.”

He hesitates only a moment longer. Ormund clears his throat, and he finally goes.

You are left alone with Lord Ormund.

“It is not your place to stand between that boy and his punishments,” he tells you.

You stare down at your hands. “I apologize, Lord Ormund.”

“You apologize, yet if it came down to it, you would do so again.”

You do not lie. “I would.”

Ormund sighs. He rises to his feet. He walks to you, and leans upon the table beside you. His fingers ghost your chin, and he tilts your head up to face him. “I hope you are not allowing your loyalty towards him to cloud your judgement.”

“I am not.”

His fingers graze the side of your face, pushing your hair behind your ears. “I do not only feel responsible for Daeron, (Y/N), I also feel responsible for you. I want what is best for you, I hope you know that.”

“I do, my Lord.”

His hand brushes down the back of your hair. “You have always been such a good girl for me.” His hand stops on the back of your head, and you flinch as his hand suddenly grips your hair. “But I need you to remember that your obedience is to me before my nephew.”

His grip does not hurt, but it frightens you.

You force your hands to remain in your lap. “Y-Yes, my Lord. I remember.”

“The next interference, I will not spare the rod on you.”

You swallow. “I understand.”

Ormund smiles at your agreement. His hand loosens on your hair, and he cups your cheek instead. “I have been told I have a weakness for you, Lady (Y/N). That I am too lenient when you are around, that I lack appropriate sternness.”

You have been told the same thing about him. That he is fond of you, that he treats you kinder than others, that your faith in the Seven makes him more gentle.

Ormund’s hand lingers on your cheek a moment, before he turns your head to the side, and reaches out to wipe away a bead of sweat that began to form on your temple.

“You would not dare use that against me, would you?”

“Never, my Lord.” You realize your hands are forming sweat as well. You open and close them to try to release the nerves. “I-I appreciate your mercy, but it is never expected.”

“Good.” He turns your jaw to face him head on. “Because my patience is not limitless.”

You do not know what he wants you to say. You wonder if he even wants you to say anything at all, or if he just wants to frighten you so you do not interfere again. You simply repeat, “I understand, my Lord.”

You think he will let go of you, but he does not.

Instead, he leans closer, and you hear his long inhale. It is what he does whenever the serving boys bring him new scented powders.

“You smell of candle smoke,” he tells you.

“From my prayer in the Sept, my Lord.”

Your answer satisfies him.

Another moment passes of uncertainty for you. You have never been alone with Ormund for this long before. Your mind goes back to Daeron, and where he might be.

“I think it is time we find a perfume for you.”

The comment catches you by surprise. “A perfume, my Lord?”

“Noble women choose perfumes for themselves. Ones they reorder time and time again. They spray it upon letters when they send it away, and sometimes gift small portions of it to women in their service. It will help mask the scent of the other tasks you attend to during the day. You are old enough now to go and choose your own.”

The idea uplifted you. “I will be able to choose?”

“You will be taken to the market tomorrow. You will pick three scents you like, and I will make the final decision on which one will be yours.”

“Any perfume?”

“Any you desire. There is no budget when it comes to a woman’s cleanliness.”

You feel yourself getting excited over the prospect of shopping. Lord Ormund usually hand picks everything for you, without your opinion on things.

Your excitement makes you bold. “May I choose a new dress for myself as well? It has been a long time since I have had myself fitted.”

His eyes flicker over your face. “You push your luck.”

Your heart drops, and you think you have angered him.

But he merely asks, “What would it be for?”

“For my visits to the Sept,” you quickly tell him, because you know he will not refuse this. “A dress with a thicker skirt so that my knees do not ache at the end of the day.”

Ormund leans back and contemplates. “You recall the rules of modesty for clothing?”

“Of course, my Lord. Neckline higher than the collarbone. Skirts passed the ankles. Arms to the wrist.”

He reaches down and drags his hand up the side of your arm, feeling the material. It was as if he was imagining something new. “Very well then. You may pick up a new dress.”

Your smile grows. You lean up, and you place a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Lord Ormund.”

His smile warms, and his expression turns kind. He is happy with you, and you hear it in his voice as he relents, “I will allow two dresses, if it pleases you.”

“Yes.” Your spirits raise even higher. “Yes, it pleases me greatly, thank you.”

Ormund chuckles at how elated you have become. He leans down and places a kiss onto the top of your head.

He lingers for a moment. You hear his gentle inhale, his quiet judgement of what he smells.

“What oils are used for your hair?”

“Roses, my Lord.”

“Do not choose roses tomorrow. This scent is tied to your girlhood with Daeron. You must find a new scent for womanhood.”

You find the comment odd, so you risk a laugh. “I am already a woman, Lord Ormund.”

His response is just a repeated, “No roses.”

Your laugh goes away. You shake your head. “No roses.”