ᴡʜʏ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ʙᴇ ᴋᴇᴘᴛ? ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜʏ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ʙᴇ ᴋᴇᴘᴛ?
Summary: Sent to Oldtown as Ormund’s ward, you expected nothing more than lessons, duty, and his protection. What you didn’t expect was the man beneath his pious reputation, or the way his feelings for you would blur every boundary between lord and ward.
Pairing: Guardian! Ormund x Ward! Rhaenyra’s Daughter! reader
WC: 11.3k
(this is a darker fic in some aspects, please read the warnings!)
Warnings: 18+, manipulation, non- canon and a few things are changed, heavy religious themes, dead dove do not eat: slight mentions of dub-con, possessive behavior, threats, arguments, council drama, mentions of previous deaths, mentions of physical punishment, reader rides vermithor, rough handling, stockholm syndrome, guilt, toxic guardian/ ward relationship, misogyny, mentions of violence, complex dynamics, age gap.
"You're late." Ormund spoke, his hands clasped behind his back and a displeased look on his face.
You curtsied, walking closer to him. The echo of your boots bouncing off the wall of the sept.
"I am sorry, my lord. I did not intend to—"
"It does not matter what you intended, darling. You were late and lateness is not tolerated."
Your eyes were fixed on the floor, your green gown shifting against your body.
"Yes.. yes, I apologize. Please forgive me."
He stepped forward, bringing his fingers to your face— lifiting your chin so that your eyes could meet his.
"I forgive you, It would be wrong for me not to."
You nodded, still holding your breath and waiting foe the other shoe to drop.
"Thank you." You mumbled.
He gave a half smile, moving his fingers away from your face.
"Do not do it again. It is unbecoming of you and me as your guardian. Punctuality is important to me and to the very gods that you've come to pray to this morning. Sloth behavior is a sin, a sin that I will not tolerate."
"I understand, my lord."
He nodded and usehered you to the altar.
Both of you knelt at the altar, the candles and candlelight overtaking it. You brought your palms together, glancing into the flames.
Ormund glanced at you, his eyes raking over your appearance, the thing that he had the most control over. He stared at you often, his face unreadable— but deep down you knew that it was disdain. You knew that your your silver hair, violet eyes, your formidable dragon, your vulgar tongue—all of it angered him. An anger that was boundless and grew by the day.
Just as you were about to begin you your prayer, Ormund leaned closer to you— his lips near your ear.
"You will be punished for your lateness."
You felt your stomach drop at his words, a chill running down your spine.
He wasted not a moment longer as he began his prayer. A prayer that you knew all too well and had practically memorized word for word. He asked for strength in the brewing war, for understanding, for patience while being your guardian, for forgiveness in his sins.
You however stared off into the distance again, a tear running down your cheek. You always prayed for different things, some things within your grasp and others not. That morning, you prayed for love— the one thing that you wanted so badly and could never reach.
You wanted a husband or even a betrothed like your siblings would have. You wanted to be like the other noblewomen around the realm, singing praises about their husband. You wanted it so badly and Ormund constantly denied you of it.
Ormund always finished his prayers before you did, leaving you in the sept with the two knights that were tasked with watching your every move, Ser Bronn and Ser Humfrey.
The cool air in the sept crept up your skin, the sadness flowing through your veins like an aged wine. You did nothing to deserve the fate of being forced to live in Oldtown, seperated away from your mother and siblings for most of your life.
It was truly an accident, you didn't mean to hurt Aemond on purpose. You only wanted to defend Jace, but your grandsire saw this as a necessary course of action.
It was an accident that you had been paying for ever since, an accident that would rob you of any joy that you could've had.
When you first came to Oldtown, all of it was unfamiliar to you. Your mother had never forced the faith onto you, it was at your discretion whether or not you'd follow them. She gave you a choice, the one thing that you would not have under Ormund.
After praying in the sept, you went back to your chambers— waiting to break your fast at the usual time. You sat at the at the seat near the window, looking out into the distance— thinking of home and what you had missed. Being under Ormund's thumb meant that you did not receive messages from them often, if you did, they were read by him beforehand to make sure that they were suitable for you to read.
He did not want you ingesting more of their heretic words or ideolgies, you were already too far in when you came to him and he had to fix you. He had to make you better, show you that what you knew was wrong and improper.
Living in Oldtown was like a beautiful, specially crafted cage that was wrapped in gold. The bars would have just enough of an opening that you could imagine being free, you could feel the freedom on your fingertips and the fresh air against your skin. You watched as everyone walked around your cage with a smile, their smiles often making you forget about the cage altogether. It was when the night would settle in and you'd want to spread your wings, when you'd realize that you were still in a cage. A rare bird that lived in a beautiful gold cage.
Fed, bathed, loved, but punished when you would chirp too loudly and grab the attention of the people around you. Always reminded that you were just merely a bird, his bird, his pet.
Despite your grievances, you did not hate him. You should've, you should've hated every fiber of his being— but some part of you found him to be the closest thing to your home. He protected you from yourself, from unruly men, unsuitable marriage proposals, from sin, from your incestous ways. He was your guardian and he had your best interest in mind, at least that's what you'd tell yourself.
You repeated those words over and over again, "He is protecting you."
"It's for your own good."
That was why he'd have your feet or hands whipped when you were caught misbehaving, when he'd make you sit in the tub and scrub your skin raw if he thought that you had sinned, make the maester check your sex to see if you'd betrayed him, hurl vile insults at you when you overstepped.
It was love and his protection, just as he'd said.
You were an uruly girl, made with tainted blood and in vile sin. You needed his guidance or you'd be doomed like the rest of your family.
Your food was brought to you on a tray, set on the table near the chair. You glanced over it, bowing your head before indulging.
"Mother above, I ask you for mercy in this war. Not for me, but my family. I ask that you keep them safe and whole in the pursuit for my mother's throne. I ask for mercy, because they might not and I know that they will need it. Warrior, I ask that you give my father and brothers strength in battle. I ask that you guide them to victory." You whispered to yourself.
"Your mother's throne?" A voice questioned.
Your head snapped the direction of the voice, your heart stilling in your chest.
"Forgive me.. my lord. I did not hear you come in." You stammered.
He stood across the room from you, his eyes fixed on you.
"The throne does not belong to your mother, which you know. The true king and rightful heir is your uncle, Aegon."
"Grandsire named my mother his heir, he defended it publicly and privately." You replied softly.
Ormund nodded, his head slightly tilted.
"Stand up."
You stood up, your palms sweaty and your heart racing in your chest like a rabbit.
He walked closer to you, his steps slow and calculated. He stood in front of you with his hands clasped, the pomander swinging at his hip.
"Your mother is a treasonous bitch, along with the rogue fraud that she is married to."
Your face twitched instinctively, his words wriggling under your skin like a worm in soil. He knew how much his disparaging remarks about your mother bothered you, yet he still made them. Perhaps, it was because they were true and you needed to hear them, or because he was cruel. Somedays it was hard to tell.
You kept your eyes on the wall instead of looking at him, because if they looked at him then he might see how your eyes had become glassy and that would be troubling. It would be troubling for your guardian to see you crying over the people who opposed the rightful heir, crying over the people that had you living in sin.
"You've been served a delicious meal by the servants here in the home of your guardian, yet you waste a prayer on those traitors. Why? Do you still not understand their actions and the gravity of this war?"
"I do understand, my lord." You replied.
"Look at me." He commanded.
Your eyes slowly shifted from the wall, glancing over his frame as he stood in front of you.
"Why would you pray for traitors to the realm?"
You hesitated, your mind racing for an answer.
"I prayed for them.. because in the eyes of the seven there is no person that cannot be prayed for. No one is perfect, which means that all of us sin and have sinned. In the eyes of the seven there is no such thing as treason or a rightful heir, just people who have strayed and should pray. No one is above being prayed for and this war is the will of men, not the gods."
Ormund smirked, stepping closer— bringing his hand to your face. You leaned into his touch, his hands holding your face as if it had always belonged there.
He began to grip your chin.
"Do you like disappointing me?"
Your eyes stared into his, "no, my lord."
"Do not let me hear you saying prayers for those bastards again. It is beneath me and you.. you are an extension of me."
"Yes.. my lord."
Ormund smiled, letting go of your chin and placing a kiss to your forehead.
"Good girl—"
"Now, eat your food before it gets cold. I would not want it going to waste."
Ormund walked to the door, leaving you standing there— the door shutting with a thud behind him.
A bird trapped in a beautiful cage.
Instead of eating, you sat back down in your seat. You tried so hard to fight back tears, but they came out anyway. It felt hard to breathe, your fingers gripping the fabric of your deep green gown. You wanted to tear it, feel it rip between your fingers. Higtower green, the colors of the people that betrayed your mother and stole her throne.
The gown felt tight against your skin, constricting your movements. The pins in your hair dug into your scalp, pinning up your silver locks up to make you fit the look of a proper noblewoman in Oldtown. The seven pointed star rested against your chest, the necklace rubbing against your skin. Every part of you was precisely picked and constructed by him. You were his and the worst part was that some part of you liked it.
You liked him and the control that he had over you, because control was all that you knew. It was a cage, but it was your cage and it could've been worse.
You wiped the tears that painted your cheeks and began to pick at the food on the tray, most of your appetite being lost after his visit.
While you sat in your chambers an emotional mess, Ormund was in his solar continuing a conversation with Gwayne.
"I'm glad that you have cleaned yourself up and began to settle in here." Ormund mentioned, blowing out the candle in front of him.
The smell of citrus and sandalwood drifted through the air.
Gwayne sat in the chair, his hands in his lap as he stared around the room. His eyes took notice of the tidiness in the room, how everything had a specific place, how everything was nothing less than perfect.
"Yes, it was nice to get a warm bath." Gwayne nodded in agreement.
"How is Daeron?"
Ormund leaned back in his chair, "he is fine. He's learning the fundamental importance of his new role as king."
"King?" Gwayne questioned, his brows furrowing.
"Yes, king. Aegon is dead and it seems as if Aemond is too, or he's willfully abdicated. Which means that it would be him that is next in line. He must be prepared."
"Rhaenyra sits the throne." Gwayne reminded him.
Ormund scoffed, "the bitch with dragons? that will not last long and it is being handled as we speak."
"She will not abdicate, you are setting him up for failure."
"She will, if her own people are starving and cannot trust her. There are still plenty that do not support her and that will be used to help us." Ormund protested.
"What of my sister? My nieces?"
Ormund's lip twitched at his questions. There were two things that Ormund could not stand, rotten smells and people who questioned his decisions. A lack of faith made his skin burn hot.
"You are full of questions it seems. Perhaps, it would've been wise for you to stay with Cole and finish out what you were tasked with."
Gwayne tilted his head, his face filled with confusion.
"Cole was on a suicide mission. He has no intention of coming back at all from battle, he intends to die in this war even when it is not necessary."
Ormund's brow raised, "do you suppose that you will get your nephew on the throne without bloodshed?—"
"It might be a bit too late for that sentiment."
Gwayne gritted his teeth, shaking his head in disbelief. It felt as if everyone around him had lost their senses, no one was interested in listening to his reason.
"What of the girl?"
Ormund sat up in his chair at the mention of you, his facial expression changing within an instant.
"What of her?"
"If this half-baked plan of scaring Rhaenyra from the throne does not work, what then? Her and Daemon will come for their child, Gods help us when they do." Gwayne noted.
"What makes you so sure that she will want to go with either of them? She has spent years here in Oldtown with me as her guardian, both her and Daeron growing up under my wing. They have been cared for and taught the proper things."
Gwayne hung his head in defeat, "that is her mother, Ormund! Do not be a fool and let your feelings for her cloud your judgement. She is not your wife and she's not required to stay at your side."
Ormund's brows furrowed, the lines on his forehead deepening as he leaned closer to his desk.
"What is that supposed to mean? She is my ward."
Gwayne chuckled, bringing his eyes to Ormund's.
"I have been here merely three days and I have heard the whispers. I will spare you the indignation of asking whether the two of you have been intimate, but she goes beyond being your ward—"
"I beg your fucking pardon?" Ormund interrupted.
"Whispers of you sharing a bed with her on some occasions, bathing her or with her, dressing her in some of your late wife's gowns. It is wrong."
"Those are vile insinuations." Ormund Argued.
Gwayne laughed bitterly, "insinuations are they?"
"You come here to Oldtown with your tail tucked after abandoning your men, yet you want to lecture me on my ability to be a guardian to my wards? This pursuit of the throne is for our blood and yet, you are too craven to see it through. It is a disgrace, you are a disgrace." Ormund spat, his patience thinning.
Gwayne nodded his head, listening to his words.
"As you say, cousin. I just hope that she is not truly aware of what has happened in this war thus far or you shall have an even bigger war to fight."
Ormund shrugged, "she is only aware of what I tell her and the same goes for Daeron."
"How do you suppose that he can be king, if you only tell him small tidbits of information?" Gwayne pried.
"He does not need to know everything at this moment, only what is necessary. I cannot guarantee that he will not share certain pieces of information with her as they are close. We need them on our side, that gives us two extra dragons."
"You truly believe that she'd get on dragonback and fight her own blood, kill them if need be?"
Ormund smirked, "you have far too little faith."
"Or maybe I have seen enough." Gwayne countered.
There was a silence that lingered between the two of them, not that they were at a loss for words— but there was truly nothing more to say. It was clear that Ormund had his mind made up and was not going to budge on the ideas that he's constructed in his mind.
"I must attend to something else, but I will talk to you more during supper." Gwayne spoke as he stood up from his chair.
"Very well." Ormund replied, watching Gwayne leave his solar.
Once Gwayne left the room, he could feel the anger brewing inside him. How dare he question him about you? about what he does for you? About his efforts in this war?
Ormund yelled, knocking everything off his desk and onto the floor in a bit of rage.
Once you had finished your food, you spent time with your septa as you tended to your studies.
That day, Septa Lyra had you working on needlework. Septa Lyra was nice, but you found needlework to be fatally dull. You would've rather spent your time reading or sneaking off to see your dragon, Vermithor.
Ormund had Vermithor chained as soon as you arrived, but not before he burned three dragon keepers. You pleaded for him to keep him free, because he would not like it— but you were scolded and chastised for your feelings regarding it.
Ormund hates dragons, he hates feeling inferior to them, and he hates knowing just how powerless he is because of them.
"Pay attention to what you are doing, you don't want to poke yourself." Septa Lyra spoke.
You adjusted how you held your needle and snapped back into the moment.
"Apologies." You mumbled.
She glanced at you, placing down her fabric in her lap.
"What has gotten into you today, child? You've barely spoken, not even a snide remark about your disdain for needlework."
You kept your focus on the fabric, guiding the needle through it—poking your finger to take your mind off of him.
"I was late to meet Lord Ormund in the sept for prayer this morning and then, he caught me praying for my mother and family in this war. He was not pleased."
The sound of the bells tolling clouded your mind for a small moment, reminding you that it would soon be time for you to pray again.
"Hmm.. Lord Ormund can be strict about people's commentary on this war. It has everyone worried, wondering what shall come the next day. I don't think that you should be too hard on yourself about a prayer."
You brought your eyes to hers, "he said that it was wrong of me to pray for them. I want them safe, but I don't want him harmed either. I just do not like being in the middle of this."
Septa Lyra's facial expression softened, reaching her hand for yours.
"Lord Ormund might be in charge here, but he cannot control what you pray for as that is yours and your relationship with the gods. He might find it to be in poor taste, but that is merely his own opinion."
"But, he was right. It is ungrateful of me, he has been too kind and good to me."
She sat back in her chair as she gave a half smile, one that didn't reach her eyes all the way.
A look of pity for Ormund's caged bird.
You began working the needle into the fabric again, your mind thinking of him. Thinking of things that weren't appropriate. He was your guardian, but why did he make you feel weak? Why did he make you want to be close to him, in his bed with his lips on yours?
Your skin felt warm, the memories flooding your mind.
For the rest of the time that you were in the prescence of Septa Lyra, you were quiet. You had hoped that being quiet would've changed the thoughts that consumed your mind, but it didn't. He consumed you, plagued your mind.
Once the time with Septa Lyra came to an end, you said your goodbyes and made your way to the sept for prayer. As Ormund wished, you visted the sept twice a day to pray and prove your devotion. In his mind, if he kept you busy with prayer then that meant less time for you to sin and cave into your innate herectic desires.
You walked to the sept, your stray hairs blowing in the wind with Ser Bronn and Ser Humfrey behind you. During your walk, you saw Gwayne— his eyes lingering on you for only a moment before he averted his gaze. He seemed like he was afraid to look at you, like he'd been ordered not to.
Your guards were merely one step behind you, almost on your heels— walking you to the doors of the sept as they stood outside of it. You weren't able to say anything to Gwayne, but even then you doubted that he would've held a conversation with you. You knew that Ormund would've forbid it.
At that hour, the sept was almost empty as most came to pray in the early hours of the morning or later in the afternoon before supper.
The sound of your boots clicking against the floor consumed the sound of the faint prayers that could be heard from the two nearby septa's.
You knelt at the altar, lighting a candle and pressing your palms together. With a bowed head and closed eyes, you began whispering your prayer in high valyrian— something that Ormund would never allow.
"Please, Mother above, I beg that you grant me peace. I cannot carry the burden of these feelings any longer, they fill my body and linger within me. Lord Ormund is my guardian, he is not mine to have and yet some part of me craves him. I think unsavory things, even after his punishments.."
"I am a rotten girl, a girl who does not deserve him and his leniency. Please, take away this feeling. I don't want to sin, I don't want to disappoint him. I want to be good, I want to be proud and I cannot be that with those thoughts." You begged silently, tears flowing down your cheeks.
Praying normally didn't bring you to tears, but that day it did. It brought out something in you that you had refused to admit for years.
After prayer, you went back to your chambers. You had hoped for a nap before supper as you had nothing else to fill your time.
You took your boots off and walked back over to the window to glance out, when you saw it or rather, them. Two large shadows flew over Oldtown, they looked to be Caraxes and Sunfyre. It was clearly a message being sent to Ormund, something meant to rattle him.
They hadn't forgotten about you, something that had brought you more hope than you had ever experinced. One day soon you could be leaving your cage. You could finally be free.
Even though you had thought about it plenty, you truly had no idea what it would mean to be away from him. Would you be happy? Would you miss him? Would you regret it? Would you mourn him, if he died?
You shook your head, stopping the questions as they entered your mind. You'd be lost without him, because who would teach you the proper things? Punish you when you were being a rotten girl?
The sound of panic and chaos could be heard from below with the dragons startling everyone, you even heard roaring from Vermithor and Tessarion. People rushed into their homes and knights cleared through the alleyway's.
You sat there, wondering if they'd fly over again.
The sun had dipped low in the sky as you sat in the window seat, blissfully unaware and deep into your accidental nap. It was the sound of a servant entering your chambers that startled you awake.
"I'm sorry to interrupt, my lady. I've come to prepare your chambers for the night." The woman spoke softly.
Your eyes fluttered open, a yawn escaping your lips.
"I can return in a few minutes, if necessary?"
You stood up, "no, that will not be necessary. I did not intend to fall asleep anyhow."
The woman came in and lit the fire in the fireplace.
You noticed that you still had his book on your desk, the book that you borrowed to advance your knowledge. It was supposed to have been returned, but it had slipped your mind. You grabbed the book, immediately rushing to bring it to his chambers, Ser Humfrey and Ser Bronn following in tow.
The shilouette of your dress moved along the wall as you passed the lit sconces. Servants gave half smiles and quick nods as they passed you.
It didn't take long before you reached his doors—the tall, heavy, oak doors with two knights standing outside of it.
"My lady, I do not think Lord Ormund wishes to be bothered at this moment." Jon Roxton spoke, standing on the left side of the doors.
"I came to bring something that belonged to him, that is all. It shall only take a moment." You mentioned.
All of them shared a look, both of them sliding out of your way. You rose your hand with a bit of dread, lightly knocking against the door.
"You may enter." Ormund called out.
You opened the door, shutting it behind you with a loud click.
His chambers smelled of a hint of vanilla with a deep wood smell, a smell that you knew all too well. The fireplace crackling with a small fire.
You turned to face him, holding the book in your hand— when you realized that he was in the middle of bathing.
"Oh.. I am sorry for the interruption, my lord." You stammered.
He gave a troublesome smile, the kind that made knots form in your belly.
"It is not interrupting if I told you to come in. To what do I owe the visit, sweetling? —"
"Supper will be happening here shortly."
Your eyes lingered on the tapestries in his room.
"Look at me, I will not tell you to do so again." He commanded harshly.
Your eyes darted to him, staring at him in the tub as the steam curled around him. He looked even better when he was relaxing and undone. He looked like a piece of art, the kind that takes years to paint, the paintings that you can't look at for too long without getting lost in them.
"I still had your book in my room and I had forgotten to bring it to you, my lord."
"Ah, you seem rather forgetful today. Forgetting when to arrive at the sept for prayer, forgetting who you should be praying for, and now my book."
Your palms began to sweat as you held the book, standing there in front of his judgement.
"I apologize.. forgive me. I don't know what has gotten into me. I will not make habit of such behaviors."
He motioned for you to set the book on the nearby table, which you did with a quickness. You didn't want to upset him more than you had nor did you want to remain in his chambers.
You curtsied and began to walk back towards the doors.
"I didn’t dismiss you, did I?"
Your fingers dug into your palm, your tongue poking your cheek. Just a few more steps and then you would've been out of his room, instead you found yourself scared for what could come next. Out of respect, you turned to face him.
"You did not, my lord."
He stood up in the tub, the water falling off of his body as he stepped out. Your heart stilled in your chest, your eyes immediately finding the floor as he stood bare in front of you.
"I see that on top of not remembering, we must also have issues with listening?" He questioned.
You immediately knew that he was referring to you keeping your eyes on him. You slowly brought your eyes over him and his body, every inch of it. It wasn't your first time seeing him bare, but it was wrong. He wasn't yours to admire.
He put his green robe on, tying the fabric in the front and keeping his eyes on you the entire time. Neither of you spoke as you were at a loss for words, trying to fight the image of his length in your mind.
His footsteps pattered against the rug as he walked over to his desk, opening one of his drawers.
"Come here."
You blinked hard and gulped even harder, a pit in your stomach.
"My lord?"
"Do not.. make me repeat myself, girl." He gritted.
You slowly walked over to his desk, standing in front of it— trying to see what he had in his hand.
"Hands on the desk, palms up." He instructed.
Your lips started to quiver, tears threatening to fall from your eyes.
"Please, Ormund. I am sorry."
He laughed, walking around the desk with a small, black whip in his hands. It was the same one that he had used for punishment before. The same one that he had Jon Roxton use on your feet when you were caught sneaking to the kitchens with Daeron late at night.
He hovered over you, his body just barely touching yours as he leaned in to whisper in your ear.
"Sorry is not good enough."
You closed your eyes, your cheeks already wet from tears as Ormund walked away from you.
The whip hit your left palm first, a cry escaping you.
"Make no mistake, I take no joy in punishing you and making you cry. You must learn to listen and be obedient as you've been taught—"
He struck your right palm.
"What kind of guardian would I be if I didn't punish disobedience? Would you rather live in sin and insolence?" He lectured.
The whip came down again. Your cries getting louder with each instance.
"You will learn, it doesn't matter if it takes until my last breath. You will do better, you will learn, you will be an exact reflection of me as your guardian." He reminded.
The whip came across your hands several more times, your knees wobbling with each hit as he forced you to stand still and take each one. If you cried too hard, interrupted him, or pulled your hands away— it was worse, always worse.
When he finished, he put his whip away and walked over to you with a smile. You took deep breaths as you fought through the pain, your hands still on his desk.
He wiped your tears with his thumb.
"Why must you make this so hard? Disappoint me so greatly?" He questioned.
You didn't answer, because you didn't have one and anything that you could've said would've gotten you another punishment. Your left hand had began to bleed, blood seeping into your palm.
"I shall have the Maester come attend to this wound, stay in here while I go fetch him. I want you to eat supper in here with me tonight—"
"I will inform Gwayne that I will be busy."
Of course you weren't perfect, but why did he punish you so harshly? You listened to him, followed him and that still did not spare you his ire. You submitted to him, you were his in your mind and heart, even when you didn't want to be. Why wasn't it enough?
A few moments later, the Maester came in and cleaned your wound, applying a bandage to it. He didn't ask questions as he knew what had happened and he knew better than to ask.
Ormund came back into the room, while you sat in one of the chairs. He came in with a good mood as if nothing had happened, but maybe nothing had happened in his mind. Punishment wasn't something to linger over, especially when he found it necessary.
"There has been great news these last few days about how this war is progressing."
You stared into the fire, thinking over the right words to say. You knew that his very statement was a trap, another lecture waiting for you. The best thing would be to acknowledge it and change the subject, but you couldn't.
"Was that mother on Sunfyre, flying over Oldtown with Caraxes?" You asked before you could stop yourself.
He pursed his lips and you could see the irritation all over his face within an instant.
"That bitch—"
His words were interrupted by the servants bringing supper into the room. They placed your trays on the table and left quickly, the door shutting behind them.
You glanced at the food and back at the fire in the fireplace while he prepared to dig in.
"Are you not going to eat?" He asked.
"I'm not hungry."
His fork tapped against his plate, a deep breath escaping his lungs.
"Do not be wasteful, eat."
"I am not hungry, my lord."
He did not bother to hide his irritation, " if you do not eat this food tonight, then you will not eat at all tomorrow. How does that sound?"
You caved as you didn't have much of a choice. You sat there silently, taking a few bites from the meat and vegetables on the plate.
"Back to talking about your bitch mother as you couldn't help but to bring her up, that was her on her dragon earlier. She was lucky that we did not have the scorpions ready to shoot the two of them down."
"You would dare kill a dragon?" You responded, your brows furrowed.
"Those filthy beasts are just that, something that you incestous aliens should've never trifled with." He griped, taking a sip of wine.
"Those beasts are loved by most of the small folk and made in the eyes of the gods. They would not be happy to witness such acts."
His eyes looked as if they could've popped from his skull, "made in the eyes of the gods? You know better than anyone to say such a thing, that is not true. It is odd that you could even suggest the mere notion."
Your fork scraped the plate, a blank look on your face.
"The gods would not will them to live if they were such abominations, yet they continue to live and thrive."
He dropped his fork onto his plate, his fists slamming against the table.
"You will cease this nonsense and heretic talk! I am in no mood for this, you rotten girl."
You scoffed in your mind, but you knew better than to do it outwardly.
"I am sorry, please forgive me. I have just had an overwhelming day, my lord."
Ormund nodded his head and resumed eating. His ability to regain control over his anger was something that you hadn't seen before. It was a perfected skill.
"All is well, just do not say those things again."
The rest of supper was quiet on your end, while Ormund complained about small things here and there. It wasn't anything that was of importance or that would matter to you, because the last thing he needed was for you to get to curious.
Once he finished eating, the servants came into his room— taking the leftover food and emptying the tub. The sun had gone down, the moon sitting in the sky.
You stood from your chair, "it is getting late and I should get to my chambers."
"Sleep in here tonight, it's been a while since you've last laid with me."
The last servant glanced at you, her face saying everything her mouth couldn't as she grabbed the empty pitcher and left the room.
"Okay." You agreed with a nod.
He brought over the silk nightgown that he kept of yours in his room. You took it from his hands with a small smile, watching as he walked to the window to look out while you changed.
You stripped out of your clothes and put on the nightgown, "you can turn around now."
He looked at you like it was the first time that he'd ever seen you, a look of possibly adoration. It was hard to understand, because you didn't know what it meant to be adored, not genuinely.
The servant had put out the fire in the fireplace, leaving the room to just the small slit of moonlight that came from the now closed shutters. You crawled into bed beside him, sleeping in the spot his late wife slept in, wearing a nightgown identical to the one that he had made for her years ago.
He pulled you close against him, his arms wrapping around your waist, his warm breath grazing against your ear. It felt as if you belonged in his arms, a home away from your true home. He kissed your head, a low hum in his throat.
"I've missed you sharing a bed with me, sweetling. It pains me to keep you away from it." He whispered.
He kissed your head again, taking in the scent of your hair. You could feel his cock hardening against you, a wetness forming in between your own legs.
His fingers would find your wet folds, gliding between them and rubbing your sensitive bud. His breaths ragged as he chased friction against your skin through his thin breeches. You were still unwed and his ward, it was wrong. It was a sin, something that would ruin you for any suitors.
Sometimes you'd pull away, but he pulled you closer and whispered sweet nothings in your ear.
When he fell asleep, you laid awake— staring at the ceiling. Even when you felt most at ease in his arms, that night you found yourself questioning it all. Was any of it real? Did he truly care about you or did he pretend that you were her? His do over, his chance to mold you into what was desirable. Had you lost your senses for feeling that way?
The next morning as the sun crept in, Ormund was already awake and had left his chambers. The maids came in at the time that they always did, bringing your gown for the day and preparing a bath. When they came in, they had hushed voices and low eyes, never allowing themselves to ask questions about the obvious.
You took your bath, sitting in the water for longer than you normally would. It was hard to place how you felt that morning, but you didn't feel happy.
After your bath and getting dressed, you had time before you were to meet Ormund at the sept for prayer.
The maids had left the room, leaving you to yourself. You opened the door to peak outside and you had no one standing guard. Your heart raced in your chest as your eyes scanned the hall and you walked out of his room, shutting the door behind you. You walked quickly through the hall, hoping not to be noticed by anyone.
Once you were outside, it was easier with everyone beginning to get up for the day. It created a distraction for you to effortlessly blend in. You finally reached it, the dark pit where the dragons were being held. It was dark, the sound of your breathing almost loud enough to echo, the dim firelight from the sconces guiding you.
There he was, sleeping peacefully— chained like an undeserving animal. It pained you to see him chained, he was the bronze fury, a formidable dragon, a good dragon and yet he was punished. When you walked closer to him, you stopped in your tracks as you noticed Daeron near Tessarion.
"I won't tell." He spoke in a hushed voice.
Neither of you were supposed to be in there with your dragons and you could only hope that you hadn't been spotted.
You walked to Vermithor, his eyes opening as he nudged against you. You rubbed his head, bringing yours close to his.
"I've missed you." You whispered, your eyes watering.
Being away from your dragon was a special kind of torture, feeling so connected to something and not being allowed to be close.
"Are you alright?" Daeron asked.
"I would be, If me and him could fly again."
He glanced down at your bandaged hand, "what happened?"
You looked down with confusion like you had forgotten what had happened, until you realized. Daeron saw the hesitation on your face and he immediately understood.
"It is easier, if you just listen." He murmured.
You scoffed.
"It is easier, because he treats you differently. You are not a child that was born by his enemy, he protects you."
Daeron shook his head in disagreement.
"It is not me that he protects so fiercely. In your years here, you've grown to take over the spot of his late wife and he's turned down every marriage offer for you."
You gave a blank stare, a lump in your throat.
"Can I ask you something?" You replied, your voice wavering.
"What is it?"
"Do you know if my family is okay during this war? Do you know what has taken place?"
He rubbed Tessarion's head, his eyes looking elsewhere instead of at you.
"You know that you shouldn't ask that." He gently reminded you.
"I know, but—" you started and then stopped.
Daeron walked over to you, looking to make sure the two of you were still alone.
"You should just drop it, while you're ahead. It is truly best if you do not know."
You grabbed his hand, your eyes widening into a look of desperation.
"Please, Daeron. I have lived here for years, completely in the dark. I can count on one hand the letters that I've been able to read from them. I just want to know."
Daeron was conflicted as he understood your position all too well, but he also didn't want to anger Ormund.
"Rhaenyra has taken King's Landing with Daemon, my uncle Gwayne said so once he returned."
Your brow raised, "she has taken King's Landing? Are you sure?"
He nodded.
You felt genuine hope again, she did what she had set out to do. She was the queen of the seven kingdoms.
"Is everyone okay as well?" You followed up.
He shrugged. "I do not know, he doesn't tell me everything as I've told you before. Perhaps, you can get a raven out to ask?"
You rolled your eyes, biting back a sarcastic laugh.
"That would never work, the risk is far too great."
Daeron hesitated again, going back and forth on what to tell you.
"There's a box in his solar, in the bottom drawer on the right side of his desk. It's filled with all the messages that are correspondence about the war with your mother.. you should find your answers in there."
"How.. would I do that when he's always nearby?"
"Go after dinner, I shall stall him for a short time. Read as much as you can and don't get caught. If you get caught, I will deny my hand in this."
You hugged him, something that was foreign to both of you. Despite your families being on opposing sides, the two of you did look after one another when you could. You were truly all each other had in Oldtown, both of you under his thumb.
"Thank you."
"I would want someone to do the same for me." He admitted.
He started to walk towards Tessarion, "I cannot stress this enough, no matter what you read, do not tell him. Do not react, please."
The bell rang, which meant you only had a few moments to get to the sept. Both of you shared a look before you gave Vermithor a head rub and left to get to the sept.
You rushed through the streets, hurrying to get there in time. When you entered, Ormund was finishing up a conversation with Gwayne as he awaited your arrival.
Gwayne gave a nod as he walked past you, leaving the sept.
"I see that you have arrived on time this morning." He smiled as he approached you.
He pulled you into a hug, his body flushed against yours— his chin resting on the top of your head. He sniffed you a few times, an unusual smell coming from you.
He pulled back to look at you, his brows furrowed.
"You reek of dragon back."
You feigned ignorance, "I have no idea what you mean, my lord. I haven't been able to see Vermithor for a while now."
He brought his hands to your face, causing you to flinch. He pulled your closer, pressing his lips against yours in a kiss.
Ormund did occasionally kiss you, normally in situations where he was happy. You had no idea why he would've been so happy in that moment.
He pulled back from you, his lips curling into disgust.
"Do not lie to me, my love. I would hate to punish you again."
"I'm not.. I promise." You reiterated, your stomach turning.
He brought his pommander to his nose, taking a sniff of the citrus oil inside of it.
"Very well, let's not waste more time than necessary. Let us pray."
The two of you walked over to the altar and knelt, both of you praying as you always did.
Instead of praying for love, you prayed to find the answers to your questions— even if the answers broke your heart in the process. You wanted to trust Ormund, be sure in the reasons that you cared for him so deeply— but you needed the truth.
The entire time that you were in the sept you felt unwell, your nerves had gotten the best of you. After prayer, the two of you stepped outside. While standing there, you threw up— catching Ormund off guard and getting vomit all over your gown.
"What is the matter with you?"
You shook your head, your hand pressed against the wall as you leaned over.
"I just have an upset stomach, my lord."
He had you escorted back to your chambers so that you could change and be cleaned up, but not before he almost threw up himself at the smell.
You took another bath and upon further inspection, the maids noticed that your other gowns had been taken to be cleaned. You were left with only the gowns that your mother had sent to you a year ago, beautiful gowns in your house colors.
As beautiful as the gowns were, Ormund had forbade you from wearing them. Hightower green was the color that you wore or he'd allow you to wear House Arryn's colors, since that was your grandmothers house.
You didn't want to disobey him, but you had no choice this time. Surely, he'd understand?
All throughout the day your nerves had been a jumbled mess, you could barely think straight— worried about what you'd find out. It was wrong of you to plan going through your guardian's belongings, but why couldn't he tell you what was going on? Did he intend to keep you in the shadows forever? If he cared about you to the lengths that he claimed, wouldn't the two of you share information and be one?
Luckily for you, Ormund was going to be busy for most of the day as he prepared for the small feast being held. Lord Borros had sent an envoy of Baratheon men to pledge his support for the greens during the war. You hoped that by the time the feast started at least one of your gowns would be cleaned and you could change gowns before he noticed.
You weren't going to see Septa Lyra that day as she had other duties to attend to. Instead of sitting in your chambers all day, you decided to go to the library. You didn't want to spend the day trapped in your mind with no escape until you got into his solar.
As you walked the halls, servants and maids gawked at the sight of you in your gown. A beautiful, silk gown with small dragons at the hem of it. House Targaryen colors, something they knew Ormund would never let you wear. They knew the punishment would be severe for even wearing such a thing.
It didn't stop them from whispering and commenting you on the gown.
You spent most of the day in the library, getting lost in the few books that they had on the histories of House Targaryen. It brought you comfort reading them and being left alone to your own thoughts, not having your thoughts controlled for you.
You loved reading about your family and Old Valyria, you wanted to embrace the side of you that made you proud. He could embrace embrace being a Hightower, a traitor to his queen— but you couldn't embrace being a Targaryen? It wasn't fair.
As the hours had passed on, you went to the sept and even returned back to the library. Ser Humfrey came in to ask if you were okay, if he needed to notify Ormund but you reassured him that you were fine.
The halls outside of the library clattered with noise from the bustling of servants and maids. The Hightower would be in perfect condition as guests were due to arrive.
You finished two books before you left the library. You peered down from the window and saw that guests were arriving. You knew that you needed to make an appearance shortly or you'd risk a conflict with him.
When you stepped out of the library, Ser Humfrey glanced at you again.
"Are you sure that you are alright, my lady?"
You nodded, twisting your fingers.
"I am fine, Ser Humfrey. However, I do appreciate your genuine concern."
Him and Ser Bronn shared a look, but both decided that it was best to let you be.
While walking the halls, you could hear the faint sound of music being played in the dining hall. Guests lingered in the hall, talking amongst one another. A few of them saw you, even tried to approach to ask questions but they were stopped. You gave a half smile and continued on as you'd been told to.
When you walked into the dining hall, it was decorated beautifully. The feast was not a grand event, but just one to show appreciation— but it felt more than that. The Baratheon men would have no qualms with bending the knee and being shown such hospitality. That level of hospitality would certainly be rewarded.
The table that you'd be seated at was at the front of the room. Everyone at the table was present, but you. Ormund was in the middle of a conversation, his focus elsewhere. As you walked up to the table, Gwayne's eyes followed your every move in shock, while Daeron found you to be bold.
You approached Ormund as he stood near the table, preparing to take your own seat. His words paused in the conversation, his eyes raking over you and that gown.
"Please, excuse me." Ormund smiled, waking away from the man.
He grabbed your arm, his fingers digging into you.
"How dare you?—"
"What do you have on?"
"My other gowns had been taken away for cleaning at your request, so when I threw up this morning I had nothing else to wear." You admitted.
The scowl on his face only deepened, his grip growing tighter. He leaned closer towards your face, "you mean to make a mockery of me on such an important day?"
You couldn't bare to look at him, you never could when he was angry. His anger made you feel small, made you feel worthless, it made you feel the exact opposite of what he'd whisper to you in bed.
"No, I didn't intend to do that, my lord. I could return back to my chambers, if you wish?"
"I do not fucking wish for you to go to your chambers, but this.. this will not go unanswered." He fumed.
You stared into his eyes, "what was I supposed to do? I would be punished for not attending, but now I am to be punished for what I had available."
"You could've put on one of Samantha's old gowns!—"
You pulled your arm back from his grip, your brows furrowed.
"Samantha? As in your late wife?—"
"You'd want me to wear one of her gowns? You kept them?"
He huffed, realizing that maybe he'd said to much.
"I did not mean to—"
Before Ormund could respond, Gwayne called his name and got his attention. He saw the way that he was with you and wanted to save him from everyone else seeing the same thing.
You took your seat in the chair beside his, a bitter taste in your mouth.
Samantha was his late wife, she'd been long dead by the time you were brought to Oldtown. You'd heard that she was a beauty, that she was kind, and gentle. Ormund always said that despite everything, their marriage was merely a political match.
It didn't matter much when you heard his words years ago, but now it struck a nerve— a nerve that you thought was neatly tucked away.
She was a ghost in the Hightower, someone seldom mentioned but fondly remembered. Ormund had only ever called you by her name one time, when he was yelling at you. An accident is what he claimed, but it didn't hurt you any less.
A place holder, a rotten girl, a mistake, tainted, someone that would never be Samantha.
A servant came around the table, filling your goblet with wine— which you happily accepted. Anything to make you feel even a fraction of less shame and the disappointment than you felt.
Ormund took his seat beside you as he finished his conversation with Gwayne.
"We will talk more later." He mumbled.
You raised your brows, bringing the goblet to your face once more— the sweet wine gliding down your throat.
People approached the table, speaking with Ormund on different matters that pertained to the war. You watched silently, waiting for the moment that you could leave. Underneath the table, Ormund had his hand on your thigh— giving you a subtle reminder to behave.
The plates were brought out to everyone, forks clinking and scraping their plates. The smiles on their faces were big, bellies full, everyone in support of the greens. They gave Ormund looks of pity for having you as his ward, raising Rhaenyra's rotten seed must've been the hardest thing that he'd ever done in their eyes.
You toyed with your food, only taking a few bites and instead filling your belly with more wine.
As people finished their food, they began to get up and mingle again— some even dancing. Ormund sat beside you with a pleased look on his face, proud of the support that he'd rallied.
Daeron left his seat at the further end of the table, approaching him for a conversation. You scooted your chair back, getting his attention.
"I do not feel well, I need to step out for a moment."
"My lord." Daeron spoke, standing to the side of Ormund.
Ormund glanced at him and back at you, "very well. Do not stay gone for long."
Darron mouthed words to you as you stood up.
"Go now."
You walked away from the table, your feet stumbling some as you had indulged in too much wine. When you got outside the dining hall, you realized that all the guards were in the room. The hall was practically empty as you walked down it, everyone was so busy with the feast.
When you got to Ormund's solar, you took a deep breath and entered the room— quietly shutting the door behind you.
The room was dimly lit with a small fire going in the fireplace.
"The bottom right drawer at his desk." You whispered to yourself.
You walked to his desk, kneeling behind it as you opened the drawer. There it was, a small brown box as daeron had described.
Your hands trembled as you held it, walking closer to the fire so that you could read. With a click the box opened, filled to the top with letters. You decided to start at the bottom and then work your way to the top.
At first, most of the letters were just small and meaningless things— but it didn't stay that way.
Your breath hitched in your chest, tears falling onto the papers as you read most of them. You stopped reading them, pulling your knees to your chest as you sobbed on the rug.
Luke was dead, Rhaenys was dead, Jace was dead, Rhaena was believed to be missing, and Ormund was actively having gold cloaks killed in the city to sow discord.
He always said that your mother initiated the war when she heard the news of your grandfather's passing, but that was far from the truth. Aemond used Vhagar to chase down and kill your little brother, sweet Luke.
Your family had been falling apart while you slept in the bed with a man that celebrated it. You were a fool.
In a bit of rage, you took the letters and dumped all of them into the fire— placing the box back into the drawer.
You took longer than you should have, but you walked out of his solar with wet eyes and your stomach felt like you could vomit at any moment.
How could he betray you that way? You knew that he wasn't perfect, that he opposed your mother— but never to the scale of the letters that he had written. The letters were so cruel, cold, and just evil— far too evil for a pious man.
Drinking the multiple goblets of wine had caught up to you, you stumbled through the hall— your hands holding onto the wall for stability.
Your heart was shattered into pieces, everything that you thought that you knew faded into the wind.
When you walked back into the dining hall, Daeron was standing up from your seat that he had been sitting in.
"There you are, I was about to go looking for you." He spoke as you stumbled past him.
He noticed your red eyes and he could smell the wine on you, but his thoughts were interrupted.
"My lord, the envoy from House Baratheon has arrived to treat with you." The man spoke.
Ormund stood up, an even bigger smile than he had on his face earlier.
"Let the stormlands lead the way, HighGarden will have no choice but to follow."
Gwayne stood from his chair and approached Ormund, the rests of the guests still talking amongst themselves.
"Let me do the talking."
You stood near Ormund, almost swaying in place— causing Gwayne to stare at you for a moment.
The men walked in towards the table and Ormund, the stench of them stronger than cow shit. It was the kind of smell that made your lips curl. It was truly insulting that they were sent to treat and we're beyond filthy, tracking in mud.
"Lord Ormund Hightower, beacon of the south, defender of the citadel, and voice of Oldtown." Jon Roxton spoke, grabbing the attention of a few guests.
Ormund's face had turned a hint of red, the unexpected smell beginning to overwhelm him.
"Well met, Lord Ormund. I come as an envoy of Lord Borros Baratheon. Lord paramount of the stormlands." The man greeted.
Ormund coughed clearing his throat, clearly overwhelmed— but he wasn't the only one. The smell was making it harder to keep down what had went into your stomach.
"You are quite welcome, Ser—"
"Ser Arrion Baratheon, cousin to Lord Borros."
The men stared at you like they knew you, yet you could not place any of their faces. It could've been the wine, but they seemed off.
Ormund took a step back, standing closer to you.
"I most regret presenting ourselves in this state. The road was long and filthy, but I thought it best to speak to you immediately." Arrion admitted.
Gwayne stood there, his eyes scanning the face of Arrion.
Ormund shook his head, "we are honored to receive you and what word from Lord Borros?"
"Well, House Baratheon bends the knee to his grace, Aemond Targaryen and offers it's many banners in alliance with House Hightower."
Arrion struggled to keep his eyes off of you, his hands making a small movement for his sword.
"That is good news. Your lord has made a wise choice." Ormund claps, a miserable smile on his face.
There was a beat of silence amongst the men.
"I hope you do not mind the question, but is that Rhaenyra Targaryen's daughter?" Arrion asked with his head slightly tilted.
Gwayne grabbed the blade from Ormund's belt, lunging and slitting the man's throat.
Ormund stood in front of you, "no! Stop him." He yelled.
The dining hall got quiet, people starting to panic at the havoc that seemed to have come out of nowhere.
Your hands shook as you stood behind Ormund, terrified of what could happen next— to you and him.
"These are assassin's sent for you and me, from the Queen." Gwayne yelled, chopping a man in two.
You watched as Jon Roxton disemboweled a man with his valyrian steel sword, cutting through him like warm butter.
"Ser Arrion Baratheon has hair of light chestnut.. and he is far more comely."
Ormund leaned against the table, his face redder than before and his breathing ragged. He turned his gaze to you, "what did you do?" He gritted.
"I will cleave the bitch.. from crown to cunt—"
"She will die wishing she never dared.. dared."
Ormund started throwing up on the table, causing a few people to gasp around you.
Your day had just worsened as it continued… You stumbled from the table and down the steps towards the other tables. Servants rushed in to clean up the mess and keep the scene from being too much of a spectacle, but it was far too late.
Gwayne chased after you, helping you down the stairs as you almost fell. His hand held you up, his hand pressed against your backside but lower than it should've been.
Ormund saw, a rage taking over him.
While everyone else was too busy trying to understand what happened and preparing to leave, Ormund pulled you from Gwayne's hold— grabbing a fistful of your hair.
"Ow!" You cried out, your hands reaching for his as he dragged you into the hall with no shame.
"You filthy whore." He fumed.
"Ormund, you're hurting me." You cried out.
His grip on your hair was tight, it felt as if he could pull it from your scalp.
Due to the fact that you had drank so much wine, you couldn't keep up with him— your feet tripping over eachother.
You fell onto the ground, but that still didn't stop him. He walked you like a dog down the hall, a tight grip on your hair and unwavering level of anger. The few servants that saw it, closed their eyes and shut their mouths. If he'd do that to you, then he'd do far worse to them.
He opened the door to his chambers, slamming it shut behind him.
You struggled to stand up, tears falling from your eyes.
"Let go of me." You whined.
He brought his face closer to yours, pulling your hair and neck back— making you look at him.
"You dare flirt with Gwayne in front of me, allow him to put his hands on your body?"
"I almost fell and he helped me, it was not like that. I swear." You breathed.
His face twisted into something that you'd never seen before.
"You swear? You are the daughter of a whore, nothing more than the biggest mistake of her life. You probably would've sucked his cock in his chambers tonight, had he continued being nice."
You pushed against him, his grip loosening.
"You lied! You fucking lied to me—"
"Praying to the gods and condemning my blood, yet you'd commit grievous atrocities and sins for yours?"
He pulled his shoulders back.
"What are you talking about?"
You laughed bitterly, tears rolling down your neck and chest.
"I saw all of the letters, all of them." You gasped, beginning to sob.
"They murdered Luke, Rhaenys, and Jace.. they murdered them and you praised them for their efforts."
"You went through my things? you ungrateful, sniveling bitch." He roared, his eyes dark with nothing behind them.
"I would've crossed oceans and mountains for you.. because I loved you. I believed—"
"I believed that you loved me too, but you Ormund Hightower are no better than a Dothraki savage."
He grabbed your arm, pinching it.
"I could never love someone so rotten and so utterly foul. If your mother loved you then she would've killed me to get to you, so I must not be the only one with that sentiment."
You stared at him, unable to recognize the man that you'd known for most of your life.
You spat in his face, his hands leaving you as he took a step back in disbelief. He wiped the spit from his face, his breathing deep and heavy.
Ormund reached forward, wrapping his hands around your throat.
Both of you stumbled back, your hands tapping at his as you couldn't catch your breath—your foot hitting the tub that was near the wall.
"Ormund.. I can't—" you gasped.
It felt like the room was closing in around you. Your chest felt like a fire consumed it, your eyes bulging as you tried pulling his hands off.
It felt like an eternity, but Ormund let go of you with a push—causing you to stumble back and fall.
There was a heavy thud as you hit the floor, your head hit the edge of the tub.
You laid on the rug, blood streaming down your face from the small wound. You blinked and blinked, feeling as if you'd been in the same place forever. For a moment you'd sworn that you might've died, that those might've been your last moments in the world.
After a moment, you picked yourself up. Ormund watched you and slowly regained his senses. You touched the wound, bright red blood coating your fingers and dripping down onto your face.
He approached you, grabbing your face into his hands— his touch softer than a mere moment ago. A feeling of disgust overtaking you.
"It was an accident, I shouldn't have—"
"I'm sorry. I am so sorry, please forgive me."
"I'm going to leave you alone here one day and I'll never look back." You muttered, staring into his eyes.
His facial expression softened, maybe because he believed you more than he ever had before.
He let go of your face, grabbing your hand instead.
"I love you, I love you more than I can put into words."
It was the first time that he'd truly said it and it sounded like that, like he meant it— but he wasn't ready to say it. He loved you, but only when you were good and not rotten.
He pressed a kiss to your lips, your blood smearing onto his skin. He kissed you like he'd never get the chance to again and even after everything, you didn't deny him. You should've killed him on the spot, but instead your heart fluttered like it always did. He had a grip on you, one that you would never truly outrun and that grip was mutual.
"I am going to leave you." You reiterated, your lips against his.
"I will make you mine, I will not lose you. I cannot. I would go to war for you, sin for you. You are mine as you always have been."He mumbled against your lips.
You pulled back, a singular tear sliding from your eye.
"Bend the knee to my mother then and I will forgive you for your actions tonight."
He shook his head, his lips pursed as if your statement was painful to hear.
"I would never."
You scoffed, pulling away from him.
"Then, none of this—" you spoke, pointing around the room.
"Is good enough."
He sighed as if were out of options, "do not force my hand on this. I am begging you, because you will not like the outcome."
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