#hightower x reader

He murmured something unintelligible in his sleep, a word that dissolved against your skin, and his strong arm tightened around your shoulders, drawing you even closer. His face nestled into the crook of your neck, his warm breath making your eyes flutter shut for a brief moment. His lips barely brushed your skin as he spoke again, his voice thick with sleep. "What are you doing awake already?" he mumbled against your neck without opening his eyes.

A faint smile touched your lips as you traced idle circles across his chest with the tips of your fingers, following the contours of the muscles beneath his skin. "I don't know. My eyes just opened on their own." Your voice was low, almost a whisper, as though you feared breaking the stillness of the moment.

Ormund let out a slow breath and allowed his hand to glide gently down your arm, caressing you with a tenderness few would have imagined in a man of his size. For a moment he remained silent, his eyes still closed, but you knew he was listening to you with complete attention. "Something's troubling you. I can feel it." It wasn't a question. He knew you well enough to recognize the weight of your thoughts, even when you tried to hide them.

You lifted your gaze to his face and smiled faintly. His chestnut hair had fallen messily across his forehead in unruly waves, and without the stern expression he wore before his lords, he looked almost younger, closer to the man you had come to love. "I think I'm just... sad."

Ormund finally opened his eyes and looked at you with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. There was affection in them, concern, and that quiet tenderness he reserved for you alone. His hand came to rest against your back as he studied you in silence for a moment, as though trying to read every thought hidden behind your expression. "And why would my lady wife ever be sad?"

You let out a quiet huff and rolled your eyes, though the smile that escaped you betrayed how impossible it was to stay annoyed with him. "Don't tease me. You know why." Your voice caught slightly on the last word, and the silence that followed only made the truth you were both trying to ignore feel more real.

"Is it because I'm leaving for war?" he asked simply, though he already knew the answer. His fingers continued to stroke your arm, slow and patient, as though trying to soothe a pain he could never truly erase.

You lowered your eyes to his hand and gave a small nod. "What else could it be?" you murmured, pouting ever so slightly in a way that reminded him just how much younger you were than he was. You always carried yourself with impeccable grace, with all the composure expected of the Lady of the Hightower, yet in moments like these, Ormund could still see the young woman you had once been. The young woman you still are.

"This afternoon you'll leave, and I'll have to stay here, all alone. I wish I could come with you." The words spilled out faster than you had intended, carried by a sadness you had tried to conceal throughout the previous evening.

Ormund smiled faintly, a smile tinged with both weariness and affection. He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours, kissing away your pout with a sweetness that made you forget everything else for a moment. You smiled against his lips and slipped your fingers into his soft hair, keeping him close. When he finally drew back, he remained only a breath away, close enough for you to still feel the warmth of his breathing. "I'm not taking my wife to a battlefield, surrounded by soldiers who haven't seen a woman or had sex in weeks, sleeping in a foul-smelling tent." His tone was light, almost teasing, but beneath his words lay an unshakable resolve. You didn't deserve that, you deserved warm food, soft silks and the comfort of your shared bed. He would not have it in any different way.

You swallowed quietly, feeling his fingers continue to glide over your skin with infinite care. His touch had always been astonishingly gentle, a stark contrast to the strength of his hands and the reputation for severity he had earned among his bannermen.

"I know, but-" You tried to speak, but he interrupted before you could finish.

"You'll stay here, where I know you'll be safe, in the comfort of our home. You're the Lady of the Hightower. You cannot leave." His voice remained calm, but there was no room for argument. You fell silent, staring at the bedsheet gathered between your fingers as you fought the tightness rising in your throat. The reality of his departure suddenly felt much closer: the sound of horses' hooves in the courtyard, the men making ready to ride, the banners of House Hightower leaving Oldtown without him.

Ormund rested a hand against your cheek and gently lifted your face until your eyes met his once more. There was a solemnity in his gaze that made you understand just how much these words meant to him. "Promise me. Promise me you'll stay here, where you'll be safe."

You let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of those words and of the love that accompanied them. At last, you gave a small nod. "I promise."

A satisfied, almost proud expression crossed Ormund's face, and his thumb gently stroked your cheek in reassurance. "Good. Now, how can I make up for my absence, my lady wife?" The question came with a firm squeeze of the fat of your ass.

A mischievous smile slowly spread across your lips. "I know exactly how."

He chuckled softly at your response, a sound that rumbled through his chest and vibrated against your skin. "Oh? And pray tell, what did you have in mind, my dearest?" His voice was low and rich with amusement and anticipation. His hand slid lower, tracing the curve of your hip and coming to rest on your bare thigh, squeezing gently. The heat of his palm seeped into your skin, igniting a familiar spark at its path. Ormund leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Whatever it is, I'm sure we can find a way to make it happen before I must take my leave." His other hand came up to tangle in your hair, tilting your head back slightly to expose the column of your throat.

You tilted your head back further, exposing more of your neck to his touch. A soft gasp escaped your lips as you felt his teeth graze your pulse point, sending a shiver down your spine to your very aching core. "Perhaps we could start by get warm. It's a little cold here." Your hand slid down his hairy chest slowly, fingers splaying across the hard planes of his abdomen. You could feel the heat of his naked skin, its hardness. Leaning in, you nipped playfully at his earlobe. "I want you to put a babe in me so I might have company until your return, my lord husband."

Ormund's breath hitched at your bold words, desire flaring hot and urgent in his eyes. He captured your lips in a searing kiss, pouring all his passion and need into the heated press of his mouth against yours. His tongue delved deep, stroking along yours slowly as his hands roamed your curves with growing hunger. "Such a wanton request from my beautiful wife." he growled approvingly against your lips. In one swift motion, he rolled you onto your back, settling his muscular body over yours. The hard length of his hardness nudged insistently against your thigh as he gazed down at you with blatant lust. "I will gladly oblige and fill this womb with my seed. By the time I return, you'll be heavy with our child, a living reminder of my claim on you."

You arched your back, pressing your breasts against his chest as you wrapped your legs around his hips. The heat of his arousal brushed against your slick folds, making you burn at the mere touch. "Please, my lord." you whimpered, rolling your hips to grind against him.

Oh, how beautiful you were when you pleaded him so.

He would’ve give you the sky, stars and moon only if you asked to.

Your nails raked down his back as you pulled him closer, desperate to eliminate any remaining space between your bodies. The musky scent of his thickness mixed with the lingering traces of last night's wine, creating an intoxicating perfume that clouded your senses.

With a low groan, Ormund captured your wrists and pinned them above your head, holding them easily with one large hand. His other hand slid down the smooth plane of your stomach to cup your mound, unable to keep his hands to himself, fingers delving between your slick folds to stroke your sensitive flesh. His hand was cold against your skin, so cold it made you tremble in his grip.

"So wet for me already." he purred in your ear, circling your clit with the pad of his thumb. "My perfect, eager lady wife."

You shut your eyes closed, trying to get more friction from him. Your hips moved against his hand impatiently, rolling slowly, chasing that cold touch. You cried out a moan, your back arching off the bed as his fingers slowly entered in your wetness. Pleasure sparked through your body, making your toes curl against the warm sheets. Your inner walls clenched around them, sucking them in with a wet and disgusting sound that filled your chambers. You tugged at your restrained wrists, not really trying to escape but reveling in being held down, at his mercy. Your eyes locked with his, hazy with lust and adoration. "Please, Ormund."

Ormund's eyes darkened with hunger, watching you writhe beneath his touch, your desperate pleas music to his ears. He could listen to your whines all day and night without getting tired. He would gladly listen to only you for the rest of his life. Slowly and torturously, he pumped his fingers inside you, curling them to stroke that secret spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His thumb circled your clit in maddeningly light touches, stoking the flames of your desire higher and higher.

"Look how pretty you are like this." His voice was a low, seductive rumble. He added a third finger, stretching you deliciously. The obscene wet sounds of your coupling filled the room, punctuated by your increasingly high-pitched moans. "So greedy, so desperate."

Your head thrashed from side to side on the pillow, lost in the overwhelming sensations. Drool leaked from the corner of your open mouth as garbled cries spilled from your trembling lips. The pleasure was too intense, building to a peak far too quickly than you were used to. Your thighs began to quake and tense, signaling your impending release.

"Don't stop!" you wailed, grinding shamelessly against his hand. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes. You were so close, hovering right on the edge of blissful oblivion. Just a little more, and you'd shatter completely in his arms.

Ormund watched you intently, drinking in every twitch and shudder of your body, every broken cry that fell from your lips. He could feel your walls starting to flutter around his fingers, telling him just how close you were. With a wicked grin, he removed his fingers abruptly, ignoring your wail of protest. Before you could even process the loss, he settled himself between your thighs, the thick head of his cock nudging insistently at your entrance. He gathered your arousal on his tip, never sliding it into you.

"Not yet, my love. I want to feel you come undone around my cock." With that, he thrusted forward, sheathing himself to the hilt in one smooth stroke. A guttural moan tore from his throat at the sensation of your tight heat enveloping him.

A loud moan ripped from your throat as you felt filled completely, your back bowing off the bed. Your nails dug into his wide shoulders, surely leaving crescent-shaped indents in his skin. The stretch of his thick length inside you bordered on painful but felt so incredibly good. Your walls spasmed and clenched around him rhythmically, trying to draw him even deeper inside.

"Oh gods, yes!" you sobbed, tears of pleasure finally streaming down your face. You could feel every throbbing inch of him, pulsing inside your most intimate place. The base of his shaft rubbed softly against your swollen clit with each tiny movement, pushing you rapidly towards your peak. Ormund kissed each one of your tears with care, planting his hands at each side of your face.

He set a relentless pace, pounding into you with deep, powerful strokes that shook the bed frame against the wall. The obscene slap of skin on skin echoed through the room, mixing with your wanton moans and his own grunts of exertion. It burned, you could clearly feel the sting of his force, but it felt so good. He angled his hips, driving into that special spot inside you with each thrust, determined to make you fall apart.

"I'm gonna give you a babe, my wife." His voice was strained, sweat beading on his brow from the effort of holding back his own release. One hand snaked between your bodies to rub tight circles on your clit, pushing you closer to the edge. "'M gonna give you so many babies to make you company."

Your world narrowed down to the feeling of him moving inside you, filling you up so completely. Each powerful thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your entire body, making your toes curl and your vision blur. The coil of tension in your lower belly wound tighter and tighter, pushed to the brink by his relentless stimulation.

"Yes! Yes! Give me your babies!" you begged incoherently, too far gone to care about anything but chasing your rapidly approaching climax. Your walls started to flutter wildly around his length, gripping him like a vice. With a final rub to your clit and a particularly deep thrust, you shattered. Your moan echoed off the chamber, the guards and the servants surely must've heard it, and your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. Your body convulsed violently, back arching nearly in half as ecstasy consumed you.

Ormund groaned deeply as he felt your walls clamp down around him, rippling and squeezing his cock. Your climax triggered his own, and with a grunt, he buried himself to the hilt inside you. His cock jerked and pulsed as he emptied himself into your spasming cunt, flooding you with his hot seed. He ground against you, ensuring every last drop took root in your womb. "Take it all, my love." His words were punctuated by short pants as the aftershocks of his release shuddered through him. He collapsed on top of you, careful not to crush you with his larger frame.

You clung to him desperately, your nails raking down his sweat-slicked back as you rode out the waves of your shared climax. Each spurt of his release painted your insides, marking you as his in the most intimate way possible. As the intensity began to fade, you went limp beneath him, utterly spent. Your chest heaved with each labored breath, and your heart raced wildly against your ribs. You turned your head to press a tender kiss to his jaw, savoring the salty taste of his skin.

"Come back to me, my love. I'll be waiting you here." you whispered softly.

He held you close, one hand stroking gently through your hair while the other traced soothing patterns on your sweat-dampened skin. As your breathing slowed, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, then your nose, and finally your lips, a gesture that belied the passion of moments before. "I will always come back to you, my dearest." His voice was low and fervent with decision. He shifted slightly, careful not to dislodge himself from your warmth. "Rest now, my wife. I will hold you until it's time for me to go."

Another day, another stack of letters to once again rifle through. Accounts, petty disputes and the ever-looming threat of war over Westeros had reached Oldtown. Specifically, they sat lined up neatly upon Lord Hightower's far too cluttered desk. Letters and seals poking out, threatening to spill over and crash onto the dark green floor below. He barely had the space for an inkpot and quill, let alone space for himself.

Ormund sighed, pushing hair back with his hand before dragging it slowly down his face. As always, his duty as Lord of Oldtown comes first and foremost. But then his mind drifts back to your sweet, slumbering figure - gentle and innocent as dreams swam through your mind. Oh, what he would do to abandon his duties and rush back to you!

But that would not be correct, and that would not do well. The Lord of Oldtown must attend to his duties before all else.

Even if that meant Old Petyr and his "sheep problem", whatever that was to mean. His nose wrinkled slightly as his mouth pulled into a thin, awkward smile as he tried not to feel too offended by the smell rising from the letter upon opening it,

Dear Lord Hightowr,

The man had missed an 'e' in his good Lord's name. Ormund tried, oh so very hard, not to take it too personally. He could not ignore the way his eye twitched at it though, nor could he hold himself back from raising his eyebrows as he continued to read,

My sheeps gone. All of them. Bastard man took them.

Who the fuck was "Bastard man"? And how in the name of the Seven was he to fix such a pathetic situation? He found himself sighing for potentially the hundreth time that morning (an incredible feat, given that he had only begun working for the day an hour ago) and pinching the bridge of his nose as the letter fell from his hands. Another foolish dispute, that he would (no doubt) have to sort out himself. Another few hours away from his pretty wife, and another day he would spend irritated and uncomfortable.

It was just his luck then, that as he stood so abruptly in a fit of - well, it was not quite rage, but a somewhat simmering anger at the very least, so we'll call it anger for today - anger, that the door to his solar opened and good Lord Ormund Hightower of Oldtown hit his head upon a hook on the wall behind him,

"Ow!"

"Ormund!"

"Beloved?"

"Oh my Gods, are you oka-"

"Fine, fine! Just fine. I.. I am fine."

"…"

"I am!"

"I don't know, Ormund-"

"I hit my head, I did not trip and fall!"

"You may as well have! Whatever were you thinking, hitting your head like that?"

"…You cannot be serious."

"Deathly serious, my dear."

"You cannot think I intended upon hitting my head on the hooks behind me, can you? It is not my fault anyways, whoever made this Godsforsaken solar had the stupidity to install hooks upon the wall behind the desk- we should change the way it faces. Beside the window would be better…"

He continues rambling - something about needing to move the desk, and refurnish the solar to be more suitable. You do not pay quite as much attention as you should to his words, given that you are Lady Hightower (and of course, every good Lady should pay close attention to her husband, or whatever it was the Septas had drilled into you). Instead, you make your way towards him - where he stands still in front of his desk, still with a hand to his head and his eyebrows furrowed. Your hands delicately trace over his back as you slink in front of him. A buffer between him and the desk he had hated so very much,

"…perhaps I should just get a new desk entirel- what are you doing, dear wife?"

"Well, you know.."

"I'm not sure I do, you know."

Yet despite his words, he has that smile that teases at the corner of his mouth. The one where it just threatens to spread across, where his eyes scrunch up slightly. His shoulders drop a little as your hands move from where they had loosely wrapped around his back up past his arms, resting beside his neck. He lowers his head, the very top of his hair touching your own forehead as he relaxes for the first time in.. well, forever! It is as he relaxes when he recalls the other duties that he has somewhat abandoned for the sake of Oldtown, and a twinge of guilt strikes across his heart as his hands cup around your face - angling your head upwards towards him,

"I understand I have been neglecting my sweet wife - I apologise, my dear, but-"

"Shhh, none of that now-"

"But I-"

"No!"

"If you would let me get one word in-"

"Hmm.. let me think? You know, now that I think of it - no, I will not allow it!"

His head drops to your shoulder as he groans, and your arms tug him closer. He takes the moment to deeply inhale your scent - nose pressed against the crook of your neck as you hum softly in response. As he does, his hands quickly find your waist, pushing you up against the desk as he hoists you up onto it. Where usually he would work swiftly to tug at every bow on the back of your dress, today he pushes your skirts up around your waist. You lift your head up to him, eyebrows raised as you cock your head to one side with a knowing smirk,

"Impatient, my good Lord~?"

"Gods, yes. I have needed you for - well, fuck knows how long for all I know is that I have needed you, and you alone. Fuck these papers, and these petty matters - I need you. And I need you now, my sweet wife, here and now."

Despite the slightly commanding nature of his words, he still looks into your eyes for permission. For permission, and rejection. Would you push him away? Would you tell him no? After all this time, he still finds himself waiting for your validation. So when you take his face in your hands, pulling him into a kiss - he takes that as his permission to finally fuck the stupid letters, and fuck his sweet wife instead.

He swipes the stacks behind you onto the floor, mouth still slotted perfectly against yours as he lowers your body onto the desk. When he pulls away (just to relieve himself of the garments that restrict him), you tut and gasp at his impropriety,

"And of your duties, my Lord?"

"The duty that lies in front of my eyes, blessing me with her presence is the one I shall devote myself to today - unless that offends my Lady?"

That clearly pleases you, a smile growing across your face as you lower yourself back down onto the desk. He does not climb you as he would in bed, but he still cages his arms around you - the way you like it, of course. He presses lazy kisses across your neck, the cleavage that is barely exposed and your jaw. Your hands lace behind his neck, pulling him closer again as he finally presses his hardened length against your folds.

Feeling your wetness, he sighs immediately. A pleased sigh, for once. One of a man who has finally found his paradise, after months of being surrounded by the circles of hell themselves. You hear him breath in deep - taking in the scent, enjoying it as he slowly enters you. Every inch that pushes into you fills you further and further, as you climb the ladder of ecstasy.

Before you were wedded, before you had ever even thought of men, you had heard older women speaking of how "it get less exciting over the years.". Tales of how they had once been filled with pleasure and want, only for it to dwindle over time.

You could confirm that in your case, it never did. It never dwindled, nor felt less than that first night together. Of course, the two of you grew together, both as a couple and as people living side by side. And neither you nor Ormund were quite as nervous now as you were the first time. But it still felt just as perfect, just as sweet.

The very tip of his length finds your cervix, resting there as he presses his forehead against you. Your hands work at his own clothes now - revealing his torso for your pleasure alone. He raises an eyebrow, you roll your eyes and slowly drag your hands along his toned body,

"All mine, mine, mine."

"And are those not supposed to be my words, wife?"

"Perhaps I beat you to them."

"Perhaps I allowed you."

You roll your eyes again, and he takes the moment to start rocking in you. Back and forth, all at a measured pace. Because Ormund Hightower was a measured man, a calculated man, even around the woman that could break his walls. At the very least, he would start out measured, right?

You arch your back off the desk, and he holds you up as his lips trail down you. Until, he realises that he has not quite helped himself here,

"Ah. Problem."

"Yes?"

"Hang on."

"Ah, so now I must wait even longer?"

"Just a moment!"

His hands tug the upper half of your dress down, and your breasts spill out and bounce. His eyes widen and sharpen in response. He lowers himself to your chest properly this time. You hum as his lips find your nipple - wrapping around and softly tugging and sucking as he continues to pump in and out of you.

Oh, and it feels so, so good. your hands tangle up in his hair as your words become more and more frantic - practically a messy string of unintelligible sounds falling out of your mouth as he continues to pound you into the desk. If you were even slightly sane right now, you would perhaps be thinking of how he would leave an imprint of the shape of your body in the desk beneath you. But neither you nor your brain have any coherence remaining. The only thing that remains is him, him and only him.

You reach your climax first - hands still tangled in his hair as you tug tighter (causing him to pull away from your chest and groan into your skin as he once again takes in your heavenly scent). With every tug he thrusts harder, and every harder thrust pushes you higher and higher in pleasure until both your mind and body collapse into him - shattering as your head rolls back. His hand darts out to catch you, and his head rises to your neck. He pauses just long enough to safely readjust you, smile at you and then continuing. His thrusts are less strong as before - adjusting to you and your needs.

His climax comes very soon after. Mostly because he has been so long without you, that of course he ends up finishing so quickly. But he likes to think that another part of it is just how connected he is to you, that he must finish with you or soon after you, of course. He stutters slightly, breathing ragged as his mouth presses an open mouthed kiss to your shoulder. As always, he fills you to the brim - hot, sticky and messy as you feel his cum dripping out of your folds. It.. it feels almost never-ending, going on and on as he finally slows his thrusts.

Neither of you knows how long you spent in that position - with him still caging you on his desk, mouth on your shoulder as the two of you lie (? you are lying, and he is.. kind of lying?) in sweat, slick and sweetened bliss. You almost fall asleep in his arms, when he uses his strength to pull you up with him - bodies still connected - and once again readjust the two of you. This time, he is sat in his chair with your legs on either side of his. Your breasts push against his neck, just under his face as one arm wraps around your waist. His head rests against your neck, a kiss pressed to it as he murmurs softly,

"Wait patiently now, sweet thing. Work still awaits me, unfortunately."

You sigh, making yourself comfortable as he reaches for the very letter that caused him stress this morning. Only this time, he is much less filled with dread and stress, and much more relaxed.

Perhaps the two of you ought to do this more often..

xoxo, roe~

Your hands smooth down your dress again and again, as though doing so could calm the trembling you feel inside. Your eyes remain lost upon the stone wall before you, cold and grey, just like this room that is not your home. You no longer clench your fists as you once did, but your fingers still tremble faintly as you run the fabric of the dress between them. You have been waiting for a long time, far too long. Gwayne should have arrived by now. Every night, when the sun disappears and everything falls silent, you whisper his name into the darkness, as though speaking it could make him appear, as though the words themselves possessed the power to bring him back to your side. But he does not return, and the fear grows within your chest like a weed you cannot tear out.

You remember when it all began, when Otto Hightower learned that Gwayne wished to marry you. It was a scandal that spread through every corner of the stronghold. Of course, you were nothing more than the daughter of an ordinary peasant woman, with no lands, no important family name, and no wealth to offer. And carrying the Hightower name after marrying him was almost an insult to them, something shameful they whispered about behind your back. But in the end, it was not quite so important, because Gwayne was the youngest of the family, the second son, the one who, according to the laws of the realm, had practically lost his importance from the moment he was born. He would inherit neither lands nor great titles, so if he married whomever he wished while continuing his training as a knight of the realm, there would not truly be a problem. And so Gwayne did it. He took you as his wife and, at the same time, became a knight, fulfilling both his dream and yours.

You remember that day clearly, as though it had been yesterday. Queen Alicent had left her youngest son, Daeron, with the Hightower family. Gwayne took him into his arms and looked at you, and in that instant, you understood everything without him having to say a single word.

“He is so small,” Gwayne said, holding him carefully and bringing him closer to you with a tenderness that made you smile.

You looked at him curiously, watching the baby who could barely open his eyes, and an unavoidable smile escaped you before you could stop it. “He has the Hightower name written all over him,” you whispered, pointing toward the small emblem on the blanket wrapped around him.

“Well, he was left with the greatest recognition a Targaryen can receive,” Gwayne admitted, before pointing toward the dragon egg that had been left beside the child, unhatched, cold and grey like a stone. “Father wants to send him far away so that he may be raised as a warrior.” His voice grew quieter as he spoke, as though he were sharing a secret. You lifted your gaze to meet his green eyes. “The same fate he chose for me,” he whispered.

“I can care for him,” you said, looking directly at him as you felt your hands longing to reach for the little one. “Having a child now is… well, your father believes it is not the right time. He has warned us many times, but with Daeron, we can… be that for him.” Your words emerged in a whisper, filled with hope and fear alike. “We can be his parents and give him the love he might not receive elsewhere.”

Your husband’s green eyes looked at you with a light you had never seen before, and he slowly nodded. “Although Alicent might someday… claim him,” he whispered, watching you with concern as he held the child with only one arm, while his other hand moved aside the brown hair that had fallen rebelliously across your face. When he tucked that strand behind your ear, his hand caressed your cheek with such gentleness that you closed your eyes for a moment, and then he tenderly lifted your chin so that you would look at him. “If we become attached…” He left the sentence unfinished, but you knew what he meant.

“You will have to do whatever the queen commands,” you said as you looked at him, feeling the weight of those words settle within your heart. But he shook his head.

“I would never take something away from my wife,” he said firmly, although his voice trembled slightly. “Least of all if doing so would make her suffer. I would stand against the Seven Kingdoms if they tried to take Daeron from us.” His hand tightened around yours, as though he wanted to make certain that you understood what he was saying.

“She has three children, Gwayne,” you said, remembering the other Targaryen children. “Making him grow up as though he had been forgotten would be… a miserable life, and he does not deserve a miserable life.” You moved closer to him, feeling the warmth of his body near yours. “We must give him a real family.”

And so he remained with you. Throughout all those years, you were always honest with the little boy who grew up as your son. You reminded him that his true parents were Alicent and King Viserys, because you believed it was only fair for him to know the truth, but you also told him that, to both of you, he was your only son, the most important one, the child who had entered your lives and filled them with joy.

But one night, when Daeron was eight years old, he asked you a question that broke your heart. He was preparing to sleep, his small head resting against the pillow and his large eyes looking at you solemnly.

“And when you have children,” Daeron asked in a calm voice, though there was a faint tremor beneath it, “will you remove me from your lives as well?” His fingers played with the edge of the blanket as he waited for your answer.

“No, never,” you told him, settling him into bed and carefully tucking him beneath the covers. “When we have children, they will be your siblings, because you are my son, my first, and your father loves you just as much as I do.” You gently stroked his hair. “It does not matter if they claim you. I will be there no matter what happens, always, because you are mine, and nothing will ever change that.”

And you kept that promise, even when war began in King’s Landing and everything changed. That night, Gwayne told you in a low, trembling voice, while your hands began to shake uncontrollably.

“Why now?” you whispered fearfully, feeling as though the ground were shifting beneath your feet. “Why does it have to be now?”

Gwayne knew it was the worst possible moment. Daeron was already a sixteen-year-old adolescent, a young man who loved the peaceful life you had given him, who spent his days caring for his younger brother Tyland, the child who had been born with the same red hair as a Hightower, just like Gwayne’s. That was enough for Daeron to truly love his family, because neither you nor Gwayne had ever drawn a distinction between your sons. Despite everything, Daeron carried Targaryen blood, and in that war, both of you knew what would come if someone claimed him.

“It is… I need to fight so that I may return to you,” Gwayne said, cradling your cheek between his large, warm hands. His fingers caressed your skin as though they wished to memorise every part of your face. “My sons and my wife are in danger. If Daeron is claimed in this war, I cannot imagine it. I cannot bear the thought of losing him or of someone using him.” His voice broke slightly, but he continued speaking. “But I will return. I always return. A knight never lies, and no matter where I may be, I will never dishonour my wife or my family.”

“Will you go with Ser Cole?” you asked, feeling the knot tighten in your throat. “The same man who never tires of insulting any woman who crosses his path.” You remembered the times you had heard his cruel words, the way he spoke of women as though they were lesser than men.

Gwayne shook his head, and his green eyes looked upon you with love. “Your husband is different, is he not? Have I not shown you, time and time again, that I am yours?” His fingers intertwined with your own. “Give me your trust once more, and I will return to you. I swear it by the Seven Gods.”

But the war caught up with Daeron, with you, and with little Tyland. One night, when you thought Gwayne had returned, Lord Ormund arrived at your home with his men and walked inside as though the lands belonged to him. You watched him from the doorway, feeling your heart begin to race with fear.

“The boy is coming with me,” Ormund said without any further preamble, looking you up and down as though you were nothing more than an ordinary servant. His voice was harsh and left no room for argument. Your body shuddered at those words, and your hands clung to the doorframe to keep yourself from falling.

“Daeron will not take part in that war,” you said in a voice firmer than you had believed yourself capable of, but Ormund laughed in your face, a cold laugh that froze your blood.

“This is what happens when too much power is given to a simple peasant woman,” he said, gripping your chin forcefully and pulling you closer until you could feel his breath against your face. “You are nothing before me. Now tell Daeron that he will fight for his family. I am going to begin cleansing him of that foolishness about you being his mother, because you are not. You never have been.”

“We never lied to him about where he came from,” you said with difficulty, feeling his fingers pressing into your skin. “If he sees me as his mother, it is because I did what Alicent could not. I gave him love and care. I raised him as though he were my own blood.”

Ormund smiled, but it was not a kind smile. That was when you heard Daeron’s voice behind you.

“Mother?” he asked, and then his tone changed when he saw Ormund. “Lord Ormund,” he said at once, his body going rigid.

Ormund released your chin and turned toward him with a triumphant smile. “I see that they have at least taught you some manners,” he said sarcastically. “We are going to war. Everything has already been prepared, and you will even bring that beast from outside.” He spoke of the dragon with disgust, as though it were an irritating animal rather than a powerful creature.

You looked at him, and you knew that Daeron would always protect you, no matter what. It was what Gwayne had taught him: to care for his family, to remain loyal, and never to abandon those he loved. But he was also your son, and fear ran through your entire body at the thought of what might happen to him.

Then your gaze returned to the present. You were in a room that was not yours, in Bitterbridge, which was nothing compared to your home. The walls were made of cold stone, the room itself was cold, and Tyland slept in the bed, the younger of your two sons, his dishevelled red hair spread across the pillow. Ormund had taken you with them. He had dragged you into the small encampment houses they had prepared for the war. Because, of course, he had to make certain that he would meet Gwayne despite everything, and if he kept you with him, then it was more than obvious that Gwayne would come. He always did. He always came looking for you, no matter how far away you were.

Your hands tightened over your dress as the memory of those days returned to your mind like a cold wave. You had been unable to protect Daeron, and that weighed on you more heavily than anything else. You had argued with Ormund so many times that you had already lost count. The first time was when he forbade Daeron from flying with his dragon, claiming it was a waste of time and that the boy needed to remain close to the ground like any ordinary soldier. The second was when he ordered the men in his army to shout at a group of defenceless civilians merely to frighten them, and you tried to intervene. But the worst of all was when he forced your boy, your Daeron, to kill an innocent man with his own hands. That day, you had tried to reach him, to run toward him and stop it, but Ormund seized your wrist with such force that you cried out.

“You cannot make him do that. He is only a child,” you said desperately, feeling tears threatening to spill from your eyes as you watched Daeron holding the sword, his hands trembling, looking at you with fear and confusion. His pale face broke your heart.

“It is none of your concern,” Ormund whispered with a cold smile, because of course he would not speak poorly of you while Daeron and his dragon were both in the same place. He knew the boy defended you, and that irritated him more than he wished to admit. “Servants do not interfere where they have not been summoned. You are not his mother. He was born for a greater role.” His voice became poisonous as he continued. “Besides, I need to make certain that your husband is still alive. Otherwise, I will decide what is to be done with you and your child.” His fingers tightened around your wrist, and you felt the pain all the way to the bone. “Now leave,” he ordered, and his men dragged you out of the hall while you could do nothing but look back and see Daeron with fear filling his eyes.

The mere memory of those days made several tears slip down your face now as you sat in that cold room. But then the door opened with a quiet creak, and you heard a voice you knew better than your own.

“Mother,” Daeron’s voice whispered, and you quickly wiped away your tears with the back of your hand, not wanting him to see you like this. You rose from the chair and looked at him, trying to appear strong.

“Yes?” you asked, straightening your dress and smoothing it down with your still-trembling hands. “We agreed that you cannot call me that here. I am your aunt,” you reminded him, looking directly at him and hoping no one else had heard. He slowly nodded, understanding the danger.

“Father has returned,” he whispered excitedly, and his eyes lit up in a way that reminded you of when he had been only a small child.

“Thank the gods,” you said with emotion, feeling the weight in your chest ease slightly. You looked toward the bed where Tyland slept and thought about how you would wake him to tell him that his father had returned.

But before you could leave to search for him, footsteps echoed through the corridor. Daeron immediately straightened, his body tense like a drawn bow, but when he saw Gwayne enter through the doorway, he relaxed completely. Your eyes fixed upon your husband, and your heart lurched.

“You look dreadful,” you whispered, taking in his filthy clothes, his dishevelled hair, and the dark circles beneath his eyes. But he approached you without caring about any of it, as though he had gone years without seeing you.

Gwayne cradled your cheeks between his large, warm hands and looked at you as though he were committing every part of your face to memory. He tilted your neck slightly so that he could see you better, and then took your hands in his. Daeron, who had been watching, did not understand his father’s actions until his eyes followed Gwayne’s gaze and landed upon the dark bruise around your wrist, the one Ormund had left days earlier when he had gripped you with such force.

“Did he do something to you?” Gwayne asked, his voice dropping to a dangerously low tone. But you shook your head, trying to make it seem unimportant. “Daeron, did Ormund do anything to your mother?” he asked his son without taking his eyes off you.

“No, Father,” Daeron replied quickly, but then corrected himself as you had taught him. “Uncle,” he whispered, lowering his gaze.

Gwayne clenched his jaw, and fire burned within his green eyes. “If he did anything to you—if he did anything to any of you—I will not hesitate to slit his throat,” he said with a calmness far more frightening than any shouting could have been.

“He did nothing to me,” you said, and he nodded, though he did not appear convinced.

Then he embraced you, and you felt his body against yours, the scent of sweat and earth clinging to him, and the beating of his heart against your own. “I know I smell awful,” he said with a tired laugh, “but I spent so many nights dreaming of holding my wife again.” His arms wrapped tightly around you, and you clung to him as though he were your only lifeline in the midst of a raging sea.

Daeron smiled nervously as he watched his parents embrace, but his smile faded when he spoke. “You are not going to leave us, are you, Father?” he whispered in such a small voice that both of you turned to look at him. His large, frightened eyes reminded you of when he had been an eight-year-old boy asking whether you would abandon him.

Gwayne slowly released you and looked first at you, then at Daeron. “I need to think about what we should do,” he said seriously. “He is their most valuable piece. You know that, do you not?” he asked you, referring to the way Ormund used Daeron as his most valuable weapon.

“He made that perfectly clear,” you said, feeling a knot tighten in your throat. “Perhaps he can escape from here with Tessarion,” you added, looking at Daeron. “And we can flee by land. Rhaenyra is queen now, and I know it will not be long before they come here.” Your voice trembled slightly as you said it, because you knew danger lurked around every corner.

“Then let us ask for forgiveness,” Daeron said, hope rising in his voice, but you shook your head, feeling the weight of reality pressing down upon you.

“Darling,” you said, taking his face between your hands, “they killed two of her children in the span of only a few months. They deceived her with a boy who was not you.” You remembered how they had used a false Daeron to deceive the queen, and a shiver ran down your spine. “Had they surrendered you alongside Daemon, Queen Rhaenyra would surely have forgiven us. But now she may believe that we are traitors.” Your fingers caressed his cheek as you watched him come to understand your words.

“We will get out of here,” Gwayne said with determination, looking at both of you. “I will do whatever it takes, but for now, we must be cautious around Ormund.” He looked directly at you, and his hand found yours. “Be prepared. We may have to leave at any moment. Daeron, study every possible escape route you could take with the dragon, and I will take care of your mother and your brother.”

Daeron nodded and then stepped closer to embrace you tightly. You could feel his body trembling slightly, and you wrapped your arms around him in return, pressing a kiss to his hair. Gwayne smiled, taking your hand and kissing it gently. He had spent weeks believing that he would never see you again, that you had been lost to him forever. The fact that you were here against your will was a grave mistake on Ormund’s part. He believed that manipulating Daeron would allow him to control Gwayne, that holding you hostage would make him meek and obedient. But all he had truly accomplished was enraging a husband devoted in body and soul to his family—a man who would do anything to protect those he loved, regardless of the consequences.

Your eyes continued to wander curiously among the knights gathered in the courtyard. Some checked the edges of their swords, others tightened the straps of their armor, while a few spoke quietly among themselves before departure. They were men hardened by training and war, their faces marked by scars and their gazes stern with the knowledge of what it meant to bleed on the battlefield. And yet, despite the multitude of unfamiliar faces, your gaze kept returning to the same man. You would have recognized him anywhere, even among a hundred knights dressed the same. Criston, your older brother. For years, you had shared only increasingly distant memories and letters that arrived months late, when they arrived at all. Life had drawn him ever closer to power, until he became the Hand of the King, while you remained in the Crownlands, growing up without knowing whether fate would ever allow you to meet again. You had learned to live with his absence, to fill that void with the few words he managed to write and with the stories of those who claimed to have seen him at court. When, at last, permission had come for you to join him in King's Landing, you had spent days convincing yourself that the letter was real and not one of the dreams that had so often deceived you during the years of your separation.

Now he was there, just a few steps away from you. The white armor of the Kingsguard reflected the cold morning light with silvery gleams, perfectly polished as his rank demanded. The long white cloak fell without a crease over his shoulders, stirred only slightly by a faint breeze crossing the courtyard. His face was the same one you held in your childhood memories, but time had left its marks. His features had grown sharper, his jaw more defined, his eyes more tired and more watchful, those of a man forced to notice every detail. There were small scars along his cheekbones that you did not remember, and a constant shadow in his gaze that the years at court seemed to have sewn into him. And yet, the moment his eyes met yours, all that rigidity seemed to crack. For a single instant, he was no longer the Hand of the King nor the commander of the Kingsguard, but simply your brother.

"You still have that lost expression."

You smiled, unable to stop yourself, feeling a lightness you had not known in years. "I'm trying to figure out how you manage to breathe in that armor."

Criston let out a short laugh, quiet but genuine, one he rarely seemed to allow himself anymore. "You get used to it, little sister."

"I think I'd suffocate."

"Probably."

You nudged him lightly with your elbow against his armored arm. The blow was entirely useless and only earned you a faint grimace as the pain shot up to your elbow, while he remained perfectly still. "Such a kind brother."

"It's the plain truth, sister."

You both laughed, and the sound seemed to push everything else away. For a few minutes, the weight of the years spent apart almost vanished, as though time had decided to grant you a brief reprieve. You told him about the long journey to the capital, the inns where you had stayed, the villages you had passed through, and the fields beginning to yellow with the coming of winter. You spoke of the people left behind in the Crownlands, of neighbors who still asked after him, and of the friends you had made in recent years, while he listened with a quiet attentiveness that made you smile more than once. Yet whenever you tried to ask about his life in King's Landing, about his days beside the king or the responsibilities now resting upon his shoulders, his answers grew short, measured, almost rehearsed. He shifted the conversation with ease, guiding it back to you or your journey, as though the court were ground he preferred not to tread. It took only a glance to understand that something far heavier lay behind that silence than he was willing to admit. You did not press him. After so many years apart, you did not want to turn your first meeting into an interrogation. It was enough simply to have him beside you.

It was at that very moment that the courtyard changed. The sound of hammers ceased almost in unison, the squires slowed their pace, and even the horses seemed to settle, as though the entire castle had drawn in a breath. That sudden silence was almost louder than the noise that had preceded it. Following the movement of the others, you slowly turned your head toward the great stone staircase leading to the royal apartments.

The Queen had arrived.

You observed her discreetly, trying not to stare for too long, and yet you found yourself unable to look away. You had never seen Alicent Hightower in person before. For years you had heard stories of her beauty, her elegance, and the devotion with which she had served the realm, but no description seemed to do justice to the figure now descending the steps of the Red Keep. Her dark green gown, embroidered with fine threads of gold that caught the morning light, fell with impeccable grace to the stone floor. Every step was measured, composed, without the slightest hesitation. Her long brown hair flowed in soft waves down her back, catching faint glimmers beneath the gray light of dawn. Her face held an almost austere elegance, difficult to interpret. Her lips were relaxed, her expression calm, yet her eyes revealed a constant awareness of everything around her.

Her gaze moved slowly along the line of knights ready for departure, lingering on each of them with the natural authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed without raising her voice. Then her eyes reached Criston. Only a moment later, they inevitably settled on you as well.

You felt your heart quicken before you could stop it. For a moment, you even forgot how one was meant to behave in the presence of the Queen. You lowered your gaze slightly, as respect and etiquette required, trying to maintain a composure that would not betray your curiosity and the faint nervousness stirring within you. Beside you, Criston moved immediately. He bowed with the ease of someone who had performed that gesture a thousand times, his voice breaking the silence of the courtyard with the steady tone that defined him. "Your Grace."

The Queen approached without haste, accompanied only by the soft rustle of her gown brushing against the stone. There was nothing ostentatious in her movements, no theatrical gesture. Her mere presence was enough to lower gazes and slow every activity around her. The pale morning light caught in the coppery strands of her hair. When she stopped before you, her gaze first rested on Criston, as naturally as one accustomed to his daily presence. "Ser Criston." Her voice was soft, almost gentle.

Only then did she turn her attention to you. Her eyes settled calmly upon your face, studying you without hurry. There was no suspicion in her gaze, nor the veil of superiority you might have expected from a queen. Instead, she seemed guided by a sincere curiosity, as though trying to understand who you were through every small detail: the way your hands were gathered before your cloak, the barely perceptible uncertainty in your posture, the wonder you had not yet managed to conceal since setting foot in the Red Keep. "I do not believe I have had the pleasure."

Criston turned slightly toward you. It was an almost imperceptible movement, yet enough for you to notice something you had not before. His face, so stern before the other knights, softened just a little. The hardness that had defined his expression throughout the morning gave way to a warmth that belonged only to your childhood memories. "Your Grace, this is my younger sister." For a brief moment, his tone softened, and those simple words seemed to surprise you almost as much as they did the Queen herself. "She arrived only last evening. We have not seen each other in many years."

Alicent's lips curved faintly as she inclined her head with elegant grace. "Ah, is that so?" she asked, and there was genuine interest in her voice rather than mere courtesy.

You suddenly felt the full weight of her attention settle upon you. You drew in a slow breath, trying to recall everything you had been taught about court etiquette during your journey. You gathered your cloak with both hands and offered a respectful bow, lowering your gaze just enough to show deference without appearing awkward. "It is an honor to meet you, Your Grace."

"The pleasure is mine." The few words were accompanied by the faintest smile, so subtle it might almost have gone unnoticed.

For a few moments, no one spoke. The silence was not uncomfortable, yet it seemed filled with a tension difficult to define. You could sense Criston's gaze shifting between you and the Queen, as though he were searching for the best way to continue the conversation without overstepping the bounds of protocol. After so many years at court, he seemed to have learned to weigh every word before speaking it.

It was Alicent who broke the quiet once more. She observed you more closely, lingering on the features of your face as though searching for a detail she had missed. "You resemble each other greatly. You have the same eyes."

Her words caught you completely off guard. You blinked in surprise, instinctively turning toward your brother. He, too, seemed to stiffen slightly, holding back a sigh that felt almost resigned.

"A tragedy, I would dare say." The words slipped from your lips before you could stop them. You realized it only a moment after speaking, when the silence fell over the courtyard once more, heavier than before. Heat rushed quickly to your cheeks.

Criston shot you a scandalized look, his eyes widening slightly.

You immediately lowered your head, mortified. "Forgive me..."

For a brief instant, you truly feared you had overstepped. You expected a reprimand, or at least a disapproving expression. Instead, Alicent let out a soft laugh. "Do not worry."

Those simple words were enough to release the tension that had stiffened your shoulders. You slowly lifted your gaze and found that same gentle smile on her face, as though she had found your spontaneity amusing.

It was Criston, however, who ended that moment. He glanced toward the other knights, who had nearly finished their preparations. Some were already mounted, others held their reins, waiting only for the order to depart. "I believe it is time for me to go."

The joy of your reunion gave way to a painful knot in your stomach. You had only just found him again, and already he had to leave.

Perhaps he read your thoughts, because his expression softened once more. He stepped closer and placed a heavy, gloved hand upon your shoulder. The gesture was awkward, almost unfamiliar for a man more accustomed to swords than embraces, yet it conveyed all the care he could not express in words. "I will return."

You nodded slowly, though you were not sure how much you believed it. "Be careful."

"Always." Then he turned again to the Queen, bowing his head slightly. "Your Grace."

Alicent returned the gesture with her usual elegance. "Do not worry, Ser Criston. Your sister will keep me company in the coming days and will be treated with every courtesy."

Criston nodded without hesitation. He seemed to trust those words completely. He mounted his horse with a swift, practiced movement, gathered the reins, and together with the other men of the escort, passed slowly through the great gates of the Red Keep. The sound of hooves echoed through the courtyard as the group rode off toward the city, until they disappeared beyond the walls.

You remained still, watching your brother's figure until the white cloak of the Kingsguard became nothing more than a small, indistinct point in the distance. Only then did you lower your gaze, realizing that the Queen had not yet moved away from your side.

"While your brother is away, you shall be my guest." she said at last.

You looked at her in surprise, almost unsure you had heard correctly. "Your Grace..."

"Criston serves me with a loyalty I have rarely found in other men." Her voice retained that calm reassurance that seemed natural to her. "Knowing that his sister is alone in a place she does not yet know would not sit easily with me."

You instinctively lowered your gaze. "I would not wish to be a burden."

"You will not be." The smile she offered you this time was warmer than before. She turned slowly, inviting you to follow her into the castle. "I would be pleased to show you around."

You could not hold back a smile. "I would like that very much."

Alicent nodded gracefully and resumed walking along the wide corridors of the fortress. You followed her, taking in everything with wide-eyed wonder. You passed through halls with towering ceilings supported by stone columns, corridors lit by large windows that let in a cold but clear light, and inner courtyards where the noise of the city seemed to vanish entirely. She showed you the royal family's libraries, with shelves so tall they seemed endless and volumes from every corner of the continent; the inner gardens, where even in the cold season flowering shrubs and small evergreen trees survived; and finally her apartments, bright and refined without being excessively lavish. There, her handmaids prepared a warm, fragrant tea, which you shared seated by the windows as the Queen began to tell you, with surprising simplicity, about daily life within the Red Keep, gradually transforming that vast and intimidating place into something that, little by little, began to feel less unfamiliar.

The days had begun to slip by with surprising speed. It felt as though every dawn came too soon, and every sunset fell before you even had the chance to notice it. What had initially seemed like a forced stay at court had slowly turned into a routine you had, almost without realizing it, stopped wanting to escape.

Your days now followed a precise rhythm, marked by the same corridors, the same servants, the same halls illuminated by light filtering through tall windows. But above all, they were marked by the constant presence of the queen.

You spent more and more time together, until her company had become an integral part of your days. You had grown accustomed to her elegant figure appearing punctually at your side, to her green eyes capable of noticing every smallest detail without missing anything, to the firm tone of her voice and that almost unnatural composure that seemed to accompany her every gesture. And yet, despite everything, every time her gaze fell upon you, you still felt your heart quicken for a moment. You had found a strange kind of routine, made of long conversations, shared silences, and small moments neither of you seemed willing to interrupt.

The queen spent most of her days away from the rest of the court. When she was not occupied with Princess Helaena and little Jaehaera, she preferred to retreat to her chambers or to the inner gardens of the Red Keep, avoiding unnecessary receptions and the endless chatter of the nobles. Solitude seemed to have become an old friend to Alicent Hightower, a silent presence that had accompanied her for years without ever leaving her. Or at least, that was how it had been until your arrival. Because now that solitude was no longer complete. Wherever she went, you were there beside her.

Sometimes you spoke for hours; other times you simply read in the same room, immersed in a silence that was surprisingly pleasant. Words were not always necessary. You had realized that with the queen, silence never felt heavy, it was almost reassuring, as if you had both learned to understand one another without needing to speak.

That afternoon, the sun filtered gently through the large windows of the queen's private chamber, casting long golden streaks across the pale stone floor. The air smelled of warm tea and freshly baked sweets, while a light breeze made the ivory-colored curtains sway softly. At the center of the room, a small round table had been prepared, covered with an embroidered cream tablecloth. Upon it, porcelain plates were arranged with meticulous care, filled with custard pastries, butter biscuits, berry tarts, small sponge cakes coated in honey, and numerous fruit tartlets in bright, vivid colors. Beside the sweets rested two elegant white porcelain teacups adorned with delicate golden patterns, from which thin trails of fragrant steam still rose.

Seated across from you, Alicent kept her back perfectly straight, as though even in moments of quiet the weight of the crown did not allow her to fully relax. She slowly raised the teacup to her lips, taking a small sip before lowering it again with the same elegance that marked all her movements. Her eyes, clear and attentive, remained fixed on your face for a few seconds, studying every expression with that discretion you had learned to recognize.

Only then did she speak. "It seems our troops will return soon." Her voice was calm, neither enthusiastic nor cold. It was a simple observation, spoken while she continued to watch you as though your reaction mattered far more than the words themselves.

You tilted your head slightly, letting your gaze fall onto the amber surface of your tea before looking back at her. A spontaneous smile spread across your face, lighting it with a naturalness Alicent had come to appreciate. "I heard the maids mention it." you replied, unable to hide the excitement in your voice. Your fingers tightened slightly around the teacup as you added, with an even brighter smile. "My brother will be back soon."

For the briefest moment, the queen's expression softened almost imperceptibly. It was such a subtle change that anyone else would have missed it, but by now you had learned to notice these small shifts. She liked seeing you smile. She would never admit it aloud, perhaps not even to herself, but there was something deeply reassuring in the light that appeared in your eyes whenever you spoke of your family.

Alicent nodded slowly, setting the teacup down on its saucer with great care. The faint clink of porcelain echoed softly through the room, breaking the silence.

Her gaze drifted over the table filled with sweets prepared especially for that afternoon. She had not touched a single one. She had never been fond of overly sweet flavors; she found them excessive, almost childish. You, on the other hand, seemed incapable of resisting the fruit tartlets the cook prepared so carefully. She had watched you choose them first, smile after the first bite, and continue eating them with a simplicity that always surprised her. So, without telling you, she had ordered an abundance of them that day. No one had told you, of course, but she found a quiet satisfaction in watching you reach for them and linger over them.

She continued to observe you for a moment. "Are you eager to see him?"

The question caught you off guard. You looked up almost immediately, as if you had not expected something so personal. For a few seconds, you studied her, trying to understand the reason behind that curiosity, but nothing in her expression betrayed her thoughts. "Of course. He's my brother. Who wouldn't be?"

The queen's lips curved into a faint smile, which disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. "I suppose so."

Her words lingered in the air as her gaze dropped briefly to the table. Neither of you added anything else. The silence that followed was not uncomfortable, but it had taken on a different quality, heavier, as though both of you had become trapped in your own thoughts.

It was the soft sound of the door opening that broke the atmosphere. One of the queen's ladies entered with her usual measured steps, immediately bowing her head in a graceful curtsy. In her hands, she held a sealed letter, slightly worn at the edges but still perfectly legible. "A letter has arrived for Lady Cole, from her brother."

Her words made you look up at once. The young woman approached the table and carefully placed the letter in front of you, then curtsied again before withdrawing silently and closing the door behind her.

For a moment, you remained still, staring at the paper. Your heart had begun to beat faster before you could control it. You cast an instinctive glance at Alicent, almost unconsciously seeking her permission, and the queen responded with a slight nod, inviting you to open it. Your fingers quickly slid the letter from the envelope. You began to read carefully, your eyes moving swiftly over the familiar handwriting of your brother. At first, your expression remained calm, almost curious. Then, slowly, your smile began to fade. Your brows furrowed slightly, and the light that had moments before brightened your face seemed to dim little by little.

Alicent followed every subtle change in your expression without interrupting you. She was not truly interested in the contents of the letter; what she was watching was you. It was enough to see your lips turn downward and the way your eyes suddenly lost the liveliness she so liked to understand that something was wrong. A faint sense of irritation crossed her chest. She much preferred seeing you smile, hearing you speak endlessly, watching you grow excited even over something as simple as a fruit tart. That disappointed expression felt entirely out of place on your face.

With an almost imperceptible sigh, you slowly lowered the letter, letting it fall onto the table beside your plate. Your fingers remained still on the paper for a few seconds as your gaze drifted into the distance. Without thinking, you began to idly stir the spoon through the glaze of the strawberry tart you had left half-eaten, no longer having any appetite.

"Bad news?" Alicent asked calmly, watching you without taking her eyes off your pretty face.

You inhaled slowly before answering, almost hoping that saying the words aloud might make them less bitter. "My brother says their return has been delayed by a few weeks."

"Something must have happened, if they decided to postpone."

Alicent's voice broke the silence with its usual calm, carrying that rationality that seemed to accompany her in every circumstance. After speaking, she remained still for a moment longer, watching you as you continued to stare absently at the now-open letter on the small table. Then she rose slowly from her chair, with that elegance that made every movement seem effortless. The folds of her green gown brushed lightly against the stone floor as she crossed the room without haste. She reached the large window behind you and gently placed one hand against the stone. Her gaze drifted beyond the glass, toward the courtyard of the Red Keep. The sun that had illuminated the day until moments before was now almost entirely hidden behind a stretch of heavy, unmoving gray clouds that seemed to have gathered silently over King's Landing. The wind had begun to stir the branches of the trees in the inner garden, and a few leaves lifted from the ground, carried in small spirals. The entire landscape seemed to dim along with your smile, taking on the same cold tones that had suddenly settled within you.

You did not respond. The queen's words echoed in your mind without finding an answer. You simply lowered your gaze slowly to your lap, unable even to look at the letter. Your hands, almost without you realizing it, had begun to fidget with the fabric of your skirt. Your fingers intertwined, gripped the cloth, released it, and then started again in a nervous motion that betrayed all the agitation you were desperately trying to hide.

You tried to convince yourself it was probably just a delay caused by some inconvenience along the road, perhaps bad weather, but the more you attempted to calm yourself, the more your mind built worse scenarios. War had a habit of taking without ever giving anything back.

The silence stretched longer than expected. Alicent remained by the window for a few more seconds, waiting for a response that never came. It was that absence of words, more than any simple desire to look at you, that prompted her to turn back.

Your eyes, lowered toward your hands, glistened faintly. It was not the afternoon light that made them shine. They were tears. Held back, stubbornly refusing to fall, but no longer possible to hide. Your lashes trembled slightly as you tried to breathe without letting your breath break. On your face was an expression Alicent had never seen before. A deafening fear, restrained with all your strength, that seemed to have erased in an instant all the serenity built over those weeks.

Something tightened in the queen's chest. It was sudden, and unmistakably unpleasant. Seeing your face like that stirred an unease in her that was difficult to explain. She could not bear that lost expression, that way you seemed to be holding yourself back from collapsing. She would have preferred to see you animatedly discussing a book, laughing over an overly sweet pastry, or telling her a memory from your childhood. Anything would have been better than that look.

Without a second thought, she moved away from the window and returned to you. Her steps were slow but decisive. When she reached you, she did not remain standing above you as her position would have required. Instead, she lowered herself in front of your chair, bending her knees until she was kneeling on the ground. The heavy fabric of her dress gathered neatly around her as she sought your gaze, lifting her face slightly to meet your anxious eyes. With the utmost gentleness, she took both your hands in hers. Her fingers were cool, soft, and surprisingly light. She did not grip you, she simply held them carefully, as if afraid that any firmer gesture might hurt you.

It was precisely that tenderness that made everything so much harder. You immediately felt the knot in your throat tighten. It would take so little. If she pressed her fingers just a bit more, if she spoke another kind word, you were certain you would begin to cry in front of her and be unable to stop.

"I didn't mean to suggest the worst. I'm sure they are well." Her words were simple, but spoken with conviction.

You swallowed slowly, trying to push back the tears pressing against your eyelids. Only then did you seem to realize the position she was in.

The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms was kneeling before you.

Your eyes widened in shock. "Your Grace, what are you doing on the floor? Please, get up." The words came out quickly, accompanied by an instinctive movement. You leaned toward her, reaching out to gently take her by the shoulders, ready to help her stand. Part of you found the scene almost unbearable. It wasn't right. She was the queen. No one should ever see her kneeling before anyone.

But Alicent slowly shook her head, as though that were the least of her concerns. Before you could insist, one of her hands slipped free from yours. She raised it toward your face. For a moment, you thought she might stop halfway.

Instead, her fingers truly reached your cheek. Her fingertip brushed your skin slowly, catching the single tear that had managed to slip past the control you had tried to maintain. She wiped it away with infinite care before it could reach your chin.

Your heart began to pound so strongly it almost hurt. You could feel every beat echoing in your ears. A sudden warmth rose at the base of your neck and spread slowly to your cheeks.

Alicent had never touched you like that. Until then, every contact between you had been limited to formality, a hand on your arm to guide you through a corridor, a composed gesture during conversation, nothing more. It was what decorum required. Two women, especially in your positions, did not linger in such intimate gestures.

And yet neither of you seemed to remember that.

You could only look into her eyes. They were so close, close enough for you to distinguish the lighter flecks in her irises, the long lashes framing her gaze, even the faint rhythm of her breath. You had long since stopped fighting what you felt. You had tried to convince yourself it was simple admiration, then gratitude, then affection. But none of those words were enough.

In silence, you had accepted that your heart belonged to her now, however forbidden, impossible, and terribly wrong it might be. You had never found the courage to confess it, not even to yourself aloud. You had simply hidden it in the deepest corner of your soul.

"Don't cry. Tears don't suit you." she said softly, as sweet as the pastries whose scent lingered in the air.

Your lower lip fell captive between your teeth without you noticing, as you tried in vain to steady your trembling breath. The warmth in your chest grew stronger, spreading until it filled every part of you. You could no longer look away from her.

The hand that had rested still against your cheek began to move again. Her fingers traced your cheekbone gently, following its line down to the edge of your jaw. Every touch seemed to last an eternity. Then her thumb brushed lightly against the outline of your lips, and stopped there.

For weeks she had fought that relentless desire, suffocating it each time your gazes lingered too long, or your smile threatened to crack the composure she had hidden behind for years. She had tried to convince herself it was only a moment of weakness, a consequence of the loneliness that had lived within her for far too long.

The only thought occupying her mind was how much she wanted to close the small distance still separating your faces, how much she wanted to kiss you.

And that was exactly what she did.

She pulled you toward her, pressing her lips to yours with impatience. A sound of surprise escaped your chest, and for a moment you thought you were dreaming. Her touch was as light as a feather, barely there against your lips, and yet it burned. It consumed you, reducing you to ash. Your stomach seemed to fill with fluttering butterflies, a warm and pleasant sensation like the sun in spring. It all happened so quickly, so suddenly, that before you could gather your thoughts and return the kiss, she pulled away.

She rose to her feet, brushing off her dress. She smiled in your direction, taking in the astonishment on your face. "I hope to see you at supper."

You jolted slightly, blushing. "Y-yes, of course!" you stammered, embarrassed.

Alicent nodded, then turned and left the room for good.

The Gods know that losing one's wife is already a difficult situation alone. But losing one's wife, and being saddled with a wailing newborn and the responsibility of a city and its people looking to you for guidance without ever giving you a moment to mourn is even worse.

Lord Ormund Hightower knew this all too well. The last three years in particular had been difficult - between raising young Silas, governing Oldtown and dealing with whatever messes his family had created, the man had little time for love, or even any duty to himself. Very rarely did he exist outside the role he was to fulfil. Now, it is not that he did not receive marriage candidates - quite the contrary! But he often found himself rejecting them - finding some reason or the other He truly was unable to find it within him to truly move on, despite everyone around him urging him on.

"No," he would say, "I have.. responsibilities."

He would not elaborate any further.

And so, those close to the Lord would sigh, toss papers into a fire and walk away as he would be left frowning over petty disputes.

These days in particular, he took little pleasure in anything. Horse riding, hunting, reading - none really called to him in the manner that it would before. But there was a very particular bakery, located far enough from the busier streets of Oldtown to grant him a sense of privacy. Of course, he was still recognised - after all, who would not recognise their Lord? Only a fool would do such a thing. But he was not harassed, hounded and irritated. Instead, the people further out would often treat him much kinder than others.

Granted, many of them were elderly, and perhaps they looked upon him with pity. Nevertheless, it had quickly become his favourite place to be - especially when life had become far too hectic. For example, this very morning:

"NO!"

"Sila-"

"NO NO NO! I WANT OOFY! NOW!"

"Oofy.. Oofy needs a bath, Silas, please?"

"NO!!!!"

"Silas."

"GO AWAY!"

"Seven give me strength - Silas Hightower, Oofy will return to you when he is washed and clean. And you will return to me when you are washed and clean - is that understood?"

"…"

"I said, is that understood?"

"…"

"Silas-"

"NO!"

Oofy, named for the noise dogs make (except the young boy could not quite pronounce the 'w' sound, and added an extra sound on the end for whatever reason children do such things) was young Silas Hightower's stuffed dog soft toy. A gift from his late grandfather before he had passed and left the burdens of responsibility upon his son.

Unfortunately, Oofy had suffered an incident that morning (been dragged through wed mud by Silas as the two of them played outside before breaking their morning fast) and had no choice but to be rushed into an emergency operation (desperately needed cleaning before Ormund Hightower lost his mind and soul). Similarly, his owner also required a deep clean. The stench of wet mud clung to the young boy! It did not help that he kept flinging his arms around as maids wrestled him into the tub - flicking chunks of mud around the room.

Ormund pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly in an attempt to remain calm. He instructed the maids to not find him until after noon had passed, and to take good care of the young boy until he returned. And so, despite the protests of his young son echoing behind him, Ormund left Hightower for his favourite place in the world.

Whenever he travelled through Oldtown, It always stuck out to him how different people were the further away he was from Hightower. It was almost as though people were less strange, the further he was from his seat. Though, part of that was probably the clothes too. He felt no need to don exquisite silks and velvets on days like these, and so it was much easier to get by. The less who recognised him, the better.

As he rode, he felt the stress ease from his shoulders first, and then his temples, his eyebrows and finally his jaw had fully unclenched by the time he approached the bakery. The sweet smell of baked goods wafted past him, and he sighed happily for the first time in what felt like forever. Outside, the flowers bloomed - their own scents layering perfectly in a way Ormund could only describe as his own heaven. The sun beamed down quite comfortably - not too hot nor too cold, and the perfect breeze blew through the blades of grass below. Dismounting from his horse and tying him to a post, he walked inside, expecting the usual.

"Ah, good morning! You are our first customer today, sire - what is it that you will take today?"

Erm… hang on… this was a problem, no?

That was not what the baker sounded like! For a start, the baker most certainly had a deepset voice - that of a man who had lived a long life. Sure, he did not have a raspy, rugged voice - but he did not have a voice that sung of honeyed flowers and sweetened fruits either! His eyes quickly moved in the direction of the voice, where you stood behind a counter, still setting out pastries. No, no - the baker was not a young woman with soft strays peeking out from her hair, flour dusted across her apron and a warm smile that was slowly turning into a concerned frown,

"…Sire?"

"You are not the baker."

"???"

"No. Where is he?"

"I presume that by the baker you refer to my uncle, yes?"

"I.. hope.. so..?"

"You hope so..?"

"How am I to know if he is your uncle or not? I have not seen you before!"

"Ohhh, you're the dedicated customer."

"The what?"

"My uncle mentioned you! He said you would likely come visit the most of everyone else. My uncle unfortunately has a small health issue - just his back is not quite working the same as it should - and because I have the time, my mother sent me to come and help!"

All of a sudden, he felt like an ass. A complete, total ass. He had not even tried to be kind, rushing straight to suspicion. He should have asked politely, calmly - but instead he threw unnecessary anger at you. Guilt struck his chest as he tasted it - akin to a bitter liquid poured down the throat. He smoothed down his tunic, walking closer with an apologetic smile on his face. Meanwhile, you grabbed a fistful of flour - you know, just in case.

As he got close, opening his mouth to speak…

"I would like t-????"

"Do not even dare to think of attacking me!"

"What???"

"Not a step further!"

"I-?"

"No!"

"I am not attacking yo- is this flour?"

"…"

"Well?"

"You are not attacking me. I see that now."

"And my secon- yes this is flour."

"In my defence, sire, I did not know that you would not attack me-"

"You did not know that I would attack you either!"

You pause, mouth dropping open and close until you sigh and nod. He did have a point, after all. A point, and flour all over his face. (His handsome, chiselled face that you really are trying so very hard to ignore. Had the Gods carved him themselves?) Embarassment begins to creep up your face, heat rising as you feel ashamed that you have somehow attacked the customer that might have just been your uncle's best one. Oh dear. Fear begins to fill your brain as you start to spiral. Your lip begins to tremble, and tears begin to prick the corners of your eyes as you think about your sweet uncle,

"I.. I am so very sorry sire, please do not hold it against my uncle! This bakery is all he has, and if you are the customer he speaks so kindly of, then you know that he needs you, right? And, and I truly did not mean to throw flour like that-"

"Shhh now, it is only flour."

Flour, that he would have to wash aggressively out of his tunic, of course.

"But-"

One raise of his eyebrows has you quickly shutting your mouth, unintentionally pouting at him. He cannot ignore how his heart jumps slightly, but he can quickly divert attention to the matter at hand. Pastries.

"So - I presume the usuals are all available.. hmm. Today feels like something more flower-y, I should think."

"Perhaps the Lavender and orange tart?"

"Lavender and orange?"

"Yes! It is not one of the usual pastries we sell, but it is something I have personally been working on - perhaps you would enjoy it?"

You raise a tray up for him to see - rectangular tarts, filled with a soft purple cream, orange curd and decorated with edible flowers. Truly a tempting little dessert - fresh and citrus-y and a completely different type of pastry from that which your uncle would usually keep for him. Any other day, and he would have refused. Any other person, and he would have shook his head - ever-stubborn in his choices. But he glances up from the tray, his own eyes finding yours - filled with a hope that he could not ignore. So, somehow, he finds himself nodding,

"And what would you recommend to go with this? Usually, I have a plain coffee when I come by, but then I also end up having something less interesting to eat with it."

"I have a lavender, chamomile and rose tea that I could brew for you?"

"Lavender, chamomile and rose.."

As he parrots back each flavour to you, he swears he can taste it across his tongue. You wait patiently, praying he says yes, and find yourself releasing an unintentionally held breath when he finally nods,

"Perfect! In that case, you should take a seat - I'll brew your tea and bring both tea and tart together for you."

He smiles before nodding, turning and finding a seat. Not by the window, because when he had last made that mistake, he found himself busy and riddled with more work on the one day he had chosen to take to himself. Instead, he picks a table that is not quite easy to see from outside, but not too far inside either. Unbeknownst to him, it happened to be the table you could see clearest from the kitchen behind.

Was it such a bad thing to admire your uncle's customers? Surely not, right? You had already cleaned the kitchen, baked the pastries of the day and prepared for tomorrow - what else were you supposed to do as you waited patiently for the tea to brew? You allowed yourself (somewhat shamelessly too~) and your eyes to settle across his form. How his shoulders dropped with every deep breath he took, how his hair fell in just the right places - soft curls that were neither overly messy nor overly polished. You took note of how he drummed his fingers across the table - not impatient, just passing time. And your brain registered how he appeared to be aged, at the very least he must be older that you.

Not that you particularly minded.

Soon enough, the tea finished brewing. You pour out a colour that can only be described as a mix between a soft purple and pink, placing the cup and teapot onto a tray beside the tart. He would not know that you picked the most perfect slice, but you would, and that was enough for you.

The door should have swung open with ease. Yet try as you might, you would not be able to open it without letting go of the tray in your hands. The first few times you tried to open the door alone - attempting to push it with your elbow without impacting the delicacies on the tray.

You could not open it alone.

Unfortunately for you, he had noticed. Fortunately for you, he comes to help you open the door. It appears luck is not quite on your side though, as you place the tray down and push the handle down, swinging it open at the same time that he pulls. As the door swings into him (and he narrowly avoids being hit in the face), you stumble forward - tripping over your feet.

This is it.

Your uncle's best customer will never come by again, and you will fall flat on your face. All in your first week in Oldtown. Oh Gods, the rumours - you can already imagine! The old women stood in circles - gathering as they whisper unkindly about you. And then you would never bake again, forced to live a life without your favourite thing to do! Oh, the horror!

However, you do not meet and greet the floor. But you are not suspended in air either. Two hands grasp you from underneath, strong arms holding you up from the ground. In the fall you have somehow spun - allowing yourself to make direct eye contact with your saviour. Tall, with soft brown hair, chest heaving as he looks down to you - lips slightly parted.

Not only had he come to help you open the door, he had also caught you as you fell. Into his arms.

"You know, this is the kind of thing bards sing of - a maiden, falling into my arms, hmm?"

His voice does not carry the type of mean tone that you had thought it would. Nay, it is still soft - carrying the type of teasing that does not make you feel uncomfortable or weird, but pushes a heat to crawl up and across your neck instead. It does not help that you find yourself almost face to face with his gorgeous, handsome, perfectly formed face, looking down in concern as he helps you to stand back up. His eyes look up and down - checking that you have not somehow hurt yourself - before smiling at you once more,

"Thank you, sire. If I may ask, what is your name?"

"Oh, it is no proble- hmm?"

"Your name, please?"

"My name..?"

"Well, I must know the name of the kind man who has saved me from falling so ungracefully, no?"

It is then that he realises - you have no idea who he is. By nature of his position, he should be somewhat angered, filled with a rage fuelled by how disrespectful this is. He should then make a big show of who he is, proving himself to all who witness him. But an excitement fills his heart. Perhaps he could finally have a normal connection with someone - not based on his name, title or who he was.

"Erm.. Ormund."

"Or..mund.."

Ah. The way you had tasted his name across your tongue almost had him weak - but he could not give in so easily. Not when he barely even knew you.

"Very well, Ormund! Thank you kindly, I'll bring your tray to your table now."

"Of course- ah, and your name, please?"

"My name?"

"Consider it a trade of sorts?"

You think it over, nodding as you give him your name. He repeats your name after you, a smile etching across his face, and you think you have not seen a sight that is sweeter. Ormund sits back down at his table, you bring the tray over and place down the teapot, cup and tart.

As you walk away to tend to the kitchen once more, his eyes follow after you, unable to tear themselves away from you.

The bakery is never really full - this much you knew. Your uncle had insisted upon you being prepared for days of barely any customers, days where you would end up donating extra food to those who were needy at time of closing instead of handing bundles to customer after customer.

Still, it was not quite as quiet as you had thought it would be.

One woman had come in with her dog - a small, elderly woman (Harriet, as you had learned) with a large dog that almost towered her (Daisy, who was in reality just a big sweetheart. She immediately found Ormund, kneeling for pets before investigating you.). She took a tart too (upon Ormund's own recommendation, actually), and you found the food your uncle kept for Daisy. Another came in with her husband (Lyon and Jemma, who both offered sweet smiles as they asked about your uncle. The two took their pastries with teas, sitting beside the window after greeting Ormund.).

In fact, you had busied yourself amongst customers that you did not realise Ormund had left until you chanced upon his table again. An empty tray, a pouch of gold (far more than he had owed you) and a little note just underneath the plate. Your eyebrows furrowed, fingers pinching at the note.

I must say - that tart was far better than I had ever expected!

I hope I will see you again soon.

Thank you,

O x

You read the note over twice, a small smile blooming across your face as you pocketed it for safekeeping, going about the remainder of your day. Outside, you see a figure that looks close enough to him - sat atop a horse, trotting away. He leaves with a heavy heart, unwanting to return to the chaos that naturally awaited him. Every step back home had him frowning more and more, as the lightness that just blossomed across his soul begins to slowly drain away. Hightower grows taller and taller as he rides closer, and he dreads to think of what mayhem would unfurl when he returns.

As he approaches Hightower, a servant rushes out to him, already filled with a panic that he knows he must deal with,

"Milord, the young Master Silas refuses to bathe still!"

"Still?"

"Indeed. I must apologise to you, Lord Hightower, but he has caused a ruckus once more."

Once more.

He sighs, dismounting and allowing another to return his horse to the stables as he follows the servant up to where his son remains. As Ormund opens the door, there he lies - in a puddle of mud as two servants cower in a corner. A small smile threatens to break out onto his face - how could a child of three cause so much terror?

"Silas."

"Papa. No."

Ah. The young boy's voice had worn out. Not ideal, of course, but a good sign - he was tired, and much more pliable to his father's words than he would have been a few hours ago. With a hand signal, Ormund dismisses everyone else (servants immediately scurry out of the room, dashing as far away as possible) before closing the door behind him.

"Where Papa go?"

"Well, I went to go check on our friend - Oofy."

From behind his back, he brings out the now clean Oofy (luckily for him, a servant had quickly passed it to him on his way up). The boy's eyes immediately lit up, hands opening and closing as he reached out towards it. Yet Ormund holds Oofy close to his ear - pretending to hear the toy speak. Silas watches (slightly dejected, poor thing) as Ormund holds conversation with… a soft toy.

If the other Lords had seen him like this…

"Oofy says he will not come closer until you are clean and dry - is that so, Oofy?"

"Do I have to?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

He sighs. Actually, genuinely sighs. As if he had just fought a war. This time, a wider smile spreads on Ormund's face as he kneels to his son's height - patting him on the head before scooping him into his arms. He truly is grateful that he does not care too much about the clothes he wears today, and briefly thinks back to the flour incident from earlier. A bath had recently been drawn, water still warm enough for a bath (likely one of many attempted baths for the young boy today), and the two of them sit in the tub together. He would never admit it, but he enjoyed little moments like this. Moments where Silas would look up at him with big eyes as Ormund cleaned him thoroughly, only to be met with a wave of splashing water hitting him in the face.

A thorough bath followed by three waterfights with duckies leads to a very tired child, snuggled up in a soft towel as Ormund carries him back to his solar. He brings two servants in to clean up the mess that still remained, tucks Oofy into his son's arms and finally gets started on the work he should have been doing today. The sun shines into the solar, casting a warm glow into the room.

Unfortunately, he cannot help but let his mind drift off to the pretty baker who fell in his arms mere hours ago.