Seeing them leave was tearing your soul apart even though you tried to be strong for yourself and them.

He practically begged you to come with him, but you insisted on staying because in his absence someone must take the responsibility.

Aegon kissed you like he never had, like there was no tomorrow even though in his terrible pain, he kept telling you that he would come back and would not abandon you.

⸝⸝ 𝐃𝐀𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍

As highborn lady you were lucky enough to get engaged to a young handsome Targaryen prince, to your cousin specifically.

The two of you grow up together that's why your bond with him was too way strong you couldn't bear the thought of losing him but duty calls anyway.

So when the war was upon you ,your father marched along with your beloved and God if this wasn't the hardest thing you have ever done in your life watching leave.

"I will pray for your and our army safe return,my prince". "Don't stop writing for me my lady". He put gentle kiss on your hand then your hair line "Be brave for me y/n".

You wrapped a piece of green cloth around his arm with single tear in your eye, daeron eyes went from his arm to your face and wiped it slowly.

⸝⸝ 𝐀𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍

You were sitting in your bedchambers when your husband entered the room with his full armor and right there you know that mean one thing.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" he strolled towards you, making himself comfortable beside you "Don't be like this you know I have to". he muttered.

He run his hand over your stomach "I will do my best to back to both of you".

your eyelid slowly shut when you felt his soft touch on your cheeks putting your own hands on his making the moment last a little more "I shall host a feast there in your honor" . he whispered with his other hand caresses your stomach.

Then he leaned towards your lips and kissed you... He was not in a hurry..or too hard just sweet and soft it felt like a feather.

⸝⸝ 𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑

You stood in front of your husband while his squires armed him, fastening the steel plates over his padded gambeson and tightening each leather buckle with practiced ease.

"I'd rather you not witness this my lady". he mumbels gazing your face"If you must go, then let me remember you as you are now".

He took a step in your way once everyone left his armored hands cupped your cheeks with such a grace putting one messy lock behind your ear.

"Pray for us my love may your voice reaches the gods where mine cannot". he whispers his voice soft and low hit your beings" No prayer shall leave my lips without asking the gods to grant you victory and bring you safely back to me".

He smiles, kissing your forehead tenderly "If anything happ—". you interrupt him immediately hushing his lips"Speak no more". followed with trembling tone.

⸝⸝ 𝐆𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑

"I was wondering whether you might give me your favor". gwayen voice cut the peace in your children chamber, you handed your son to your maid, turning to him.

He walked till he was right in the front of you holding your both hands raising them to his lips pressing lingering kisses from one to another "In case should I not return".

"You will, your son needs you..and so do I". you breathed restting your forehead against his own"I shall pray day and night". he felt your tears spilling down your cheeks.

"May the seven watch over you and let the clouds of their mercy descend upon you my beloved". you said in hushed voice holding him so tight even metal pressure did not bothered you anymore.

"Remember me whenever your eyes fall upon it". you removed your necklace from yoir neck and fastened it around his tucking it beneath his breastplate.

⸝⸝ 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐒 𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐍

“I'll back to you. We still have a wedding to celebrate, remember?” he said softly, so quietly that only you could hear.

“You've imprisoned your mother!”, “It is my duty to protect her, even if that means from herself.”

You watched him walk away, stubborn as ever. You couldn't just stand there and do nothing. You hurried after him and stepped into his path.

“You won't do such a thing... Jace.”“I have to,” he murmured, a faint, sorrowful smile tugging at his lips. “I'm sorry, y/n.” He gave your hand a gentle squeeze. He didn't shove you aside, nor did he yell “Please... let me go”

You caught his wrist when he tried to walk“Don't,” you whispered, He had no other choice but turning to the guards, he commanded “Take my lady betrothed to her chambers.”

Then, looking at your eyes one last time, he said quietly “Forgive me.. y/n”

“Jace!”

@𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐀𝐑 : 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐏𝐘 𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐄𝐁𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐄..

I'm not sure how long we've been out here. Time is but an illusion. Maybe it's been days. It feels Like it must have been. I feel like I'm looking through a warped glass window. Everything is blurry and it makes me dizzy, yet I can't look away. No matter how much I want to.

Smoke fills the air, obscuring my view and burning my eyes as the wind rushes through my ears. My hands tighten around the reins. Vermithor rumbles loudly. He senses my growing unease as I whip my head around. My gaze searches for Jace and Baela among the smoke. I swallow thickly as I rest a calming hand against his bronze scales.

"Lykirī, Vermithor." I say loud enough for him to hear. He grumbles lowly. "We'll find them soon. We just got split up." My voice trails off towards the end of my words.

The fumes make my throat tighten. A prickly sensation skitters up my spine. I yelp, yanking the reins to the side as one of the giant bolt arrows slices through the air toward Vermithor's side. He shrieks as he dives higher in the sky, narrowly missing the arrow. I'm thrown back into my seat as I grasp the saddle to stay upright.

"Rȳbās!"

More bolt arrows fly towards us. He flies towards the danger, turning left and right swiftly as shouts and screams become clearer the closer we get. I hold back a shriek when he slams his body through a ship, destroying the wood as it slices my cheek open. I feel warmth start to trickle down my skin. The cut stings.

Panic holds my chest in a vice, squeezing until I can't breathe as I look back at the damage. He breathes fire across more ships, more enemies. I can't hear anything except the blood rushing in my ears.

"Dohaerās! We have to find—"

A shriek fills the air, making a harsh wave of fear cover me like a cloak. I know that sound, that's Vermax, sweet, gentle, Vermax. He's in pain, such a great deal of pain that it makes tears prick my eyes. I yank the reins to turn my dragon around as we fly toward the sound.

Please be okay. Please be okay. Please be okay.

I feel bile rise in my throat. My trembling hand finds its way to my stomach, as if that action alone can keep me from losing my composure.

"Jace?" I shout. Fuck. I feel like I'm going to be sick when my eyes catch a head of brown curls.

Sinking in the water. The bolt arrows are lodged in his scales, his wails go quieter and more hoarse as his limbs grow more sluggish.

"Go, go now, Vermithor!" I urge him on as the wind slaps me in the face. He sails downward towards them, but it's too slow. Too fucking slow. Vermithor dodges the arrows as we get closer. Closer.

"I'm here, I'm here! I'm—"

When you love someone, you would be willing to die for them. Kill for them. With no regard for anything other than knowing that they are safe. I have never known the feeling of a loved one's blood on my skin. The thought makes my skin feel uncomfortably tight. So when that first arrow pierced his skin, I could do nothing but watch. I wanted to scream. I wanted to lay waste to those who hurt him because he doesn't deserve it. He deserves to be at home, safe and warm with his family until he grows old. He doesn't fucking deserve it. Not... not here.

"Jace!" I'm not sure if that was the scream I let out or not. I can't tell.

Calm down. Fucking focus! Get him. Go get him.

Then the second arrow hits.

Then the third.

I cry out. It feels like someone ripped out my lungs and shredded them apart then stuck them back in and expected me to breathe easily.

No. No, no, no, no, no.

The ancient beast slams into the water. The salty water sprays my face, the contact freezing against my skin. I unclasp the hooks on my saddle as I slide down his scales. I don't care about safety. All I can think about is him. I reach out, my fingers extending farther as I grab at his vest. My hand slips. Vermithor growls lowly, catching my attention. I have to hurry, or we'll both be dead.

I try not to cry. The tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I choke on the sobs that threaten to fall past my lips.

I give a determined shout as I grab him by the shoulders, yanking him up with all my strength. I feel like my arms are tearing as I clench my jaw. I hold him closely once I manage to get him up. I pant harshly as I rest my cheek against his soaked curls. I squeeze my eyes shut. My body is shaking so violently that I feel my teeth chatter. My stomach rolls at the sight of him. I gag at the scent of his blood. Vermithor assists in helping both of us back into the saddle, sinking himself lower into the ocean.

"Sōvēs." I let out. My voice is hoarse.

Vermithor launches off the water. The force makes a wave that crashes over a few ships around us. I hold onto Jace tightly to keep him from falling before I'm jerked to the side. The ancient beast lets out a pain-filled wail as the bolt arrow sticks out of his side.

"No, no! Sōvēs! Vēzot Sōves!" My voice cracks. He tries to obey, flapping his wings as he travels higher. A flash of shadow zips right past us, ripping the rope from the arrow. Baela looks back. A mixture of panic and despair paints her warm features when her eyes land on Jacaerys.

"We have to go back to Dragonstone!" I shout over the wind. She nods, leading the way on Moondancer. I look back down. Brown eyes meet mine as I swallow harshly. They're half-lidded, tracing over my face like he's committing it to memory.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

"You're okay now." I grit out, my hands tightening around his shoulders. "I'm here now. You're safe."

I brush back his wet hair that is sticking to his forehead with shaking fingers.

I'll keep him safe. I think. I'll shield him from the pain and sorrow that comes with war. I will take every arrow, every sword blow, even if I die by dragon fire. I would for him, because he isn't just a prince or the heir to the throne. He's Jace. Kind and gentle and good. I feel tears slip down my cheeks, creating a pathway through the dirt and blood.

Because I love him.

I feel the pad of his fingers brush against the tears staining my cheeks. The color is draining from his face, growing paler. The sight makes me nauseous.

"Don't cry, Ñuha jorāelā," he whispers, his tone weak and breathy. His chest is rising and falling too quickly. His breathing is shallow. I shake my head repeatedly.

"Don't speak. Save your strength." I stammer. I ignore the blood that's soaking through his vest. I ignore the way his skin is too cold against mine. It may be selfish of me. It is.

"You're bleeding."

"I'm okay. Hey, hey, hey. Don't close your eyes, okay? Just look at me." I guide his head toward mine. I press my forehead against his as I run a soothing hand through his damp curls. I press a trembling kiss to the side of his head. He murmurs my name. I pull back to meet his eyes.

I expect to see pain, anger, anything. But all I see is love. He's looking at me like I hung the moon and stars just for him, and I can't handle it. I feel sick. I feel like it's my fault.

"Don't... don't blame yourself." My eyes flick back up to meet his. Dragonstone is just coming into view.

"Don't say that like you're dying. You're not." I say forcefully. My hands are trembling as I press a hand to one of his wounds. He grunts roughly. I whisper soft apologies into his hair as I hold him close.

"Please don't take him." I whisper. I don't know who I'm speaking to. The gods, the ocean, the fucking sky. "We have already lost too much. Don't take him too. He doesn't deserve it."

I plead and plead until my voice grows hoarse and my words get stolen in the wind. I beg the gods, or whoever is listening, to not take him from me because it wouldn't be fair. Because he's still young, and he deserves to see a realm that is peaceful and safe. I beg until the tears have crusted on my cheeks and my heart has been stomped on. I beg until his heart grows more faint and slow. I beg once we land in Dragonstone and the maesters pry him from my arms.

I even began to pray to the old and new gods like a child, pleading with them, cursing them, making deals, anything.

I feel like I brought a corpse to his mother's feet.

The dragonkeepers lead away Vermithor to tend to his wounds.

I sit there for what feels like hours. My back is against a stone wall. I sit there waiting across the hall. My knees are up to my chest, my riding leathers still slightly damp. My head starts to lean forward, my eyes fluttering closed before I snap them open.

I can't sleep until I know he's alive.

The maesters tried to clean my wounds, but I refused each time. After the sixth attempt, I caved. Rhaenyra told me she would stay with Jacaerys. She urged me to go eat, or at least take a bath. I said nothing. Baela understood, in a way. She sat with me for the first hour, but then she jokingly remarked about how much she stunk of dragon as she rose to go take a bath. A maid passed by, offering sweet cakes. I declined, knowing that if I ate something, it would just come right back up.

And then I was alone.

Alone with my thoughts, which is worse when the thoughts could become true this time.

I repeat his name like a mantra out loud. Quietly. Oh so quietly, but the guards still glance my way. As if, by keeping repeating it, I'll somehow keep his heart beating by speaking his name over and over. Seeing the arrows strike his body is something that will never leave my sight. It will haunt me for the rest of eternity. Every time I close my eyes, I see the image behind my eyelids. I'm sure it will be in my nightmares tonight and every night after, but I would bear the burden if it meant his pain would ease and that his dreams would be peaceful.

Some time ago, I dozed off. I knock my head against the wall with a wince. Baela appears at my side, a tired smile plastered across her lips.

"He's alright. They did the most they could."

I attempt to spring up onto my feet. My legs feel fuzzy as I lose my balance, but Baela grips my forearms to stabilize me. I smile weakly as I hurry past her as quickly as I can. I walk into his bedchambers. The room smells of frankincense and salt.

My breathing hitches once my gaze lands on Jace. The arrows that were protruding from his body when I held him are gone. His riding leathers are gone, replaced with bandages around his chest. His lower half is covered in a soft, silk red blanket. His skin is still pale, but he's breathing more slowly now. My heart pounds relentlessly against my ribcage as I slowly make my way toward him.

"He's strong." I turn my head to the side to see Rhaenyra. She looks exhausted but less tense than before. Her violet eyes are soft as she goes to sit on the foot of the bed. She's still in her riding leathers from before, before we left to fight in the Gullet. I wince. She smiles slightly.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace." I whisper, I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for. Leaving her here, disobeying her, bringing back her half-dead son—

"You brought him back," she murmurs. I look back at him, he looks like he's still in pain. His brows are pinched together, but otherwise he looks peaceful. At least I hope he's peaceful. I scoff bitterly.

"Not fast enough." Her hand grasps mine, gentle.

"Do not speak like that. You brought him back and that is enough." It's quiet for a few aching moments. The guilt gnaws at me.

"Leaving was wrong. Keeping me in my bedchambers was wrong," she says. I purse my lips. "What you did could be seen as treason."

I look away from her, shame filling my gut.

"But," she starts. "You fought fearlessly, and you brought back my son." She pauses, pursing her lips. Her voice grows quiet. "I've already lost a son. I didn't need to lose another." My frown softens as I squeeze her hand gently. She stands up from the bed. She squeezes my shoulder before walking past.

"I'll give you both privacy."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

It's silent. I let out a deep sigh as I sit on the ground near the bed. I hesitate as my hand hovers over his. I gently interlock our fingers as I press them against my lips. Tears prick my eyes as my throat tightens.

"I'm sorry I didn't get there fast enough." I whisper against his skin. I rest my forehead against his leg as I let out a shaky breath. "I... I tried."

I feel a hand fall on top of my head, weak but still there. I practically deflate against him as tears collect on my eyelashes. My breathing hitches as he rubs soothingly down my back. this is ridiculous. I'm supposed to be comforting him.

"Oh, Jace. I thought—fuck—I thought—" He shushes me gently. I choke on a sob, my voice brittle. My body begins to tremble uncontrollably as he weakly tugs on my hand.

"Lay with me, Nuhys qēlos." His voice is gentle, not possessive, but so soft it makes me want to curl up in his arms.

"I can't," I breathe out, albeit sharply. "I don't want to hurt you further—"

He murmurs my name again, and I shake my head vigorously. But I let him guide me. I let him tug me into the bed and into his uninjured side. And when I feel the warmth and the solidity of him, my tears turn into sobs.

He grabs my hand gently—so gently—and holds it against his chest, right against his heart. I pull back, not wanting to hurt him, but he holds firmly.

Tears still slip down my face at a rapid pace, but I calm slightly once I feel the gentle thump, thump of his heart. It's consistent and strong, and fuck, it makes me fall apart all over again. because I felt his heart fading in my hands, and if I was even a second too late, he wouldn't be alive. My breathing stutters as his thumb rubs back and forth across my skin.

"I'm here." He says it with so much conviction that I want to believe him. So I let myself breathe in his calming scent. I let myself sniffle and hiccup as I focus on his heartbeat. "I'm here now, and I am not going to leave you."

I rest my head gently in the crook of his neck, careful of the bandage around his shoulder, as he wraps a tender arm around my waist.

"Are you okay?"

He smiles weakly. "I'm better. I'm alright now."

"Thank you for saving me." He whispers, pressing a sweet kiss to my forehead. I say nothing. I can't say anything as a lump forms in my throat.

He's my lungs, my heart, the very air I breathe. He's the wind through the trees, the waves crashing against the shore, the warmth of the sun. He's the wildflowers growing in the fields. His smile alone could bring light to the darkness.

Because if I had to burn the realm down, I would do it gladly if it meant he would be warm.

"Stay?"

I raise my head from the safety of his neck. I meet his soft brown eyes — dark and inviting, and oh so warm. When the light hits them just right, they're a pool of soft honey.

"I'm here," I whisper. I brush my thumb across his cheekbone. His eyes flutter closed. "I'll stay."

He nods, and I go back to burying my face into his skin. It's quiet for a few moments. I draw gentle patterns on his bandaged chest. I hear him laugh quietly. I raise a brow as I hum in question.

"You smell of dragon. And blood."

I let out a small laugh at that.

"I suppose I do."

But I don't make any moves to get up, and neither does he. We stay like that until the sky darkens and our breathing slows. My eyes are half-lidded as I exhale quietly.

"Jace?" I mumble.

"Hm?" I feel his thumb tracing soft patterns back and forth on my hip.

"I love you."

He looks down at me, and I meet his gaze. He presses a kiss against my forehead, letting his lips linger for a few moments.

"I love you too." His voice raw as he whispers the words against my skin.

We fall asleep, me dirtying the sheets in the bed that I'm sure the handmaids will gossip and complain about. But I let the sound of his heartbeat lull me to sleep, knowing he is safe. And I will keep it that way, even if I have to fight the gods themselves.

But for now, we will rest.

As a secondborn son, he had only hoped to one day wear the conqueror’s upon his brow– but it was a fantasy. With his half-sister being named heir by the decaying king and his older brother having his own heir, Aemond knew that for him to be king meant the death of his kin. He had no plan to kill for the crown. But with each life taken, he inched closer to the iron throne that he could already feel the cool metal against his leather-clad body. 

As his brother abdicated his claim, his half-sister fell. Her faction quickly surrendered and pledged their fealty to him, Aemond One-eye, the reason why the dance of the dragons began. He relished seeing the once fierce, albeit idiotic, supporters of his half-sister kneel before him, declaring him their king. He had taken the most powerful seat in the realm with barely any bloodshed, a feat he thought rather impossible. 

Aemond the Absolute, he wishes to be called. A king who all yields to– that all agreed was suitable for the throne. He felt rather benevolent as he oversaw his once traitorous kin’s surrender. The blood of the dragon was scarce now; he’d rather not be the only dragon left in this world, and so, he was kind. He had let Rhaenyra’s remaining kin keep Dragonstone, leaving his nephews and niece their ancestral home. A reminder of what they had lost— and of what he had allowed them to keep.

He, on the other hand, had the Red Keep. The vast castle all to himself as his brother fled, and his sister was taken by her madness. Many times did the thought of offering his eldest nephew a seat in his council cross his mind– a risky, irrational thought, he believed, but a thought brought out by loneliness. To invite Jacaerys into his council means to invite a possible rebellion once more– he’d rather keep him in the desolate caves of Dragonstone. 

Aemond needed a wife. A companion. A person who could provide him with heirs and aid him in rebuilding his family. It was an easy enough task if it weren’t for his particularities. He was the blood of the dragon; anything less was insulting. But the blood of Old Valyria was scarce now; the only one truly left who had enough fire in their veins was you. The bastard daughter of the false queen. Your father may be strong, but your mother was Rhaenyra, you were dragon enough, Aemond supposed. 

However, a hurdle stood in his way– the same hurdle he faced even in childhood: Jacaerys, your twin brother. King Aemond must admit, he was ever so fond of you in your younger years. You were kind– sweet even. You always shared your cake. You always apologized in your brother’s wake. You always made Aemond feel sympathy for a bastard. 

He could recall your childhood so vividly that it brought a dull ache in his chest as he would constantly vie for your attention, but it was always placed on your twin. Your bond with Jacaerys was formed in the womb, and when you two came into the world, your mother was quick to form another bond by binding you to one another. 

Aemond had long known this, of course. But never was his younger self deterred, as he was your constant companion when your twin temporarily placed his favor upon Aegon. 

“I do not like when he and Luc are with Aegon– they become cruel,” You grumbled to Aemond as he sat with you in the gardens, a plate of cake between you, crumbs on both your lips. “Earlier this morning, he would not stop pulling at my hair!” You added, and Aemond hummed as he stared upon your crumpled face, your dark brows in a furrow, and your braided hair fraying, and bore the truth of your words. 

“Perhaps you shall tell your mother,” Aemond suggested as he reached forward to wipe away the icing on your plump and rosy cheek. “If he is cruel now, what more when you two are married?” He added and saw as clear fear flashed in your mud colored eyes. “And you’ve seen how my brother is– Jacaerys seems to worship the ground Aegon walks on. It would not take long before he becomes like him,” Aemond further stated, sewing the seeds of doubt so delicately that even he almost believed it was concern.

“He would not dare!” You exclaimed in fear, looking upon Aemond, who held a stoic expression. “A prince should never pull upon a lady's hair– especially not a princess,” He said, reaching forward to pull at the ribbon that held your braids, letting your hair cascade down your back and running his finger through the silky strands. “A husband must be gentle, niece,” He hummed. Aemond remembered your innocent eyes then. You were nine, and he was only a couple of years your senior, but he was already clever enough to reach for what he wanted— you. 

He was persistent– more persistent than he would care to admit. But he could not explain why, but he wanted you, even if you were a bastard. It did not matter much to him that you were a Strong, but when it came to your brothers, he was rather merciless. He tried to be subtle with his fondness for you, but subtlety becomes rather obvious when he truly abhorred your brothers. 

“I do not understand,” Aemond remembered as you cried to him under the scarlet leaves of the Godswood tree, the silver light of the moon setting you aglow, making your tears iridescent like pearls streaming down your face. You were six and ten– your family had finally returned after your informal banishment to Dragonstone, a trial as to who shall be heir to Driftmark, the reason why you had found your way back to him. 

“He had been bound to me since we were born– he was supposed to offer his fealty– his loyalty– but the moment we returned here, he desecrated it to lie with… with a common whore!” You wailed, and Aemond bit back his smile. Do not mistake his intentions. He did not revel in your sadness; he reveled in the fact that it was Jacaerys who had brought it. 

“I had tried to warn you ever since we were children, niece.” He hummed as he took his place next to you, resting his back upon the greyish trunk of the ancient tree. “You should have been rid of him years before.” Aemond added as he let your shoulders brush with each sob you made. “I cannot be rid of him– he… he is my other half– my twin.” Aemond hummed as you tried to explain the obvious. He badly wanted to say that just because you two had shared a womb did not mean you were destined to share a fate.

“Yet he chooses to lie with a whore. He had you by his side, yet he still willingly chose another. Do not be a fool for him, ñuha ōños.” Aemond murmured as he retrieved his handkerchief to wipe away your tears. He could never explain why he was so kind and gentle towards you. Perhaps because you were the same to him. He remembered how his heart skipped a beat as he first saw you again. You found him in the tiltyard, a wide smile on your lips as he met your eyes. A confession that you had long missed his company on your lips. 

“But I love him,” You confessed, uncaring that you were bold in your admittance. Ameond had always been your shoulder to cry on whenever you found trouble and strife with your twin. You did not know why you confided in your uncle, who had much animosity for your brothers, but there you were, crying in his arms. “But does he love you enough?” Aemond hummed as he relished the warmth he felt as he had you in his hold. 

“He is half of me– if he does not love me most, then who else will?” You remembered whispering in dread. “How are you so certain that it is love?” Aemond questioned lowly, tucking a stray strand of your hair. “Perhaps you are under the wrong impression… just because he is your twin and he had been betrothed to you does not mean you ought to love him– it does not mean he loves you.” Aemond was a cruel man. He knew then that there was no line he would not cross to take what he wished. 

Aemond wanted to sigh as you looked upon him with your gleaming brown eyes, your lips pink and swollen. “Such ungrateful men are not worthy of a princess… You wait for him– ready to offer your all, yet he…” Aemond pursed his lips in feigned thought, relishing how you clung to his arm and words. “...I cannot even bear to utter it, ñuha ōños. It could amount to treason,” He murmured lowly, his face drawing closer to yours as your eyelids flutter, and he could practically see how your mind started to give in to his words. 

He claimed your lips that night. Your lips were so soft and sweet that Aemond felt drunk. He cupped your face, your cheeks wet with tears yet warm against his cold, calloused touch. You whimpered against his mouth, his thin lips punishing as he deepened your kiss– his tongue shameless as it brushed against yours. 

Aemond grunted almost in pain as you suddenly backed away. His hazy eyes boring into your widened ones, regret etched plainly on your comely face. “I… this was a mistake,” Aemond raged every time he recalled your words and how you hastily ran from him after he had taken your first kiss and how he had given you his. He had never seen you since, and it took two years to pass before he could place his lilac eye upon you once more. And it was all because he was expected to attend your wedding ceremonies. 

He was king. He could have taken all that he wished without apology– he could have taken you as his bride instead. However, his council had advised him that to do such a thing would invite another rebellion. You had been bound to Jacaerys since you were in the womb– even the kingdom believed that you two were meant for one another. 

For him to break your betrothal and covet his nephew’s betrothed– his niece– could jeopardize his station. He had sacrificed much to be king, and as fond as he was of you and how he wished nothing more for you to be his queen, it was not enough for Aemond to relinquish the throne that he had killed for. For a moment, he tried to come to terms with the thought that it was only your lips he could claim, but he was quick to be rid of such thoughts as he remembered that he was king. 

He was king, and he had a right to all in his realm– he had the right of the first night. Primae Noctis, he remembered the maester uttering to his nephew, the copper prince, unmoving as he was told that his king wished to lie with his wife. That Aemond wished to take her maidenhead, her virtue that she had guarded for her husband. “He cannot– she is my wife,” Jacaerys gritted as he pushed away a maester to meet his uncle’s eye. 

“And I am king. I have the right, nephew.” Aemond smirked as his eye flickered towards you, surrounded by your guests who congratulated you on your marriage, completely clueless that you would be meeting him in your marital chambers instead of your husband. 

Aemond sighed as he sensed his nephew readying to draw out his sword, and he quickly waved for his guards to restrain the groom before he could cause a scene. “It is only for one night, nephew. You have the rest of your life to mount your wife– do not be so easily threatened.” Aemond sighed, amusement evident in his eye that would often flicker to your frame across the room. “Besides, it is only fair, do you not think?” Aemond hummed as he poured himself more wine, his blood intoxicated with adrenaline at the thought of taking you that night– an action that he had fantasized many years before. 

He glanced at the redened, confused expression of his nephew. “Your first time was wasted on some whore– surely you cannot think that you shall be the first to lie with her when she cannot say the same about you,” Aemond hummed. “She is my wife, mine!” Jacerys roared once more, and Aemond rolled his eye. “I am bedding her, not wedding.” He sighed as he was growing ever more impatient.

“But if you do not like the thought of your wife lying with her king, just say the word, and we can quickly annul your matrimony. You have every right to do so… you had not even lain with each other,” He continued to tease, hoping that his nephew would agree with his proposition. A rather idiotic idea when one thinks of it– but Aemond hoped that his nephew was indeed idiotic enough to agree. 

He looked upon Jacaerys’s seething face, his jaw in a solid grit as his plain eyes glanced towards you, who were completely clueless about what was to come. “One night– as king, you only have one night with my wife.” Jacaerys gritted as he accepted defeat. He and his twin were lucky enough to escape war unscathed– and the reason for that was only because Aemond had ordered his faction to never lay a hand upon you lest they wish to be his dragon’s meal. 

The then prince’s protection was only extended towards you, but your love for your twin had included him, claiming that if Jacaerys was harmed, gods forbid slain, you would soon follow him. He had been with you in life, so be it with death as well. 

Aemond hummed triumphantly, a devious smirk on his thin lips. “It would seem I stand here corrected, you do have your wits about you, nephew– perhaps I shall think twice next time I doubt your sensibilities,” Aemond smiled, the scene unnerving for the prince as a true smile of happines over came their king’s face, and it was all because he would have you for the night. 

“Now, if you would excuse me– I believe there is a bedding ceremony I must attend to,” Aemond said wickedly as he sauntered out of the great hall and made his way to your marital chambers. 

It was near the hour of the ghost when you had noticed that you had not seen your husband in the past half-hour. You travelled your eyes upon the room, his absence noted, and you blushed at the thought that he perhaps had retired in your chambers, waiting for you. Waiting to seal your marriage with the sacred act between husband and wife.

You drew in a deep breath as you slipped out of the great hall yourself, your hands cold with anticipation. When you reached the doors of your marital chambers, you steadied yourself for what was to come. For years, Jacaerys had failed to keep secret his illicit affairs– he failed to resist the temptation of bedding whores. 

For years, you blamed yourself– you believed he only did such actions because you refused him your bed without the certainty of marriage. But now, you were bound to him in the eyes of gods and men– perhaps his past behavior shall finally cease, you hoped. You were his wife– you had given him your heart and soul years before, and now, he shall as well claim your body. Surely a whore would no longer suffice for him after you had given him your all. 

When you pushed open the door of your chambers, it was aglow with the fire of the hearth, and you felt your heartbeat in the tip of your ears as you cautiously walked in. Your eyes were on the bed as you entered, and the pristine white sheets lay untouched. You cast your eyes then upon the seating area, expecting your husband to be waiting for you, but all you saw was your king seated near the fire with a chalice in his hands. 

“Aem– Your majesty… I–” You stuttered, confused. You hastily curtsied before him with your head bowed low, and when you straightened your stance, he was quick to rise and make his way before you. “What are you doing here, my king?” You asked, breathless, your gaze glancing towards the ajar door behind you, but Aemond was quick to reach forward and rest his palm against the solid wood, closing the door and trapping you between it and him. 

“It is just us, nuha oños, no need for formalities,” he murmured lowly, his face incredibly close to you that you could smell the wine on his lips. “Where… where is my husband?” You asked, a slight tremble in your voice as his lilac eye bore into yours. Aemond only hummed, tucking a stray piece of your hair behind your ears instead of answering your question. 

He felt you back yourself further against the door, a sigh leaving his lips. “Who am I?” He instead questioned, watching as confusion overcame your eyes before weariness took over them once more. “A simple question, niece, who am I?” He asked once more. 

“You’re… you’re Aemond.” You said innocently, and he drew in a deep breath as he loved hearing his name uttered by your lips. “Mm… to you, I am your Aemond… but to the others? Who am I to them?” 

“King, you are their king,” You answered and held your breath as he leaned closer. “Indeed, I am.” Aemond smiled and backed away only an inch as he noticed how you held your breath. He’d rather not have you faint before he could claim you. 

“And I must admit, as king, there are… privileges and pleasures that are bestowed upon me,” He clarified, but that did nothing to aid the questioning look etched into your face. “Have you perhaps heard the term primae noctis?” Aemond watched as you froze as he uttered the words, your enchanting eyes wide in realization. “The right of first night…” You whispered in shock, Aemond smirking as his fingers reached to twirl your hair that cascaded over your shoulder. “So knowledgeable… the maesters had to explain it to your husband thrice… you would have made the most capable queen,” Aemond could not help but murmur. 

“Now, do I still need to explain my presence, princess?” He hummed as he boldly placed a soft kiss against your temple, hearing as you took in a sharp breath as his lips met your skin. “But… but I am married,” He heard you whimper, and he retreated back just to see the turmoil in your eyes. You were in doubt. Good, he thought. If you were in doubt, then it meant a part of you wished for it as much as he. 

“I am quite aware,” He said bitterly. “But that is no hindrance,” He added, and bereft you of another moment to think before capturing your lips. His arm circled your waist while his hand rested between the curve of your neck and shoulder, steadying you and leaving no room for you to pull away. He felt your plush lips stagger, just as they did during your first kiss, but it was quick to dissolve as he felt you circled your arms around his neck. 

Aemond smirked against your lips as he felt you pull him closer. My, if this was how you acted after your marriage, he would have happily walked you down the aisle if it meant you clinging to him. You gasped for breath when Ameond finally parted your lips. You whimpered once more as you felt his punishing lips against your neck, his hand trailing down and grasping your tit with such a gentle force that you could not help but moan. 

“How… how are you so cavalier in taking my virtue that I had saved for my… my husband?” You asked breathlessly, your hand grasping the nape of Aemond’s neck as he peppered kisses on your skin. “Because you were meant to be mine,” Aemond said simply as he reached down to trail his hand against your leg, inching higher until he heard another gasp leave your lips as he cupped your womanhood. 

“Besides, I do not like leaving things unfinished… I have your first kiss, it is only right I take your first time as well.” Aemond breathed against your lips before capturing them once more. A wanton sound coming from you echoed through the room as you felt his tongue invade you and as his fingers drew circles on your cunt against your small clothes. 

You shivered as his lips trailed down to your bosom, his eye looking up as he forcefully yanked down the neckline of your wedding gown, the sound of it ripping music to his ears; he had half the mind to throw it into the fire later on. He did not wish to be reminded of the dress you wore as you bound yourself to another. 

“You are all mine tonight, my light…” Aemond moaned as he captured the taut bud of your mound, the taste of salt and sweetness dancing on his tongue. “...perhaps even after,” He hummed and nipped the bud of your breast as a strangled noise left your lips, and you clung to him even further. You reached to cup his face, guiding him to meet your lips again. You’ve never kissed Jacaerys, not even during your ceremonies– each intimate touch and action you had done was with Aemond. 

Your mind was in turmoil with each move of your lips, with each touch you exchanged. Jacaerys was supposed to be your other half– he was the one meant for you. Yet, here you were, melting into the hands of the king, your Aemond. You shuddered at the thought, and as you felt his finger enter your cunt. “Tell me you’re mine,” Aemond breathed out, voice holding a tone of desperation. You looked upon him with wide eyes. “Please, ñuha ōños… just for tonight, tell me you’re mine,” Aemond begged, uncaring that a king pleaded to a married woman as such.

You drew in a deep breath, wanting to deny him, but as you saw the sincerity in his eye, his eye that had always looked at you as if you were the only person in the world, you obliged. “I’m yours, Aemond… all yours,” You said softly, and you would think his pleading gaze would soften, but you felt a trickle of fear as his lilac eye darkened with sheer possessiveness that it made a chill run down your spine. 

You felt dazed as he moved you from the door and tossed you into the bed, wasting no time to mount you and keep your body trapped against his. “He does not deserve you… you have always been meant for me,” Aemond growled as he ripped apart your dress, leaving you in your shift. You whimpered and reached for the buttons of his tunic, unable to bear the wetness that gathered between your legs. 

Aemond shivered as you successfully removed his tunic, your soft hands roaming his chest, letting your skin finally touch his. He could have come undone at how your hands tightened on his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he ripped your shift away. Aemond marveled at your naked frame, biting back his smirk as you squirmed beneath him, your arms instinctively moving to cover yourself, but in one swift motion, he had both of your wrists in his grasp, hindering you. 

“You are a goddess among men,” He said lowly, sincerity dripping in his voice and clear in his eyes. Aemond dipped down to capture your lips once more, letting your hands free to circle his frame. You closed your eyes tightly and dug your nails into his back as his fingers roamed your body, one of them grasping your tit and pinching the bud while the other rested steadily on the curve of your waist. 

“Aemond,” You whimpered as you parted your lips, “I…” you trailed, unable to utter what you desperately needed. He looked deeply into your eyes, his lilac orb imploring you to use your words– to tell him what you wished for. “Come now, my light… we only have tonight, no need to be so coy,” He murmured and placed a chaste kiss between the valley of your breasts before meeting your eye once more. 

“I… I want…” You say breathlessly, squirming in unbearable need beneath him. “Yes? What do you want? You shall have everything you want just as long as you say the word,” Aemond said lowly, determined for you to word out what you wished. “You! I… I want you!” You finally relented, and you held your breath as he looked at you with a blank expression– your cheeks heating in embarrassment, but it was quick to fade when a genuine smile overcame his lips. The same carefree smile he had when you two were children, long before his eye was taken from him. 

You licked your lips as you felt your heart skip a beat with each moment he smiled upon you and how his lips inched closer. “Finally, you admitted it,” he said in satisfaction before kissing you until you saw stars. 

You were dazed as you felt his lips against yours once more, your confession somehow making the kiss you two shared taste sweeter. You sighed as his kisses went downwards, from your neck, leaving his mark. To your mounds, placing a wet kiss on each. But as he reached further down your navel, you gasped and tried to push him away, but his strong arms pinned you down. “I thought you had wanted me, my light?” he then hummed as he looked up, his breath fanning your womanhood, and you squirmed further. “I… I do, but–” 

“Then you shall have me… starting with my lips,” he smirked, and your eyes rolled back as you feel his lips meet your cunny. “A–Aemond,” You moaned as you fisted his hair, your breath shallow as his punishing lips were relentless with their kisses upon your womanhood. Aemond smirked against your cunt, intoxicated with the taste of you. 

He felt your thighs circle his head, the plush flesh soft against his cheeks. “Oh gods,” You cried as you felt his tongue upon your entrance, “Aemond, please… I–” You said incoherently, a sheen of sweat overcoming your body as you writhed against his angular face. He held your thighs tightly, his grip intent to leave his mark. “What do you want, my light?” He hummed, voice muffled as he quickly returned his lips against your cunt, his tongue teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

“I don’t know– just– please,” You cried, and Aemond focused all of his attention on the pearl of your cunt, his lips sucking upon it, his tongue darting out to lick it, and letting out a low reverberating moan that made you cry out in utter pleasure as you came undone. 

You panted as your back arched, Aemond moving once more to meet your eye and witness the state you were in. Your cheeks were flushed, your hair clung to your glistening skin, and your eyes were still shut as you came down from your high. 

Aemond took the moment to be rid of his breeches, and the moment he was, your eyes finally peeled open. You swallowed thickly as you saw his hardened length, the tip of it pink– almost red in anticipation. You drew in a breath as your gaze flickered to his eye, a teasing glint upon the lilac orbs. “Could… could I try something?” You suddenly asked, watching as Aemond’s brow raised in question as you sat up. He was kneeling upon the bed, and you copied his position. 

“And what would that be?” he hummed as you inched closer to him. You could not word it out, a bit ashamed, and so you instead lowered yourself until you were faced with his manhood. Aemond watched in great anticipation as you looked up at him with hesitancy, your lips already parted. 

“Hinder me if… if I do it incorrectly,” you whispered as you took him in your hands before closing your lips around the tip of his length. Aemond let out a deep groan, in disbelief of your actions. You were hesitant with each movement, and Aemond relished it, knowing that he would be the first to have you in such a way.

“Fuck,” He moaned as you took him deeper in your mouth, your teeth gently grazing his skin, and he felt as if he were in heaven. He did enjoy it when his pleasure had a touch of pain. As you heard him utter the words, you quickly retreated, fearing you had done something wrong. But he was quick to shake his head and reassure you that you were doing splendidly. You nodded and continued, blushing each time a grunt or moan left his lips. 

When you had taken every inch of him, and you felt his tip hit the back of your throat, you held your breath as he pulled at the roots of your hair, curses leaving his lips before he abruptly pulled out his length. You stared at him through glassy eyes, a trickle of fear within you once again, but he quickly shook his head again and placed kisses upon your cheeks as he muttered on how perfect you were, on how you were a divine gift from the gods. You blushed at each of his compliments, unaccustomed to it, as your husband was never one to give such praises. 

“Will it hurt?” You asked through wide eyes as you felt Aemond run the tip of his length along your glistening folds. “Yes, but only for a moment,” He hummed and placed a kiss upon your brow, the action so intimate that you could not help but believe for a moment, he was your husband and not simply your king who decided to invoke his right of the first night. 

“Tell me the moment… the moment the pain becomes unbearable,” Aemond muttered through gritted teeth as he positioned himself to take you. He watched as you bit your lip, your hands grasping at his arms tightly. Aemond bit his own lip as he felt your plush walls around his length, your eyes pooling with tears as your whimpers reached his ears. “You’re doing so well, my light… so perfect you are,” Aemond moaned as his hips moved lightly against yours. 

He relished how you clenched even further whenever a deserved compliment towards you left his lips, your body writhing slowly against his, your peaked mounds brushing against his chest. “Such a beauty you are, my princess,” Aemond continued to praise and bit back his smirk as you let out a moan, the pain of your maidenhead being taken finally subsiding. “More, Aemond…please,” You sighed as you reached forward to cup his cheek, your thumb delicately tracing his scar. 

Your king hummed, obliging your request as he finally sheathed himself fully in your cunny, your back arching as he did. He felt your fingers inching closer to the leather strap of his eye patch. “Can I–” you cut yourself off, fearing you shall offend him, but Aemond gave you a curt nod as the tip of his length brushed against a spot in you that made you let out a cry of pleasure. 

You removed the cover of his eye hesitantly, your breath catching in your throat as you saw a glistening sapphire in place of his stolen eye. “I did it for you,” Aemond breathed out, his thrust slow yet deep. You moaned as he reached between the two of you and drew circles upon your cunny, his words starting to grow incoherent. 

“You’ve always loved wearing blue– a strong blue… a sapphire is the closest color that could compare.” Aemond sighed as you pulled him closer to you, your bodies flushed, and felt each movement and breath the two of you made. 

“Faster, Aemond… please, I– I need more,” You cried, unable to fully understand his gesture. Aemond let out a breath of a laugh, placing a kiss on your neck before obliging once more, his head spinning as you wrapped your legs around him. You held your breath as you felt the blinding pleasure of your peak again, your eyes shut close as Aemond buried himself deep in your cunt, your walls clenching around him tightly as your nails dragged along his back. 

“Did you see stars, my light?” Aemond gritted as he lay still atop you, blowing softly upon your face as your eyes were still closed, and Aemond feared that you were not breathing properly, or if at all. He bit his lip as he saw your eyes slowly peel open, the heaviness as you reached forward to kiss his lips. Aemond hummed in satisfaction– the same satisfaction he felt as the conqueror’s crown was placed upon his brow–perhaps even better. 

You parted your lips to meet Aemond’s eye, startled to see the same lust still evident, and only did you notice that his length was still inside you, hard and pulsating. “What… did I not–” Aemond shushed you and placed a kiss on your lips. “You were perfect, ñuha ōños,” he reassured. “But why…” You trailed, feeling another surge of need overcome you as you felt the slight movement of his hips. 

Aemond smiled wickedly. “I have you for only the night, princess… we are not leaving this bed until morning comes. Perhaps not even then.” 

The stone of the Hightower did not merely hold the heat of the summer; it seemed to exhale it, thick and heavy with the scent of the sea and the distant, rotting mud of the Honeywine. From the highest solar, the sounds of Oldtown at midnight were a low, ceaseless murmur—the distant clink of armorers hammering out steel by forge-light, the braying of pack mules in the lower courtyards, and the steady, rhythmic trudge of thousands of boots echoing off the cobblestones.

The host of the Reach was gathering. The Green Dragon was lifting its wings, and tomorrow, her husband would lead it into the maw of a Kingdom tearing itself apart.

In the private Septry adjoining their bedchambers, the air was different. Here, behind thick oak doors banded in iron, the world was reduced to the sharp, sweet smell of melting beeswax, the heavy musk of tallow, and the faint, dried ghost of summer lavender.

She knelt on the unforgiving stone floor, the hem of her white linen nightgown spread around her like a shroud of fresh snow. It was a modest garment, high-necked and long-sleeved, fitting for the wife of the Voice of Oldtown.

Her hair, usually pinned in elaborate, jewel-woven braids that befitted her noble station, had been unraveled for the night. It hung down her spine in a single, thick, loose plait, the dark silk of it catching the golden, undulating glow of the candles.

Before her stood the seven alcoves, each housing an effigy carved from solid weirwood, brought down from the North centuries ago and polished until the wood looked like old bone. The candlelight flickered violently in the drafts that crept beneath the door, throwing long, twisted shadows of the Gods against the whitewashed walls. The Stranger was a mere cowl of darkness in the corner, but her eyes were locked onto the Mother, whose painted face smiled with a serene, terrifying detachment.

She clasped her hands together, pressing her knuckles against her chin until the skin turned white, her fingers trembling with a frantic, rhythmic motion.

”Gentle Mother, font of mercy,“ she whispered, her voice a fragile thing in the vast, hollow quiet of the tower.

”Save our sons and save our sires... shield them from the clashing swords. Keep the sky clear of the shadow of wings. Let the fires that burn be only the hearths of home.“

She swallowed hard, her throat tight, a stray tear finally escaping her lashes to trace the pale curve of her cheek. She did not brush it away. It fell, dark and heavy, onto the linen of her gown. She shifted her gaze to the Warrior, whose wooden sword was raised in an eternal, silent promise of defense.

”And the Warrior... let his shield be thick,“ she begged, her voice cracking, dipping into a desperate, hushed plea that felt less like a prayer and more like a negotiation.

”Let him guard my lord. Let him stand between Ormund and the steel of his cousins. Bring him home whole. Do not let the Stranger look upon him. Do not let–“

The heavy, unmistakable thud of a leather-soled boot snapped the silence of the corridor.

Her breath hitched in her throat. The words of the holy hymn died on her tongue, leaving her mouth dry. She did not turn immediately; she knew the stride. It was a heavy, grounded step, the walk of a man who carried the weight of an entire Realm on his shoulders and refused to let it bend him.

The iron latch clicked. The door groaned on its hinges.

Standing in the doorway of the Septry, cutting a massive, imposing silhouette against the dim light of the outer solar, was Ormund.

The Lord of Oldtown looked entirely undone by the weight of the coming dawn. The pristine, courtly lord who sat in the shadow of the Citadel—the man who spoke with the measured gravity of a Hightower—had been stripped away by the reality of the march. His heavy steel plate was gone, left in the armory or on its stands, but he had not fully undressed for sleep. He wore only his dark linen tunic and heavy leather riding breeches.

The tunic was completely unlaced at the throat, gaping open to reveal the stark, pale line of his collarbone and the dark, thick hair of his chest.

His face was shadowed by a heavy, rough stubble that had grown over days of council meetings and camp inspections, and his dark hair was windswept, smelling of the salt-air and the woodsmoke of the thousands of campfires burning outside the city walls.

He did not step forward immediately. He simply stood there, his large frame filling the threshold, his dark eyes fixed entirely on her. There was an intensity in his gaze that made the breath stall in her lungs—a raw, feral look that she had rarely seen in the quiet, dutiful years of their marriage.

”My husband,“ she breathed. Her hands, previously locked in holy supplication, dropped to her lap. The instinct of a highborn lady took over, and she placed her palms on the stone, preparing to push herself up to greet her lord properly.

”You should be resting. The Grand Maester said the raven from King’s Landing requires your signature before the vanguard departs. The host marches at first light, you need your–“

”Shh.“

The word was a low, gravelly vibration that cut through her frantic speech like a blade through silk.

He stepped into the holy space, his heavy strides purposeful, loud against the sacred quiet. He did not allow her to stand. Before she could find her footing, he was over her, stopping so close that the dark leather of his breeches brushed against the soft, white fabric of her nightgown.

He towered over her, a great, solid pillar of flesh and blood that completely eclipsed the carved statues of the Gods behind him. The flickering candlelight cast his shadow over her, swallowing her in his darkness.

She looked up at him, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

”My lord, please. Let me call for the squires to pour you wine. You are burning with the fever of the march. Let me–“

”I told you to be quiet,“ he murmured. His voice was rough, scraped raw by hours of shouting orders to captains and arguing with lords from the Arbor to the Marches.

He reached down. His large, calloused hand—the hand of a knight who had won his spurs in the blood of the Stepstones—wrapped firmly under her jaw. His fingers were hot against her skin, the broad pad of his thumb resting just beneath her ear, where her pulse was fluttering visibly, frantic and fast.

With a slow, deliberate pressure, he tilted her chin upward. He forced her to look all the way up his imposing frame, exposing the long, delicate line of her throat to the candlelight. She felt entirely small beneath him, kneeling at his feet, her body trembling not from the draft, but from the sudden, suffocating gravity of his presence.

He looked down at her, his eyes dark, the pupils blown wide until the irises were almost entirely black. There was no courtly deference in his face now; there was only a heavy, desperate hunger.

Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he pressed the pad of his thumb against her bottom lip. The contrast was a bruising thing—his skin was rough, hardened and scarred from years of gripping a sword hilt and the rough leather of riding reins, while her lips were soft, smooth, and trembling under his touch. He applied just enough pressure to part them, his thumb sliding over the smooth edge of her teeth to taste the wet, hidden heat of her mouth.

A helpless, warm gasp escaped her, her breath puffing hot against his skin as he pushed his thumb deeper. He flattened her tongue beneath his weight, stroking the slick, wet interior of her mouth, claiming her voice before she could even think to use it. He was anchoring her, pulling her out of the spiritual Realm she had been trying to lose herself in, forcing her back into the reality of his flesh.

”Do not waste your breath on the silent Gods tonight, my love,“ he murmured, his voice dipping into a dark, rough register that made a sudden, sharp heat coil in the very depths of her stomach.

His thumb stroked the inside of her cheek one last time before he slowly withdrew it, leaving her lips wet, parted, and glistening in the candlelight.

”Pray to me.“

The sheer, blasphemous weight of his words shivered down her spine. To say such a thing in the Septry, beneath the eyes of the Seven, should have filled her with terror. It should have driven her to her knees in true repentance.

But as she looked up into his rugged face, seeing the fierce, protective desperation that lined his brow, she realized the truth: the Gods were wood and paint, silent and distant in their alcoves. But Ormund was real. He was hot, he was breathing, and he was hers.

Before she could process the thrill of her own submission, Ormund dropped heavily to his knees on the cold stone floor right in front of her.

He did not give her a chance to pray, to think, or to maintain the perfect, pious modesty she wore like armor during the day. He yanked her into his chest, his large arms wrapping around her waist with a force that knocked the air from her lungs.

He smelled of horse, iron, and the bitter tang of stale wine, mixed with the deep, musky scent of his own sweat.

His large hands immediately swept down, bunched into the heavy linen of her nightgown, and dragged the fabric ruthlessly up past her knees, her calves, and her thighs.

He did not care for the neat folds of the linen; he bundled it in his fists, pulling it up past her waist until her bare hips and her completely unprotected center were entirely exposed to the cool, candlelit air of the Septry.

His large, hot palms gripped the soft flesh of her inner thighs, parting her knees forcefully, settling himself between them.

”Ormund– the altar–“ she whimpered, her hands bunching into the fabric of his unlaced tunic, her fingers finding the thick hair of his chest as he caught her by the shoulders and pushed her backward.

The cold stone floor bit into her bare back and buttocks, a shocking, rigid contrast to the burning, radiating heat of his heavy body pressing down between her thighs. She gasped at the sensation, her spine arching as the chill of the Hightower met the fever of his skin.

He leaned over her, his rugged face hovering inches from hers, his dark eyes glittering with an unhinged, desperate intent. Below, where their bodies met, she could feel the thick, rigid length of his erection pressing hard against her weeping, unbothered cleft. He was already leaking, the heat of his pre-cum searing against her closed petals.

”Let the Gods watch,“ Ormund growled against her ear, his hot breath branding her skin, his teeth grazing the sensitive lobe of her ear until she shivered.

”Let them see what I am fighting to come back to. Let them see what belongs to me, and me alone.“

His large hand reached down between them, his calloused fingers finding her already slick and swollen slit. He did not tease; he used his fingers to smear her own natural dampness up over her sensitive clitoris, making her hips jerk off the floor with a sharp, needy whine. Then, he gripped his own length, rubbing the swollen, weeping head of his cock against her dripping entrance, coating himself in her heat.

Before she could beg for him to fill the ache, his mouth crashed onto hers.

It was a bruising, desperate kiss, completely swallowing any further protests. His tongue thrust deep into her mouth, a heavy, rhythmic mimicry of what was to come, tasting her fully, drinking her in as if he were a dying man in a desert. He shifted his weight, pinning her down with the sheer mass of his upper body, and with a heavy, relentless, downward thrust of his hips, he drove his thick length entirely inside her.

He bottomed out against her cervix in one tight, unforgiving stroke.

She cried out into his mouth, a muffled, high-pitched sound of shock and overwhelming pleasure. Her fingers dug desperately into the hard, knotted muscles of his back, her nails scratching against his skin through the linen of his tunic as her hips arched off the cold stone from the sheer stretch of him filling her so completely. She had never felt him this large, this unyielding.

The pace he set was hard, fast, and demanding, driven by the ticking clock of the coming dawn.

He pulled out almost entirely, his wet, thick length glistening in the candlelight, before burying himself back inside her with a wet, heavy slap of their hips that echoed off the stone walls of the Septry. He wanted to lose himself in her entirely, to drown out the noise of ravens, war strategies, and dying men in the wet, tight, suffocating pleasure of her body.

Every time she gasped, every time a desperate, breathless sob of pleasure escaped her, Ormund caught the sound with his mouth, kissing her deeply, tasting her tears and her desire. He grabbed her wrists, breaking her grip on his back, and brought them above her head. He pinned them flat against the stone floor, locking his heavy fingers with her smaller ones, immobilizing her beneath him. The movement forced her chest to arch upward, her breasts thrusting tight against the bunched fabric of her gown, her nipples hardening under the friction.

”Look at me,“ he commanded, pulling his mouth back just enough to look down into her face. His deep lord’s voice vibrated through her entire chest, dark and demanding as his pace became more frantic. His hips hammered into hers, the friction creating a slick, loud, squelching sound that filled the quiet Septry, a sinful rhythm before the altars of the Gods.

”Tell me you feel me. Tell me I am here.“

”I feel you– Ormund, please–“ she choked out, her head rolling back against the stone, her eyes wide and locked onto his fierce, dark gaze.

The frantic friction of his pubic bone slamming against her clitoris with every deep, heavy thrust was too much. It was sending white-hot, agonizingly sweet waves of pleasure straight to her lower stomach, building a tension so tight she could barely breathe. She was entirely exposed beneath him, her nightgown ruined, her body slick with their combined fluids right in the shadow of the Seven, but looking up into his face, she realized this was her true altar. This fierce, possessive act of love was more comforting, more real, than any silent prayer she could have offered. He was her lord, her protector, her God tonight.

”You are here,“ she cried out, her voice echoing in the rafters.

”You are here!“

Her internal muscles clamped down incredibly tight around his thick length as her climax finally hit. Her body shook violently from head to toe, her hips twitching against his as she spent herself fully on the stone floor, her walls pulsing around him in desperate, gripping waves.

The tight, milking squeezes of her climax broke Ormund’s last thread of control. His breath hitched, a low, animalistic growl ripping from his throat. With a final, shattering thrust, Ormund drove into her one last, deep time, burying himself to the very root, pinning her hips flat against the stone as his own release tore through him. He threw his head back, the muscles in his neck straining, cords standing out as he pumped his hot, thick seed deep inside her core, wave after wave of his warmth filling her up until she felt heavy with him.

He trembled against her, his strength suddenly leaving him as he collapsed forward, his forehead resting against her shoulder. He panted heavily, his chest heaving against her breasts, his sweat dripping down onto her collarbone. His cock remained inside her, still twitching within her slick, filled heat, anchoring them together on the floor.

For a long time, the only sound in the Septry was the ragged, desperate ring of their breathing, and the slow, wet dripping of their combined fluids onto the cold stone beneath them. The candles flickered, some finally guttering out into columns of thin, white smoke, leaving the room darker, more intimate.

Eventually, the frantic energy faded, replaced by a heavy, aching exhaustion that settled into their bones. Ormund shifted his head, his face burying into the soft crook of her neck. His rough stubble scraped harshly against her delicate jaw and throat as he pressed a series of slow, worshipful kisses to the damp skin there—a silent, tender apology for his previous roughness, a return of the lord who cherished his lady.

”Come,“ he muttered against her skin, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction.

He slid out of her with a wet, soft sound, leaving her center tingling, cold, and dripping with his warmth. Before the chill of the stone floor could fully claim her body again, Ormund gathered her up in his massive arms. He stood up, lifting her effortlessly against his chest. Her ruined nightgown bunched around her waist, and she could feel his wet seed dripping slowly down the back of her thighs, a warm, heavy reminder of what they had just done.

He carried her out of the darkened Septry, leaving the silent wooden Gods behind, and stepped into their adjoining bedchamber. The bed was vast, piled high with soft down mattresses and heavy winter furs. He set her down gently in the center of the sheets, climbing in immediately after her before the warmth could escape.

Ormund dragged her back against his chest, his front flushing against her back until they were perfectly tangled together under the heavy blankets. His large hand came around her waist, resting possessively over her soft, sticky stomach, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles over her skin.

The rhythmic friction of his fingers brought a soft, contented sigh from her lips. He nudged his face back into her neck, his breathing slowing, his heartbeat steady, strong, and alive against her shoulder blades.

As the remaining candles at the shrine in the other room finally burned down to ash and darkness, she stared out the window at the faint, pale grey light of dawn beginning to bleed into the eastern sky. The vanguard would move soon. The horns would blow, and he would leave her.

She had not finished her prayer to the Mother.

She had not finished her plea to the Warrior.

But listening to the steady, living rhythm of her husband’s breathing, she closed her eyes and felt a strange, profound sense of peace.

She had given him his sanctuary. Now, she would wait for his return.