#hotd headcanons

─ summary: you're not speaking to them. how long before they break?

─ pairing: Gwayne Hightower, Ormund Hightower, Aegon II Targaryen, Aemond Targaryen, Daeron Targaryen, Valarr Targaryen, Jacaerys Velaryon x f!reader

─ content: 18+ MDNI | fluff | a little angst | implied smut | annoying husbands | hardheaded men

─ a/n: i wanted to add onto the original by doing the other AKOTSK/HOTD men. as always, thank you so much for the likes, comments, reblogs, requests, and asks. 🖤

AEGON — Three Days.

The first day he pretends he is not bothered at all. He drinks, he acts out, he stays up the whole night through, making a great show of being a man who doesn't care. By the second day the show is wearing thin, because the truth is that he cares a lot. All he wants is to be near you, but he is stubborn, and some part of him is convinced that you ought to apologize first. By the third day, he cannot bear it another hour. He comes to your room pouting like a scolded child, saying he is sorry, begging you to speak to him again. "I cannot continue!" Dramatic to the very last. You give in, partly because you did miss him, and partly because you would rather not have the whole keep hearing him carrying on like this.

AEMOND — Two Days.

More than anything, Aemond is desperate for love; the love you give him so freely, that no one else ever has. He knows he was wrong. He knows you are right not to speak to him. But he will not say so, because his pride is a vast and immovable thing. He lies in his own bed that second night, cold and alone and sleepless, and decides at last that his pride is not worth this. He rises, sneaks into your chambers and climbs silently into your bed, wrapping his arms around you and pressing a kiss to your forehead. "May I stay?" he asks. He cannot make himself say the words I was wrong, that is not his way, but the look in his eye, and the tears standing in it, say it loudly enough. You nod.

DAERON — Forever, Potentially.

He does not remember the fight, or you telling him to sleep elsewhere. He simply wakes to find you not speaking to him, and being who he is, assumes your love for him has finally run dry, that you no longer have it in you to endure him, and he is crushed by it. But he understands. Someone like you deserves a far better husband than the likes of him. So he resolves to disappear, to stop being a burden, to never trouble you again. It goes on like this for almost a week while you slowly lose your mind, because what in the actual hell is happening?! You confront him at last. He is stunned, he remembers none of it, but more than that, the revelation that you still love him undoes him completely. He pulls you into his arms and kisses you hard. The kind of kiss where his arms are around your waist pulling you impossibly close and your hands are curled in the front of his doublet. You're left so breathless you don't even remember why you were upset. He apologizes, swears he will change, he does not want to live in a world in which you have stopped loving him.

GWAYNE — An Hour.

The sweetest, most devoted husband, completely undone by the barest hint of your displeasure. If you are upset and not speaking to him, he lasts an hour at the very most before he comes to you with a little gift and a very big apology. He is so sorry for being so careless, he will never do such a thing again, never ever, he swears it. And he is so handsome and so sincere as he says it that staying angry is simply not an option available to you. You step into his arms and let him hold you and kiss you.

JACAERYS — Less Than an Hour.

The stress he carries makes him irritable sometimes, careless, a symptom of his youth as much as anything, and he says something snippy when you were only trying to help. He does not even let you leave the room. The words are barely out of his mouth before he regrets them and is apologizing. You try to walk past him and he stops you gently, both hands on your shoulders, his eyes piercing straight through you. He is putting an end to this before it can go anywhere at all. He repeats his apology, his hands sliding from your shoulders down to hold both of yours. You nod, but you need a moment, and he gives it to you. Your silence is the only thing he can think of, occupying him entirely until, an hour later, you come and find him, and climb into his lap, and let him hold you. He will never speak to you that way again.

ORMUND — A Day.

He is a pain in your ass, and he wants to break you. "Hmm. Not speaking to me now?" he says with that infuriating smile the moment he realizes what you are doing. He crowds your space all day, and he is, frankly, impressed by the sheer iron of your resolve. If only all his soldiers possessed your discipline. "How long do you imagine this can continue? You must speak to me sooner or later." After a full day of it, you do indeed snap. "Seven hells, do you ever stop talking?!" You storm out of the room, slamming the door behind you. He will not tolerate that in his house; he follows you, his fury matching your own, as he pulls you into the bedchamber. What follows is a fight indeed, a battle for dominance, each of you determined to have the upper hand. You win.

VALARR — Until Supper.

TARGARYEN MEN ⭑ HOW THEY LIKE IT

includes: valarr , aerion ,  daeron , baelor , maekar , jacaerys , aegon , aemond , daemon

c/w: 18+ , suggestive content , semi-public , praise kink , rough intimacy , verbal teasing and edging 

requests are open

VALARR

he likes to let go. he is a prince burdened with too much responsibility, the weight of expectation pressing down on his shoulders like a mountain. so when the rare moment comes that valarr finds himself free of his oppressive duties, he descends upon you like a wild boar. he sweeps you up into his arms and spins you around. "gods, how i have missed my beautiful wife!" he will kiss your palm, then trail his lips upward to your wrist. his gaze will look intoxicated. it is you who have drunk him senseless with your presence, with the scent of your oils that has become so achingly familiar. he will not release you from his embrace until you are both utterly spent. he will encourage you in countless ways, and from his angular mouth will come sounds that make your cheeks, ears, and neck flush without mercy.

AERION

he likes encouragement. aerion is like a puppy who needs to be told he is a good boy and scratched behind the ear. but this is a disobedient puppy, wild as a wolf cub. you may tell him how good he makes you feel, and out of pure mischief he will delay your climax. or he will playfully bite your thigh, your neck, wherever he pleases. "close... i am close..." you will whimper, clutching at his neck as if you are drowning and sinking beneath the waves of sensation. "say please, were you not taught to be polite?" he will stop with a grin that bares his canines. you will utter the sacred word, almost painfully digging your nails into his porcelain skin. and aerion will continue, delivering wave after wave of pleasure.

DAERON

he is mad for spontaneity. but not in the way of coming to your chambers in the dead of night, taking you, and leaving. not at all. daeron forgets everything entirely when it is you who comes to him, who curls against him like a cat. when it is you who whispers things better left unspoken, your warm breath burning against his skin. he loves such initiative and is instantly ready to immerse himself in unbridled pleasure with you. "you are my curse and my salvation," he will say with a smile as you push him down onto the sheets like some mere maiden. his hands will reach for you of their own accord, but you will swat them away. "not yet, my prince," you will say, seizing all initiative and dominance for yourself. "seven hells, you look burning hot, sweetheart." daeron will smile, and you will find that smile foolish, even rather endearing.

BAELOR

he likes variety. baelor, like valarr, is consumed by the affairs of the kingdom. he is the heir to the throne, and routine irritates him. especially in sex, when it ought to be the opposite, offering him release and respite. he will grow weary quickly if you do it in the same position or the same place every time. he would not mind taking you on his own table after a meeting of the small council. "you are an incredible woman," he will say when you meet his initiative, positioning yourself on the sturdy oak table among scrolls and parchments. he will quickly discard unnecessary clothing, quickly burrow into the folds of your dress. but he will be exceedingly gentle and cautious, as if this were your first time. "let us try to be quiet," he will say playfully, as if you were not grown adults but younglings who have just discovered such pleasures, unable to restrain themselves, eager to taste all the delights of life.

MAEKAR

he likes it to last. one might say he is rather lazy, in a sense. but he can remain with you in bed for hours and has no objection to several rounds. it brings maekar immense pleasure when he worships your body. he kisses you in every possible place, strokes you, and praises you, with words and with touch. he transforms into the most delicate and tender man. "i would stay here forever," he will say before his face disappears between your thighs and your fingers clutch the bedsheets. he savours every sigh that escapes your lips, every subtle arch of your back, every tremor that runs through your limbs. he whispers praises against your skin. 

JACAERYS

he likes it gentle and unhurried. he cannot abide roughness. never. and not near you. jacaerys begins from afar, telling you how wonderful you look, how incredible you are, and how he cannot believe his fortune in being yours. he will lie beside you, to the side. first, gently, almost weightlessly, with just his fingertips, he will trace your ribs, your stomach. with his eyes alone, he will ask permission to kiss you. he seems afraid of breaking you, as if you were a delicate porcelain doll. his lips will cover yours in the warmest, most reverent kiss, then continue down your neck, your collarbones. you will begin sighing and moaning with impatience and the sheer wonder of how he manages to bring such pleasure with only his lips, his eyes, and his words. "you are eager, my lady," he will chuckle kindly.

AEGON

he likes to feel safe. in truth, aegon is rather vulnerable and depressive. he needs to know that nothing threatens him, and you especially. he will come to you with the look of a beaten puppy, drop to his knees, pressing his face against your stomach, his arms winding around your waist. you will be taken aback by such a surge of devotion. "i love you," he will whisper against the fabric of your dress, kissing the lower part of your belly, slowly moving upward. then he will lower you onto the bed and position himself above you, tender and trembling, showering you with kisses.

AEMOND

he likes to feel his superiority. he is fearsome. he needs to brand you. he will never allow you to be on top. it is only him and his pride wrestling with each other here, and you are merely the intermediary. "now look at yourself..." aemond will say, each thrust driving him deeper between your wet, slick folds. his veined, sinewy, yet surprisingly strong hands will leave marks upon your submissive, soft, and yielding body. he feels himself unquestionable, inimitable, and singular. he is rough and at times cruel. he is absolute. and he likes to see tears welling in your flushed face. but when it is over, he will lie with you and bury his face in the curve of your neck and mumble words of love. "i am nothing without you, and you are nothing without me." and he will fall asleep like that, holding you like a child.

DAEMON

he likes it quick. daemon seeks release and wants it as fast as possible. yet there is control and domination present. he assumes the leading role in your pair. he directs. daemon undresses you roughly, with tugs. he kisses you carelessly and sharply. he enters you in the same manner. he does everything abruptly, without delay. he has nothing to prove; he already knows he is the best, so he can burst in upon you without warning. "i want you so badly," he will say, hastily untying the elegant laces of your dress.

──── Ormund Hightower┆headcanons mdni

Ormund Hightower who reluctantly takes his wife with him when the Hightower army marches towards Kings Landing because he cannot bear to be apart from her and she cannot stand knowing that he is leaving for battle and might not come back.

Ormund Hightower that keeps his wife’s handkerchief tucked into his armor and pulls it out to press into his nose whenever a reeking commander or soldier approaches him after being summoned for new orders.

Ormund Hightower that orders his wife to stay in their tent at all times because it’s too dangerous for a lady of her birth to wander around soldiers but the in reality he doesn’t anyone in the camp ogling her and getting funny ideas about his wife.

Ormund Hightower marches into their tent buzzing with anger after getting a message from Kings Landing saying that he is meant to remain where he is and wait for Aemond to come on Vhagar before he can make any other move.

Ormund Hightower who takes his anger out by fucking his wife into the mattress — lewd sounds, desperate moans and grunts could be heard by anyone that passed their tent. He himself couldn’t care less by who heard or who knows that he’s fucking his wife — for him it’s even better because they all will know that she’s only his.

Ormund Hightower who takes his wife while she’s on her hands and knees, his hand wrapped around her throat to tilt her head back to rest on his shoulder, her back pressed to his chest, hair sticking to her forehead and eyes glossy with tears because of how well he fucks her. His cock hits all the right places making her clench on him and whine pathetically while his hand chokes her slightly.

Ormund Hightower whose hand slide off her throat to press into her lower belly when he cums — deep inside her, his seed planting another heir, another son for house Hightower and he throbs at the mental image of her swollen and filled with his child bearing the fruit of his love for her.

Ormund Hightower that pressed his nose into the heated skin of her shoulder as she breaths — trying to stop the tremor of her muscles after he finally pulls out

➥ Duncan the tall-

Dunk is massive so he takes up like most of the tub, meaning you are usually sitting directly on top of him or straddling his lap because there is simply nowhere else to go. He blushes furiously at how close you are, trying to look anywhere but at your chest, but he secretly loves it. He’s too shy to initiate much, but if you wash his chest or his hair, he melts, closing his eyes and letting out a shaky breath, his large hands coming up to caress your hips.

➥ Baelor Targaryen -

Bathing with him is very intimate. He has strong hands that feel incredible when he massages the tension out of your shoulders. He doesn’t need words,he expresses his love through service, washing your back and hair gently. He likes to pull you close afterwards, just sitting in the cooling water with his arms locked around you, his face buried in your neck breathing you in ,making sure you feel protected and safe from the outside world.

➥ Aerion Targaryen -

During bath with him the water is always burning hot and filled with expensive scented herbs. He is in love with himself, so he spends a good amount of time admiring himself, but he asks for your attention too, he likes to put mirror in front of tub so he can admire the aesthetic of your bodies together in the steam. he might run a finger down your spine just to feel you shiver, kiss down your shoulders or grip the back of your neck to pull you into a possessive kiss.

➥ Alicent Hightower -

Bathing together is a quiet, relaxing ritual you have with her, she carries so much tension in her shoulders and hands that the water needs to be burning hot to get her to relax. She is modest and shy at first, sitting at the far end of the tub, but she melts if you take the lead ,sitting behind her gently washing her hair or massaging her shoulders . It is one of the few places she feels safe enough to stop worrying and being anxious, allowing herself to lay against your chest and just relax.

➥ Gwayne Hightower-

Gwayne is a man who appreciates the finer things, and bath time with you is no exception. he’ll sit back against the tub, pulling you back against his chest so he can lazily wash your arms and hair ,he’s surprisingly chatty, gossiping about the camp or court, often stopping mid-sentence to bite and peck your shoulders or slide his hands down your stomach beneath the water.

➥ Rhaenyra Targaryen -

During bath she likes to sit between your legs or have you rest against her, needing the physical touch. She often rests her head back against your shoulder, closing her eyes and murmuring in High Valyrian about her day, trusting you with her frustration and worry.

➥ Valarr Targaryen -

He is sweet and a little clingy. Valarr treasures these moments because he often feels fragile compared to the other men in his family. He loves a bath filled with flowers or scented herbs (something you probably suggested once and now he always remembers). He sits close, legs tangled with yours, kissing your knees, holding your hand, or resting his cheek on your wet shoulder. he treats the bath as a romantic getaway, whispering sweet nothings time to time.

➥ Maekar Targaryen-

Maekar is always stiff and finds it hard to relax, even in hot water, he usually sits in silence, brows furrowed, he needs you to be the initiator. When you climb in, he won’t say a word, but his arm will immediately hook around your waist to pull you in close. He loves when you wash his back or chest,it’s one of the few times he allows himself to be cared for.

➥ Daeron Targaryen-

Daeron is often tipsy, bringing a goblet of wine with him, but the water sobers him into a sweetness. He is clinging, wrapping himself around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. He often rests his head on your chest to listen to your heartbeat, finding it more calming than anything else. he needs to feel every inch of you to remind himself that you are real and not part of his dreams (nightmares).

➥ Oscar Tully - (aged up)

During bath time he is a bit shy at first, the steam from water hiding the flush on his cheeks when you drop your robe. He loves facing you in the tub, his knees knocking against yours. He is incredibly attentive, wants to help you wash up, his hands sliding over your skin with need, often pulling you forward so he can kiss you deeply while the water sloshes over the sides.

➥ Aemon Targaryen (pale prince)-

ORMUND HIGHTOWER x Targaryen Princess (ward) ─── Ormund’s character “headcanons”

Warnings: age gap (15/20years difference), corruption kink, sexual content, idk dude just mdni :)

Author’s note: If you already know me from wp AO3 or TikTok, then you know I can’t stop yapping about this man, like it’s genuinely concerning at this point. So of course I’ve doubled down by starting a whole new fic about him! Since your girl loves deep character work (canon or otherwise) and plenty of smut, here’s my introduction to Lord Slaytower and the messy moral issues he has with his young ward (and their kinks and way of having sex until they can really have sex and all those things you can expect from me). The princess’s name isn’t mentioned in this piece but it’s meant to be Daena once I publish the story. Major spoilers for their plot ahead as always with me. Anyway, enjoy! Because I certainly do every single time I write about him :))

Ormund Hightower, who is raised as the undisputed golden boy of one of Westeros' wealthiest houses, acutely aware of his position from a young age (which, as everyone knows, always ends up with one entitled little boy growing into one deeply fucked up man)

Ormund Hightower, who enjoys above all the liberties that come with not yet being lord, spending his youth testing the limits of his privilege (being those freedoms the ones that shape the clever, arrogant, and prideful man he will one day become)

Ormund Hightower, who develops an unshakable belief in his own superiority and destiny, holding it as dearly as the Faith itself. Who comes to believe that men like him are tested more harshly by the Gods and rewarded twice over for their devotion and restraint.

Same conviction that leads him to believe that the Seven will always allow him to toy with the edges of sin more freely than lesser men, twisting his sense of righteousness into something self-serving (and leaving him forever caught between crushing guilt and an unwavering conviction that he had somehow earned the right to sin a little)

Ormund Hightower, who is raised alongside his cousin Gwayne in something close to brotherhood.

Left in Oldtown from a young age, motherless and under Hobert's care, Gwayne is both Ormund's closest friend and the boy forever destined to stand in his shadow. Even if their affection is genuine, so too is the cruelty that often flourishes between boys raised together, where one child's ego is too often built at the expense of the other's.

Ormund Hightower, who is in his twenties when the Queen's children are entrusted to Oldtown, and who discovers for the first time what it means to be displaced. The Targaryen twins eclipse him, his infant son and heir, and everyone else in Lord Hobert's eyes.

Oh to be jealous of two kids of only eight years old—kids with the blood of Old Valyria, a dragon of their own, and the fascination of a city and a father that have always belonged entirely to him. 

Ormund Hightower, clever enough to quickly understand that the twins are the future of his House as much as his own blood was (and his future burden political asset, too). Who makes certain to win the young prince's trust and keep him close (only to find himself competing with their uncle Gwayne, whose warmth and charm the children seemed to prefer from the very beginning)

Ormund Hightower, who is the first to oppose Rhaenyra and Alicent's pact to betroth the young princess to Rhaenyra's eldest son, provoking his first clash with his father. Who defended the honor of the girl of twelve, insisting she could never be handed to a bastard whose claim to the Iron Throne was both unlawful and an affront to the Seven (because that birthright belonged by every law to her older brother) Who failed, but at least tried.

Ormund Hightower, who inherits his father's titles when the twins are five and ten, and from that day forward ensures the septas keep a sharper eye on the princess. Who insists upon her education and gives her a place as cupbearer in his council, (determined that if she is to be handed to the enemy, she will go prepared to survive Dragonstone)

Who feeds Daeron the belief that the Blacks (and his childhood bestfriend among them) mean to steal his sister. Who never allows the princess to grow comfortable with the notion of one day becoming queen, making sure she never forgets who is the rightful heir to her father's throne.

Lord Hightower, who finds in the princess’s teenage years the first challenge to his long standing arrogance and prideful certainty.

Because she is neither easily impressed by his status nor intimidated by his authority. Her Targaryen blood mixed with her Hightower pride make her maddeningly resistant to his guidance whenever she chooses to believe otherwise (sometimes it is conviction, other times she simply delights in proving that the Lord of Oldtown can be baited into losing his temper)

Lord Hightower, who finds himself strangely delighted by it.

Lord Hightower, who soon convinces himself that playing house with his sixteen year old ward is perfectly normal and never consideres the long term consequences.

After all, what could possibly be inappropriate about his young ward befriending his children? What is wrong with letting her run his household when she does it so capably? Why should long walks filled with clever conversation be seen as anything but guardianship? Why would staying up until the hour of the owl playing cyvasse be considered strange? Why would their domesticity be wrong, when it feels so natural and comfortable for both? Why remarry, after all, when he already has the princess for himself? 

Lord Hightower, who in his thirties comes to the realization that he is not just being outwitted, but deliberately toyed with by that girl of scarcely eight and ten (who slowly finds out her favorite game is turning debates into spirited arguments, asking "why" with relentless feigned innocence until his patience wears thin, and playing the foolish maiden while slipping in questions she knows will sour his temper for the rest of the day)

"Do you truly believe Prince Jacaerys would make such an unsuitable husband, my lord? I confess, I rather think I shall make an excellent Queen. Better, mayhaps, than my brother would ever make a King."

Who would have thought, Lord Hightower, that your wifeward would start to think like a wife in other senses, after years of treating her as such in all but the bed.

Who would have thought that your wardwife, with all her little issues, would misinterpret the boundaries you had long since forgotten yourself, and start giving you fuck me eyes across the Council Chamber, because she so desperately needs you to fuck her, Lord Hightower!

Lord Hightower, who occasionally slips and call her "girl" whenever she pushes him one argument too far, only to immediately correct himself to "princess" (because manners, unlike his patience, were not to be abandoned) 

Who finds himself in a daily struggle between propriety, the urge to remind her who holds authority in the room, and an even stronger determination not to reward her insolence with the satisfaction of seeing him lose his temper (a man used to commanding the greatest respect wherever he stood should never have found himself praying so often for the Warrior's patience)

Lord Hightower, who soon finds himself uncomfortably aware of the beauty and cunning mind parading through his halls. Who rediscovers the meaning of true restraint when his entitled instincts from youth whispers that what is under his protection is, technically, his (who added restraint and mercy to his prayers, asking the Warrior for too much this time)

Lord Hightower, who starts begging nightly for strength, confessing vague "impure thoughts" about someone he has no right to imagine in such ways.

Lord Hightower, who begins repenting through fasting and grows more short-tempered

Nothing tests a man’s faith and spirits like the need to fuck the one person he is honor bound to protect. No one would have blamed him for taking himself in hand in the privacy of his chambers to relieve that torture, but Ormund Hightower blamed himself harshly, every day.

Lord Hightower, who begins correcting Prince Daeron whenever the boy calls him "uncle" in front of his sister.

He was not their uncle, he was their lord, their mother's cousin at most (a fascinating hill to die on for a man who loudly condemns incest and the Targaryens' customs, and who finds himself determined to believe that his desires somehow exist outside those same abominations)

Lord Hightower, who for all his pretense of being a good man, a pious man, and an honorable one, is simply a freak and a pervert who has spent years telling himself it is not incest or grooming if he never lays a hand on the girl (only to end up knuckles deep inside her three days before her wedding)

Lord Hightower, who fingerfucks the princess in his charge to “ease her fears of the marital bed” (all while telling himself that that is still noble somehow)

Lord Hightower, who punishes her attitude by edging her, overstimulating her until she is shaking and sobbing, delighting in every plea that leaves her lips.

Lord Hightower, who may not have been strong enough to keep from touching her, but still possesses enough restraint not to take her maidenhead even as she begs him to (thank the Seven for how honourable he is. Fuck the Seven for it, actually)

Lord Hightower, who presses his forehead to hers and whispers “forgive me” against her lips as she keeps begging for him to claim her. Who will force her to kneel beside him in prayer for the sins they had just committed, keeping his aching cock untouched as some kind of repentance.

Lord Hightower, who will break again the very next day and teach the princess how to take a man into her mouth (feeding his corruption kink as she acts naive and submissive, and calls him “my lord” knowing what that does to him)

Lord Hightower, who always tells her “this is the last time” and “we must stop this madness” while she is on her knees beneath his desk during the day, sucking him with devotion.

Then he spends the nights on his knees in the sept, begging the Seven for forgiveness once again.

Lord Hightower, who becomes a nightmare to everyone around him the moment they tear his precious girl away to give her to a boy (a boy who will claim the maidenhead he has so kindly preserved)

Lord Hightower, who sees his prayers answered soon enough after that damned wedding (reaffirming to himself that perhaps the gods do not find his sins so terrible after all, if they so eagerly give her back to him)

Lord Hightower, who leads the greatest host of the Greens as the Dance erupts in full, only to end up fucking the King’s own sister in his command tent. Who delights in covering her mouth so her twin brother does not hear her cries (and because he comes harder when she bites down on his hand) Who adores the power play, the risk, and the thrill of his authority over her.

Lord Hightower, who knows the best way to end a long day on the march is taking care of his darling girl, still flushed and buzzing with adrenaline from dragonback. Who thanks her for her aid by dropping to his knees like a man possessed, devouring her until she shakes and cries out, then seizes what little energy she has left and makes her ride him slow and deep.

“You’ve been riding that beast of yours all day, my poor princess. You must be so, so tired. Let me take care of you, darling. You just have to sit on my cock and ride me gently, I’ll hold you and do the rest.”

afterward, they share a long bath together (“you still reek of dragon, wretched girl” “maybe you should stop fucking me before I wash, my lord”) then he holds her against his chest until she falls asleep, exhausted again.

Lord Hightower, who knows better than to risk it, who tries so hard to be responsible, often growling “not inside” right before he is about to come, only for her legs to lock around him or for her to giggle at the pathetic attempt, making him lose control completely and fill her anyway.

Lord Hightower, who can barely meet Daeron’s eyes anymore, knowing exactly what he is doing to the boy’s twin sister behind his back.

Lord Hightower, who keeps a piece of her favor tucked inside his armor during battles (a scrap of cloth always carrying her scent, his most precious token, kept close to his heart)

⋆ aegon ii, aemond, aerion, daeron, maekar, valarr, baelor x wife!reader.

summary. in which these characters react to you, their wife, who just can't get in the mood for sex tonight.

ᵎᵎ warnings. afab!reader, established relationship, fluff, mention of noncon (just aerion's part), biting. request.

ᵎᵎ notes. i literally lost my mind writing aerion's part. i cannot help myself with this man. he's so horrible. but i love him. but he's so horrible. also— apologies for the slow uploads. trying to get back to it ! so send your reqs if you want, I'm working on some already ! love yall !!

⋆ aegon is probably thoroughly confused. all lazy smiles and playful touches that you’re not returning. eventually he stops. his brow furrows, the easy grin sliding off his face as he looks at you with those lost-puppy eyes that make it impossible for your heart not to twist.

he’s always so sure of himself in bed. always knowing exactly what to do, where to touch. this is completely new to him, and the poor man is incapable of hiding his concern.

“am I… doing something wrong?” he asks in a soft, almost pained mumble, searching your body, your face, anything for a sign.

to the seven hells with the poverty and the wars all over the seven kingdoms. this is a true crisis!

he already fails as a king and as a son. he cannot fail between the sheets as well — where he is more of a king than he ever is on that cursed iron throne.

WARNINGS: mentions of panty sniffing and masturbating

NOTES: hey, so, I saw this man sniff that flask like his life depended on it and just knew he'd coax his wife to wear some sort of medieval panties (lmao) just so he can take them with him to have something good to sniff on.

Ormund, who always asks you to leave him one of your linen undergarments before he departs, insisting that no scented flask could ever compare to the scent of you(r cunt).

Ormund, who insists that the scent lingers longer if you wear the linen for several days before his departure, though he never truly explains why.

Ormund, who refuses to leave unless he carries something that smells like you, considering it just as important as his sword and armor.

Ormund, who carefully folds the linen and tucks it beneath his breastplate or into his doublet before every ride or battle, where it rests close to his heart.

Ormund, who lifts the fabric to his nose whenever the stench of sweat, horses, and blood becomes unbearable.

Ormund, who absentmindedly reaches into his armor during difficult rides, taking comfort in the familiar scent that reminds him of you and his place between your thighs.

Ormund, who finds that one inhale of your familiar scent steadies his nerves before riding into battle better than any prayer ever could.

Ormund, who lies awake at night, clutching the linen to his face and breathing in your lingering scent as he strokes himself, surrendering to the ache of missing you.

Ormund, who treats the linen like a treasured keepsake, making certain no squire or servant ever touches the small pouch in which he keeps it.

Ormund, who always returns the carefully folded linen to you after he comes home, only to ask for another before his next departure.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐊𝐎𝐓𝐒𝐊 𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

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