"Lighthouse in the Heart of the Storm"
The salty foam of Driftmark and the heat of dragonfire—that's all I've known since childhood. My father, the Sea Serpent, taught me that the world belongs to those who can harness it, and my mother, the Almost Queen, taught me that a crown may be missing from one's head, but it must be in one's bearing.
I am Y/N Velaryon. And I never thought the quiet harbor of Oldtown could make my heart beat outside the rhythm of the tides.
King's Landing was suffocating with heat and the smell of horse sweat—the prince's name-day tournament had gathered everyone. I sat in the Velaryon box, feeling everyone's eyes on me. To be Rhaenys's daughter is to constantly prove that your veins are not just blood, but molten gold and Valyrian steel.
"Ser Ormund Hightower," the herald announced.
The knight in shining armor, with the emblem of a burning beacon on his shield, didn't gallop like a mad Daemon. He moved confidently, with a frightening calm. As he passed our box, he didn't simply bow his head in a formal gesture. His gaze—direct, gray, like the predawn mist over the bay—lingered on me a second longer than etiquette allowed. Later, at the feast, the smell of incense and roasting meat became overpowering, and I slipped out onto the terrace.
"Lady Velaryon," a deep, measured voice said behind me. "Are you hiding from triumph or boredom?"
I turned. Ormund Hightower stood in the shadow of a column. Without his helm, he looked younger, but his face bore the imprint of a strict Oldtown upbringing.
"Boredom is a battle of sorts, Ser Ormund," I replied, straightening my back. "And far more worthy men die in it than on the tourney field."
"A sharp word. Then again, I expected nothing less from the Sea Serpent's daughter." He came closer, but stopped at a respectful distance. "My uncle, Otto, says the Velaryons are a storm." And I've always preferred quiet waters.
"Then you shouldn't go near the shores of Driftmark," I narrowed my eyes, feeling a strange excitement. "We don't know how to be quiet."
"Perhaps," he smiled faintly, just the corners of his lips, "I'm simply tired of the silence."
Months passed. We saw each other at court, exchanging short but meaningful letters. Each meeting was a dance on the edge of a knife. The Hightowers and the Velaryons are two poles of power. His family is a bastion of Faith and tradition, mine is ancient magic and maritime expansion.
She's not like other ladies. Y/n lacks the soft, pliable quality prized in Oldtown. When she speaks of her father's ships, her eyes flash violet, and I feel my own dogmas crumble. I should seek an alliance beneficial to the Hightower Lighthouse, but all I want is to be the berth she'll return to after the storm. But will my duty allow me to bring a dragon spark into the family that could burn away all our peace?
One day, in the gardens of the Red Keep, I found him reading an old scroll.
"Politics or prayer?" I asked, sitting down next to him.
"History," he replied, closing the parchment. "Of how empires fell because of pride."
"Or because of fear," I added. "Are you afraid of me, Ormund?"
He looked me straight in the eyes, and in that gaze I saw not a knight, but a man waging an internal war. "I'm afraid of how easy it is for me to forget my responsibilities when you're around."
He gently touched my hand. His skin was warm, his grip firm. In that moment, I realized: my inner fire doesn't frighten him. He wants to warm himself with it.
Ormund came to Driftmark not as a guest, but as a petitioner. The Hall of Nine Hearths was full of shadows. My father, Corlys Velaryon, sat on his driftwood throne, his face stony. My mother stood nearby, arms folded across her chest—her piercing gaze seemed to see right through Ormund.
"Oldtown is rich," my father's voice boomed through the vaults. "But the Hightowers always look to the land, while we gaze beyond the horizon. Why should I give my daughter to one who would lock her in a high tower?"
Ormund stepped forward. He didn't flinch.
"Lord Corlys, I come to ask not for a prisoner, but for a comrade. Y/n is a sea that cannot be locked away. I do not offer her the walls of Oldtown as a cage." I offer my sword, my lands, and my loyalty to defend her interests as zealously as my own.
"Words are cheap," Rhaenys interjected, stepping forward. "My daughter is a dragonrider. She is the blood of Old Valyria. What will a Hightower do when Faith or duty commands him to turn against her family?"
Ormund dropped to one knee.
"My line honors the Seven, but my god today is truth. If the world demands I choose between honor and love for your daughter, I will choose her. For there is no honor in betraying the heart. In proof of my words, I surrender to the Velaryons' command three trade routes in the Sunset Sea, which the Hightowers have held for centuries. This is not a ransom. It is the pledge of our shared future."
I stood in the shadows of the gallery, biting my lip until it bled. He was giving up his family's influence for a chance to be with me. This was not the act of a politician, but of a man willing to burn bridges.
My father was silent for a long time, exchanging glances with my mother. In that silence, my fate was being decided. Finally, Corliss nodded slowly.
"You have a strength of character rarely found among those who live in the shadows of books and candles. Rise, Ormund Hightower."
When the formal part was over, I ran out onto the balcony overlooking the sea. Ormund found me there a few minutes later. The wind ruffled his cloak and my hair.
"You're mad," I whispered as he came close. "My father could have cast you out in disgrace."
"Then I would have built my fleet and come back for you." He wrapped his arms around my waist, and for the first time, I allowed myself to relax completely in his arms.
I pressed my forehead to his shoulder. The sun was setting on the horizon, painting the waves crimson. Our future would not be easy: wars, intrigues, and a divided kingdom lay ahead. But here, in the salty spray of Driftmark, I knew one thing: the union of the Dragon, the Sea, and the Beacon would be the brightest flame in Westeros.
"Your mother said I couldn't hold you," he said softly into my hair.
"She's right," I raised my head and kissed him, tasting salt and promise. "But you don't need to hold me. You just need to fly beside me."
The evening before Ormund left for Oldtown to prepare for the wedding, we sat in my chambers. The window was open, and the sound of the surf drowned out our voices. A map of Westeros lay on the table, pressed against it by his heavy dagger and my seahorse brooch.
"My Uncle Otto won't be pleased," Ormund said, tracing the coastline from Hightower to King's Landing. "He saw my marriage as a way to link us directly to the Crown, perhaps through one of Viserys's daughters. By choosing you, I chose a side, Y/n."
I approached him from behind, placing my hands on his strong shoulders.
"You have chosen the side of strength, Ormund. My father controls the narrow sea, and I have fire on my side. Doesn't Oldtown teach that knowledge and strength must go hand in hand?" He turned, intercepting my hands. His face was serious, the light of the single candle reflected in his eyes.
"Oldtown teaches caution. But when I look at you, I forget caution. I see a woman who can lead fleets. And that frightens me more than Otto's wrath."
"Frightens?" I raised an eyebrow, the hereditary Targaryen pride waking up in my voice.
"Yes," he said, pulling me closer so I could feel the heat of his body. "Because I fear that one day I will have to choose between my loyalty to you and my loyalty to the peace of the kingdom. And I know I will choose you."
The next morning, at the docks where his ship bobbed on the waves, Ormund did something no one expected from the stern heir of the Hightowers. In the face of my mother and my father's scowling guards, he called his squire. He carried a heavy chest of dark oak.
"Lord Corlys, Lady Rhaenys," Ormund bowed. "In Oldtown, we hold not only books, but also relics of the past."
He opened the chest. Inside, on black velvet, lay a circlet—delicately crafted white gold, adorned with pearl-thin drops of pure dragonglass and deep blue sapphires.
"This is the circlet of one of the Valyrian families that perished at the Doom. My ancestors bought it from a Lysene pirate hundreds of years ago. I want Y/n to wear it as a sign that her blood will not be forgotten in my house. That she is not 'Hightower's wife,' but Velaryon, whose light will illuminate my tower."
My father chuckled, which for him meant the highest degree of approval. Rhaenys smiled warmly at Ormund for the first time.
I look at her standing on the edge of the pier, and I see more than just an ally. I see the woman who will be the mother of my children—children who will have the wisdom of the Hightowers and the indomitability of the Targaryens. My father called it madness. My uncle called it a political mistake. But when she smiles at me—not the polite mask she wears at court, but a real, open smile—I realize I'm ready to burn every book in Oldtown if only that fire in her eyes would never go out. She is my storm. And I'm finally ready to set sail.
Ormund's ship began to cast off. I stood on the highest point of Hightide Cliffs, feeling the wind in my face. A familiar shriek sounded in the sky above me—Melys, my mother's dragon, cut a scarlet streak through the clouds. I knew our future would smell of burning and salt. The marriage between Hightower and Velaryon was a bridge over the chasm that was only just beginning to open up in our family. But as I watched the sail with the burning lighthouse on it recede, I felt no fear.
I was a daughter of Sea and Fire. And if the world were destined to burn, I would meet that conflagration hand in hand with the man who dared to tame the dragon in my heart.
“We will meet again, Ormund Hightower,” I whispered, clutching the gift in my hand—ancient gold, cold and eternal, like my resolve.
On the horizon, sea and sky merged into a single line—dark, deep, and full of uncertainty. But it was there that our story began.
The storm outside the windows of Hightide Castle seemed like a pale echo of what had transpired in my chambers that last night before his departure. This wasn't a formal marriage bed, blessed by the septons, but it was our true vows, sworn in silence and gloom.
I remember the flickering candlelight as Ormund entered. He had discarded his armor and heavy cloak, appearing in a simple doublet. Without his knightly steel, he seemed less formidable, but more... genuine.
I stood by the fireplace, combing my long hair, where Velaryon silver intertwined with Targaryen gold. In the mirror, I saw him pause in the doorway, hesitant to disturb my solitude. "They say in Oldtown that calling on a lady uninvited is considered bad manners," I said quietly, without turning around.
"They say many things in Oldtown," his voice was low, vibrating with suppressed tension. "But I am not here as the Hightower heir. I am here as a man who fears this dream will vanish with the dawn."
He came closer. I could feel his presence on my skin—the warmth emanating from him mingled with the cool sea breeze from the window. His hands, calloused from his sword, gently rested on my shoulders. The gesture was so tender it took my breath away. In a world where we were both mere pieces on our families' chessboards, this sincerity was the most dangerous and most coveted gift.
She smells of salt and some rare Essos incense, but beneath it, I smell life itself. When I touch her skin, I realize that all my vows, all my prayers to the Seven, were merely preparation for this moment. Her back is straight as the mast of her ship, but I feel it tremble beneath my fingers. Gods, grant me the strength to be worthy of this fire. I don't want to simply possess her; I want to dissolve in her, so that no war can separate us.
He slowly turned me toward him. His eyes—those same gray eyes that had once seemed like cold stone—now blazed with fire.
"Y/n..." my name sounded like a prayer.
I didn't wait for words. I touched his face, tracing the line of his jaw, and pulled him closer. Our first kiss tasted of despair and hope. There was no courtly grace; it was a clash of two elements. My inner fire met his unwavering fortitude.
As his hands slid over the silk of my dress, I felt vulnerable—and at the same time, incredibly strong. We sank onto the bed, and the heavy canopy hid us from the world, from duty, from names and titles.
That night, there was no "heiress" and no "knight." There were only two people seeking refuge in each other. His movements were confident yet cautious, as if he were afraid to destroy this moment. Every breath, every touch wove itself into our shared history.
"You are my home," he whispered in my ear as the world around me ceased to exist, leaving only the rhythm of our hearts, beating in unison with the tide. When the first rays of sun touched the windowsill, painting the room in pearly tones, Ormund was still asleep. His face had smoothed in sleep, the eternal furrow between his brows, born of the weight of responsibility, had disappeared.
I lay pressed against him, listening to his even breathing. An old spear scar was visible on his shoulder—a reminder of his mortality. And on my hand, the sapphire from his crown shone.
They say the Targaryens are alone in their greatness. But looking at him, I knew: I was no longer alone. Let Otto Hightower weave his webs, let my father count the ships. That night, we created something beyond the power of kings and dragons. We created truth.
He opened his eyes and, seeing me watching him, smiled—that rare smile, meant only for me. "Is it time?" he asked quietly.
"It is time," I replied, sealing our farewell with another long kiss. "But remember, Ormund: the sea always returns what is its own. And you belong to me."
He left while fog still clung to the rocks. But his scent still lingered in the room, and a single golden thread from his doublet remained on my pillow—a small proof that this night had not been a dream.
Farewell was only the beginning of a long wait. The days on Driftmark stretched like thick tar, and the horizon where his ship had departed became my only reality. I spent hours on the back of my dragon, rising so high that the clouds obscured the castle, trying to discern the sails with the golden beacon in the fog.
Letters from Ormund came rarely—sea mail was unreliable, and the political situation in King's Landing was heating up. But each message was imbued with that hidden meaning that only we understood.
"Here in Shademaiden, everything seems frozen in time. Uncle insists on studying the elder scrolls, but I see only dust in them. My thoughts constantly return to the sound of the surf at Hightide. Oldtown stands on solid ground, but I feel my footing now lies where you are." I knew there was a struggle behind those lines. His family, the Hightowers, were green to the core, loyal to Alicent and her children. My family, however, was the heart of the Black faction. Our alliance was a bridge many wanted to tear down.
Six months later, we met again—at the wedding feast in the Red Keep. The hall was full of whispers, and every step I took, arm in arm with my father, was accompanied by Queen Alicent's piercing glances.
Ormund stood at the dais, dressed in a ceremonial doublet in the colors of his house: green and gold. But as soon as our eyes met, everything else—the music, the laughter, the clink of goblets—faded into the background.
When the dancing began, he approached and, bowing to my father, asked for my hand in marriage for one dance. Corlys nodded, his eyes narrowing, as if assessing the strength of the steel in this Hightower's backbone. We whirled to the rhythm of the volta. His hand on my waist was firm, reminding me of that night on Driftmark.
"You've turned pale," he said quietly, leaning close to my ear. "Are the intrigues of the capital draining the life out of you?"
"There's too much poison in the air here, Ormund," I replied, looking at Otto Hightower, who was watching us from the balcony. "Your uncle looks at us as if we're committing treason."
"For him, love is treason, if it doesn't bring profit. But he forgets that I'm no longer a child to be led by the hand through libraries." Ormund
She's here, in the very lair of my kin, and she shines brighter than all the candles in this accursed hall. I see how Aemon looks at her, how Daemon assesses her. Each of them wants to exploit her power, her dragon, her fleet. But they don't know what I know. They didn't see her vulnerability as she fell asleep against my chest. I feel the ancient knightly pride awakening in my line. If war comes, I won't let them drag her into their dirty games. Even if I have to go against blood.
After the dance, we slipped away to the Godswood—the only place where the weirwood's silent presence offered the illusion of safety.
"Ormund," I pressed my palm to his chest, feeling the beat of his heart beneath the thin fabric. "The clouds are gathering. King Viserys is weak. Without him, the world will shatter. Your family will demand your sword."
"I know," he covered my hand with his. "And I have already chosen who this sword will serve."
"But you are a Hightower!" My voice broke into a whisper. "You will be called a traitor."
"Let them call me so," he said, pulling me close, forcing me to look directly into his determined gray eyes. "The Faith teaches us that husband and wife are one flesh. When we exchange cloaks before the Septon, my duty to Oldtown will be second only to my duty to you. I will not fight for Otto's ambitions. I will fight for you."
In that moment, I realized his restraint was merely a sheath for the incredibly sharp and strong blade of his will. He was not "still water." He was a deep well, at the bottom of which lay a loyalty capable of outlasting any dynasty.
"Y/N," he knelt down on the mossy ground of the Godswood. "I promised your father a comrade, but I promise you more. I promise that in a world that will soon burn, I will be your shield. And if one day I have to choose between my life and your smile, I will choose the latter without hesitation."
I raised him, unable to hold back my tears—not from fear, but from the realization of the price we might have to pay.
"We will not burn, Ormund," I said firmly, lifting my chin. "We will be the flame that cleanses this shore."
We stood under the canopy of the weirwood, two representatives of warring worlds, bound by a secret night and a clear oath. Ahead was the Dancing Death, but the second he touched my lips again, I knew: our sea will never dry up, and its lighthouse will always show me the way home.
The air in the Red Keep grew even heavier as the one feared even by his own allies entered the fray. Aemond Targaryen. The one-eyed prince, whose shadow from Vhagar loomed over the lands like a harbinger of the end of the world.
If Ormund was the calm light of a beacon, then Aemond was an uncontrollable conflagration. And that conflagration was now directed at me.
It happened during a royal hunt. I had stepped away from the group to water my horse at a stream when my heavy tread made the animal snore nervously. Aemond emerged from the shadows of the trees. His leather jerkin creaked, and his single eye—cold, piercing—scanned me from head to toe.
"Lady Y/n," his voice was like the rustle of steel on stone. "I hear you spend much time in the company of my cousin from Oldtown." A dismal sight, it must be. Ormund Hightower smelled of dusty books and prayer wax.
I straightened, not looking away.
"Ser Ormund smells of honor, Prince. A rare scent within these walls."
Aemond closed the distance between us with a single, sharp movement. He was taller, his presence overwhelming, an aura of pure, unbridled menace emanating from him. He reached out and touched a strand of my hair, running it through his fingers.
"You are the blood of the dragon," he whispered, a dangerous thirst tinging his voice. "You have no place among candles and bells. You need the sky. And someone who can hold you there. Hightower will break under the weight of your fire. And I... I'm only just beginning to warm up."
"You are dreaming, Aemond." I pushed his hand away. "I'm not a trophy to be claimed by anyone who claims the largest dragon."
He chuckled, and there was as much bitterness in that grin as there was arrogance.
"We'll see. Viserys is weakening. Soon the king's will will mean nothing. And then I will take what I consider my right of blood. Be prepared, cousin."
I saw the way he looked at her at dinner. Aemond makes no secret of his intentions—he's a predator who's scented his prey. My fingers tighten on my sword's hilt every time he comes within ten paces of Y/n. He thinks I'm just my uncle's dutiful nephew, a weak knight of honor. He doesn't understand that for her sake, I'm willing to commit a sin no septon can ever atone for. If he dares touch her against her will, Oldtown will declare war not on the Crown, but on him personally. And I won't hand her over to this madman.
That same evening, in the garden, what I feared most happened. Ormund and Aemond collided on the narrow path. The tension was so palpable, it seemed the air would spark.
"Cousin," Aemond smiled cloyingly, patting the hilt of his sword. "They say you asked for Lady Velaryon's hand. Boldly. But aren't you afraid her dragon will scorch your white robes?"
Ormund stood motionless, his face a mask of absolute calm, but I saw his knuckles whiten.
"My robes can withstand any flame, Prince, if it comes from a heart I respect. But your lust for power could blind you more than the loss of an eye."
Aemond instantly grew serious. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword.
"Be careful with your words, Hightower. Oldtown is far away, and I am here. Y/n is a true Targaryen. She belongs to the strongest."
"She belongs to herself," Ormund stated firmly, stepping forward and shielding me with his body, even though I stood slightly away. "And anyone who wants to challenge her choice will have to go through me first." As Aemond, with one last furious glare, disappeared into the castle corridors, Ormund turned sharply to face me. He was breathing heavily.
“He won’t leave you alone,” he said, taking my hands in his. His palms trembled slightly with anger. “Y/N, we need to speed up the wedding. My uncle will be furious, but I don’t care. I’ll take you to Oldtown, or Driftmark, or to the ends of the earth.”
I saw not only love in his eyes, but also a burning desire to protect—what Aemond called weakness, but I considered the greatest strength.
“He doesn’t want me, Ormund,” I said quietly. “He wants victory. He wants to take from you what you value most.” "Then he lost before the battle even began," Ormund pulled me close, hiding my face in his chest. "Because I've already given you my soul. And he can't take that back, even if he kills me."
I pressed myself against him, listening to the beating of his heart. The wind howled in the shadows of the castle, reminding me of the wings of Vhagar, but in Ormund's arms, I felt for the first time that even dragonfire could retreat before true, human resolve. We were in the eye of the storm, but now we had a common goal: to survive and preserve the fragile and pure essence that had emerged between the Sea and the Lighthouse.
The night in King's Landing was stuffy, scented with jasmine and rot. Aemond's threats still echoed in my head, causing a shudder that even the warm wind couldn't quiet. When Ormund entered my chambers, locking the heavy oak door behind him, that sound became my only salvation.
He didn't light the lamps. The room was dimly lit, dipped only by the moonlight falling on the carpet. Ormund looked exhausted—his confrontation with the prince and the political games had worn him thin.
"Y/n," he whispered, closing the distance between us.
I didn't answer. I simply stepped toward him, wrapped my arms around his neck, and pulled his lips to mine. It wasn't a gentle kiss, but demanding, almost desperate. There was a fear of loss and rage in him that someone like Aemond would dare claim us.
Ormund responded with the same passion he had suppressed for so long beneath the guise of a noble knight. His hands, usually so restrained, now greedily crumpled the silk of my dress, moving up to my shoulder blades. He picked me up, forcing my legs around his waist, and carried me the few steps to the bed.
As the fabric of my dress slid off my shoulders, exposing my skin to the moonlight, his breath hitched. He looked at me as if I were the only deity he truly believed in.
“You do not belong to him,” he said hoarsely, kissing my neck, collarbones, and moving lower. “And you never will.”
His lips were hot, and his fingers were rough from training, but his every touch sent a jolt of electricity through me. When he stripped himself of his clothes, I saw his body—strong, toned, scarred by duty. He was my knight, my Hightower, but now he was simply a man who craved me to the point of madness.
He entered me slowly, looking straight into my eyes, as if sealing an unspoken pact. I arched up to meet him, digging my nails into his shoulders. This was not like our first night, so tender. Now it was a battle. Every movement was a declaration of dominion, every moan a vow of fealty.
In the rhythm of our breathing, I felt the force of the tide and the heat of a dragon's lair. He moved deep within me, assertively and powerfully, making me forget Aemond, the war, the crown. There was only this space between us, scented with leather and desire. Ormund:
I feel her melting in my arms, and this feeling is stronger than any victory on the battlefield. Aemond may own the largest dragon in the world, but he will never know what it feels like to have Y/N trust you with her nakedness and her soul. Every shudder she makes beneath my body is a hammer strike on the anvil where my destiny is forged. I will destroy anyone who tries to take that away. She is my sea, and I am ready to drown in it forever.
When the last surge of passion left us empty, we lay entwined on the crumpled sheets. Ormund's heavy breathing gradually evened out. He held me so tightly, as if he feared that if he let go, I would disappear.
"Tomorrow I will speak to your father again," he said quietly, stroking my hair. "We will leave." I don't care about propriety. I won't leave you here where he can breathe down your neck.
I pressed my ear to his chest, listening to his heart calm.
"Aemond doesn't know love, Ormund. He only knows will. But will is powerless against what binds us."
He lifted my chin and kissed my forehead—long and solemn. There was more protection in that gesture than in the entire army of Oldtown. We both understood: beyond the door of this room, a world awaited us that wanted to tear us apart. But here, in the silence after the storm, we were not Velaryons or Hightowers. We were one, a whole that no dragon could break.
At dawn, as the sky over King's Landing began to turn an unsettling gray, I knew: no matter what happened, this night was our true wedding. And if we were destined to burn, we would burn together.
Dawn was just beginning to stain the heavy curtains the color of dried blood. The room was filled with that peculiar, dense silence, broken only by the rhythm of our bodies. Ormund, usually so reserved and noble, this morning was possessed by some kind of furious, quiet thirst. His hands held my wrists tightly above my head, and his movements were deep and measured, as if he were trying to imprint himself on my memory forever.
I threw my head back, biting my lip to keep from crying out, when a sudden crash at the door shattered the intimacy of the moment.
The bolt Ormund had locked the night before gave way. The door swung open, slamming against the wall, and a tall, swaying figure appeared on the threshold.
He reeked of strong wine and horse sweat from a mile away. His hair was disheveled, and his single eye glowed with a mad, feverish glint. He clutched a half-empty goblet in his hand.
Ormund didn't flinch. He slowly, with deadly calm, covered me with the blanket, shielding me from view, but he didn't rush to climb off the bed, remaining a living shield between me and the intruder. His back tensed like a taut bowstring.
"You..." Aemond hiccupped, smiling crookedly. His gaze fell on the tangled sheets and our bare shoulders. "Look at that. Our holy man Hightower has decided to prove that he has steel, not a prayer book, between his legs."
He took an unsteady step inside, nearly tripping on the threshold. The sapphire in his eye socket gleamed ominously in the morning light.
"Out," Ormund's voice was quiet, but there was a metallic edge to it I'd never heard before. "Get out, Aemond. Before I forget we're of the same blood."
"Of the same blood?" Aemond tossed his goblet aside, and the dregs of wine splashed crimson across the tapestry. "You're your uncle's shadow. You're a safe haven. And she..." He turned his gaze to me, a mixture of rage, drunken lust, and undisguised pain. "She was made for war and fire. With me, she'd fly above the sun, but with you, she'd suffocate in the boredom of Oldtown."
My hand searches for the dagger under my pillow, but I force myself to breathe. If I kill him now, I'll sign Y/N's death warrant. But to see his gaze on her shoulders, to hear his drunken ravings... It's torture worse than any fire. He thinks power is the right to batter down someone else's door. He doesn't understand that true power is the fact that Y/n is squeezing my hand under the blanket right now, choosing me every second. I won't let him ruin this moment. I won't let him desecrate what we've built.
I propped myself up on my elbows, feeling the draconic fury of the Velaryons boiling within me.
"You are pathetic, Prince," my voice didn't waver. "You barged in here like a bandit because you know that otherwise you'll never get even a shadow of what we have. You may own Vhagar, but you'll never own someone's heart."
Aemond froze. His face contorted in a spasm. He grabbed the hilt of his sword, and for a moment I thought blood would spill.
"Do you consider yourself victorious, cousin?" Aemond spat the words in Ormund's direction. "Enjoy the remains. When the real storm comes, its fire will burn your beacon to the ground. And then she will come to me herself, lest she drown in your freshwater sea."
He spun on his heel, nearly collapsing, and walked out, slamming the door so hard that the windows shook.
The silence that fell over the room was foul. Ormund finally exhaled and sank onto the edge of the bed, covering his face with his hands. His shoulders shook.
"Y/N," he whispered, without turning around. "We need to leave. Today. Right now. He won't stop."
I moved closer to him, hugging him from behind, pressing my cheek to his warm skin. The morning bliss was irrevocably ruined, but in its place grew something more lasting—the realization that our enemy now had a face.
"Let him try, Ormund," I kissed the scar on his shoulder. "The lighthouse is not afraid of the storm. And the sea... the sea always hides in its depths those who dare defy it."
Dawn had finally arrived, but the shadows in the corners of the room only grew deeper. We knew this was the last peaceful night of our lives. But looking into Ormund's determined eyes, I knew I was willing to endure this hell, just so his hand would continue to hold mine.
The tension in the room was almost palpable, heavy as the armor Ormund was accustomed to wearing. He sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers clasped together so tightly his knuckles were white. His breathing was ragged, and his gaze was fixed on the broken goblet on the floor, as if the shard reflected the entire collapse of the calm he had been trying to maintain.
I saw knightly nobility warring with primal rage within him. Aemond hadn't simply interrupted us—he had desecrated our privacy with his presence, and for Ormund, whose honor was paramount, this was an unbearable blow.
I slowly slid off the pillows and knelt before him, right on the carpet, bathed in the pale morning light.
"Ormund," I called softly, placing my palms on his tense thighs. He shuddered and looked at me. Stormy shadows still danced in his eyes.
“You don’t belong on the floor, Y/N. Get up. This drunken madman doesn’t deserve you…” “Shh,” I interrupted him, gently running my fingers along the inside of his thighs, feeling the taut muscles roll under his skin. “Forget about him. He’s not here anymore. There’s only you and me.”
Ormund held his breath. His hands settled on my shoulders—protesting at first, but a second later his fingers dug convulsively into my skin, betraying his true state.
When I touched him with my lips, he let out a low, guttural groan that mingled relief and barely restrained passion. I moved slowly, deliberately gentle, trying to push the image of Aemond from his mind and replace it with the feeling of complete, undivided possession of me. Ormunda:
Gods, I must make her rise, I must think of defense, of ships, of the way to Oldtown... but her lips... they are the only thing keeping me from rushing after my cousin, sword in hand. She takes my rage, turning it into pure, hot lead in the pit of my stomach. Her devotion is not just words. It is the way she looks up at me, knowing that in this moment I am completely in her power. My proud princess, my storm...
I felt his fingers tangle in my hair, guiding, pressing me closer. His body, previously taut as a string, gradually began to relax, surrendering to this rhythm. All the heaviness of the morning, all the poison of Aemond's words dissolved in the warmth of my caresses. When he finally reached his climax, he screamed my name, and there was no longer any anger in that cry—only pure, searing tenderness.
Ormund pulled me up, forcing me to stand, and held me tightly against him, burying his face in the crook of my neck. We sat for a long time, listening to the lock behind the door awaken.
“You are my peace, Y/n,” he whispered, his voice finally even. “I’m sorry I let him frighten you.”
“I cannot be frightened as long as you are near.” I pulled back and looked into his eyes. Now they were clear as the sky after a storm. “Now let’s go. We need to prepare. If we leave, we will do so with the dignity befitting the Velaryons and Hightowers.” He nodded, and in that nod was the determination of a man who had found his true purpose. We were no longer victims of other people's machinations. We were a union that had just undergone its first baptism of fire and mud, emerging even stronger.
The journey from King's Landing to Oldtown was supposed to be our honeymoon, but it turned into a march, guarded by our own fears. We left the capital that same day, without waiting for the official farewell to the king. My father lent us the finest fast ship in the Velaryon fleet, the Sea Shadow, whose sails caught the wind faster than rumors could spread through the castle.
Ormund never left my side the entire journey. He personally inspected the deck, scanning the horizon, expecting to see the massive silhouette of Vhagar there.
"He wouldn't dare attack a Velaryon ship on the open sea," I said, trying to calm the trembling in his hands as we stood on the bow.
"Aemond doesn't know the word 'won't dare,'" Ormund replied, pressing me to his side. "But while we're on the water, you're in your element. And I... I'll be your shore."
When Hightower appeared on the horizon—a colossal tower, its fire at its summit rivaling the sun—I felt my insides tighten. Oldtown greeted us with the ringing of hundreds of bells and the heavy smell of old paper and incense.
We were met by Lord Hightower Senior and, of course, Otto Hightower, who had arrived here before us. His face, lined with the wrinkles of political battle, expressed nothing but icy calm.
"Welcome home, Lady Velaryon," Otto said, his voice like a chest lid slamming shut. "I hope you find our walls more... secure than those of the capital."
I see my uncle looking at her. He sees Y/N not as my wife, but as a political asset. A dragonrider to be tamed and put to work for the Greens. But he doesn't know I've already promised her otherwise. Every night in this high tower, I check the bolts. Aemond is far away, but his shadow has seeped into our thoughts. I feel Y/N yearning for the sky, and my heart breaks that I'm forced to keep her in this "safety" that feels more like a gilded cage.
Our chambers in Oldtown were cool. The stone walls absorbed sound, and only the distant sound of the sea reminded me of Driftmark. Ormund approached me as I stood by the window, looking out at the city below.
"You're afraid," he said firmly, hugging me from behind.
"I fear this world will force us to become enemies, Ormund." Aemond was right about one thing: the storm is coming. And the Hightowers will be at its very center.
He turned me to face him. In the firelight, his face seemed carved from granite.
"Let the whole world crumble. Let kings kill each other over an iron chair. Here, in this room, there are no factions. No black and green. There is only us. And if the sky falls, I will hold it above your head as long as I have the strength to stand."
He scooped me up in his arms and carried me to the bed, which smelled of lavender and cleanliness—so unlike the stuffy atmosphere of King's Landing. That night, our caresses were slow, almost solemn. We made love as if we were building a fortress around ourselves. Every touch, every moan was a brick in a wall that neither dragonfire nor betrayal could breach.
The wedding took place not in a stuffy sept under the stern gaze of the gods, but on the cliff where Oldtown meets the fury of the Sunset Sea. It was a celebration meant to demonstrate the power of the union: the Hightowers provided the gold and tradition, but the Velaryons wielded the elements.
In the center of the ceremony, directly behind the bride and groom, stood Callista, Y/N's dragon. Her scales, a deep indigo with silver veins, glittered in the rays of the setting sun. She was the living embodiment of menace and majesty. As the septon began his prayer with a trembling voice, Callista emitted a low, rumbling sound that shook the windows of the Hightower. It was not a roar, but a warning: this union was consecrated by fire.
Ormund stood before Y/N in a heavy green cloak embroidered with golden beacons. But his gaze was fixed not on the dragon, but on the bride. Y/N wore a gown of the finest Valyrian silk, flowing over her body like sea foam.
"I am yours, and you are mine, from this day until the end of my days," Ormund said, his voice rising above the sound of the surf.
He removed the light Velaryon mantle from her shoulders and covered her with his heavy cloak. At that moment, Y/N felt not the weight of the fabric, but the warmth of his protection. In response, she touched his cheek, and Callista, behind them, spread her wings wide, casting a shadow over the entire procession. It was a silent vow: Hightower gives her the earth, and she gives him the sky.
The feast was long and noisy, but for the two of them, it passed in a blur. As soon as the doors of the wedding chambers closed, cutting off the cries of the guests and the music, the silence seemed deafening. Ormund approached Y/N, who stood by the window, looking out at the sleeping dragon in the courtyard. Callista curled up at the foot of the tower, her breath sending wisps of smoke into the night sky.
"You are now a Hightower by law," Ormund said quietly, unfastening the golden brooch on his cloak. "But I know your heart will always belong to the wind."
"My heart is where you are, Ormund." Y/N turned, her eyes purple pools in the dim light.
He didn't hesitate. His lips found her neck, inhaling the scent of sea and lavender. It was a night when the legality of their marriage only fueled their passion. Ormund picked her up, sitting her on the high windowsill, the silk of her dress rustling, revealing her thighs. Ormund
She is my wife. Now no one, not even Aemond on his Vhagar, has the right to breathe in her direction. I feel her pulse beneath my fingers, her heat, her impatience. Oldtown values order, but this woman harbors a chaos I could worship. Her every movement is a command from my flesh. I will destroy anyone who tries to disturb this peace.
He entered her sharply and deeply, causing Y/N to cry out and clutch his shoulders. This wasn't just intimacy—it was a complete fusion. The rhythm of their bodies matched the crash of the waves against the rocks below. Ormund moved with frantic force, as if trying to pour all his untapped tenderness and all his protective fury into this act.
Y/N arched beneath him, feeling the very flame that bound her to the dragon ignite within her. She was a rider, and now she was leading them both to the pinnacle of bliss. As the peak reached them, Callista let out a long, triumphant cry in the courtyard, echoing off the mountains.
They lay in tangled sheets as the dawn sun gilded the spires of Oldtown. Y/N felt Ormund's heavy hand on her waist and his calm breathing.
"We have created something more than just a marriage," she whispered, looking at the crown lying on the bedside table.
Ormund opened his eyes and kissed her shoulder.
"We have created the beginning of a new dynasty. And though all of Westeros drowns in the blood of its kings, here, under the shadow of the Beacon and the wings of the Dragon, will be our peace."
But a small black dot was already visible on the horizon. A raven. Another harbinger of war. They knew the peace would be short-lived, but after that night, the fear vanished. All that remained was a willingness to fight for what they had so fiercely created in the shadow of the great tower.
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