Moon Lady

𓍯𓂃𓏧 drabble from the heart ♡ 𓏧𓂃𓍯

[asphodelink]

HI, WELCOME I'M LANA ꫂ❁ TWENTY NINE ᥫ᭡. QUEEN OF WANDS ♛ This is a side blog for my ASOIAF craze.

RECENT WORKS:

MUCH TO SAY, LITTLE WORTH HEARING! (Ormund Hightower)

READ SLOWER, FOR I WOULD LIKE TO STAY A LITTLE LONGER (Ormund Hightower)

Requests are closed Inbox is open.

© Please do not translate or repost my works elsewhere without my permission. 

[asphodelink]

FINALLY BINGE-WATCHED HOUSE OF GUINNESS. NOW WHO WANTS SOME SEAN RAFFERTY? GRRR.

[asphodelink]

✮⋆ MUCH TO SAY, LITTLE WORTH HEARING!

Summary: Being Lord Ormund Hightower's wife was never an easy task. Proud, arrogant and quick to anger, he was not a man known for patience (also: highly unpredictable). But even you had your limits when it came to enduring your husband's antics. The only way to make him fall silent was to step, ever so slightly, on his toes. Warning: Porn without plot. (Well, the plot is you telling him to stfu lol). He even talks shit in the middle of it. I believe this is canon. 18+, MDNI, spanking, fingering, nipple sucking, oral (male receiving), p in v.

You adored the hour of Oldtown when the skies were painted violet at dusk. Torches bloomed across its spires as night approached, the Honeywine black as spilled ink beneath the moon. The Hightower itself groaned softly in the sea wind, yet the city remained untouched in its serenity. Somewhere amid the winding streets, bells tolled the hour from a sept you could not see.

Inside your chamber, however, serenity was nowhere to be found.

Your husband, Ormund Hightower, sat in the copper tub like some conquering king. One arm hung lazily over the rim, long fingers tapping against the metal in a rhythm of their own. He had been there for nearly half an hour, and throughout that time he had spoken—no, he was whining about some lord of the Reach who had earned his displeasure. You had lost track of the man's name somewhere between the third and fourth complaint.

At first, you had listened. Truly, you had. A good, obedient wife must learn the moods of her husband as a sailor learned the moods of the sea, didn’t she? But Ormund had more tides inside him than the Whispering Sound itself. Sometimes even you could not keep up with his waves, no matter how hard you tried to follow them.

Pride was one tide, ambition was another, and wrath was yet another. His wrath tonight, at least, was only the small, bright sort he reserved for lesser men who had offended his greater opinion of himself.

"...and then the fool had the gall to speak of levies," Ormund said, his voice ringing clear across the chamber. "Like he ever mustered anything grander than a score of muddy-booted hedge knights and three boys with spears. I tell you, wife, the man has less sense than a goat and not half so noble a beard."

Suppressing a sigh, you slipped off your shoes, your feet aching for rest. If there was anything you had looked forward to tonight, it was curling up warmly beside Ormund after a long day spent droning through your duties, but your husband seemed to have wholly different plans.

"The sheer audacity of the man!" Ormund barked, splashing water as he gestured wildly with one hand. "He stood there trying to lecture me like he had been blessed with wisdom from the Seven. I have heard better counsel from drunk squires pissing against a stable wall."

Fighting the urge to groan right in his face, you let your fingers work at the ribbons of your gown, unlacing them until the fabric slipped free from your body. You stood in nothing but your undergarments, and for a moment, just a moment, Ormund stopped talking. His eyes wandered over you as you reached for your robe.

But once your figure disappeared beneath the thin cloth, there his mouth went again. "Oh, and have I told you about Lord Tyrell being a pain in the ass lately? As expected, the worm keeps proving himself more witless before half the Reach."

You rolled your eyes so hard you almost thought they might lodge themselves at the back of your brain. You let out a soft, noncommittal "hmm" in response, knowing your patience could unravel at any moment.

He didn't notice your lack of engagement. Too enamored with the sound of his own voice, perhaps. He shifted comfortably in the tub, water sloshing against the copper sides before he continued. "I should have had him removed from the council entirely. I told the steward, I said, 'If that man wishes to play the diplomat, let him do it from the solitude of his own keep—"

Your ears rang, your head pounding as the endless repetition of his vanity finally wore through the last of your patience.

"...but no, the politics of the Reach are a delicate dance, and I am the only one who knows the steps. Everyone else is simply tripping over their own robes—"

Before he could utter another word, you whirled around to face him. "Oh, for the love of the Seven, Ormund! Does that tongue of yours know no rest?!"

Your voice rang through the chamber. "All you do is whine, whine, whine!"

The silence that followed was instantaneous and heavy. The only sounds in the room were the gentle crackling of the logs in the fireplace and the slow drip of water from Ormund's chin. The bath continued to steam, filling the air with a soft, silvery haze. Yet he remained frozen, one arm still half-raised in a gesture of triumph. His blue eyes widened, blinking slowly as he struggled to comprehend a language he had never heard before coming from his own lady wife. From you.

He remained still for several seconds. Gradually, he began to rise. Water cascaded off his muscular form in sheets, the tub groaning under his weight as he stepped out.

The Lord of Hightower now stood before you, dripping and bare, his skin flushed pink from the heat of the bath. He was an imposing figure, chest rising and falling slightly, water pooling around his feet on the polished stone floor.

"What did you just say?" he asked. The previous booming arrogance was replaced by a dangerous rumble.

Instead of recoiling or regretting your words, you sighed and leaned back against the bed, allowing the stress and noise of the evening to dissipate. "I believe I asked if your mouth ever shuts up, husband. Have mercy on my poor ears, will you?"

Though your mind was tangled in annoyance toward your husband, your gaze betrayed you the same. Your eyes slowly traveled down his body, lingering on the heavy weight of his cock that stirred slightly as he stared you down.

Ormund's piercing blue eyes seemed to penetrate so deeply into you that it felt as if they could consume you from the inside out. His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering in his cheek.

Taking a step closer, he left the air between you crackling with electricity, tension drawn taut as a bowstring. Your defiance was the only thing that truly unsettled him, and it always led to the same outcome.

Gripping your chin with his still-damp fingers, he lowered his face to your level. "You have become quite bold, my lady," he murmured, his breath warm against your lips. "Too bold. You seem to forget that although you are my wife, I remain your lord."

Even in this moment, your lord husband was arrogant enough to assert his superiority, and you scoffed, rolling your eyes. "A lord who spends half his day grumbling and feeling threatened by his subjects? How frightening."

That seemed to be the last of his restraint. Before you could turn onto your side, Ormund seized your waist and flipped you onto your front, leaving you draped across the mattress, chest pressed into the cool fabric, hips elevated. The movement was so swift that there was hardly time to process it before his weight pressed down against your back.

"You'd better use that mouth wisely," Ormund said. His tone was heavy with authority. "Before I teach you how to address a lord who is also your husband."

The threat sent a shiver racing down your spine, for you knew well enough what Ormund meant by his "lessons." They were intense, demanding, and always left you breathless. 

You felt one of his hands slide lower while the other kept you firmly in place as he lifted the hem of your delicate silk robe and your undergarments, exposing your bare back to him.

"Did the teachings of the Faith leave your mind so quickly? Or should I remind you now, wife?"

The first strike came without warning. The sound of his palm connecting with your skin resonated through the quiet room. You let out a sharp yelp, fingers gripping the bedsheets tightly. The sting ignited a blooming heat that spread across your backside.

"That is for the 'hmms,'" Ormund said, his voice low with reprimand. 

He didn't allow you a moment to recover before he struck again, the blow landing slightly lower, sending a sharp pulse through you. "And this is for questioning whether my mouth ever stays quiet!"

You arched your back, a moan escaping your lips. You were well aware that Ormund’s pride was a weapon. He wanted you to feel his presence, to understand exactly who he was, and to yield to the overwhelming force of his will.

He caressed your heated skin, kneading the tender flesh of your cheeks, before striking again and again and again. Your skin began to throb, a deep, pulsing warmth that made your breath come in ragged gasps. You could hear the wet slap of his palm and the sound of your own whimpers filling the air. Tears began to pool in your eyes.

"Do you still find me tedious, my lady?" he asked at last, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

You could do little more than gasp. The strain of holding yourself together had become almost impossible.

"I cannot hear you!" he barked. His voice filled the chamber. "Use that mouth of yours."

"N-no, I don't," your voice barely steady.

A satisfied groan escaped him as he turned you onto your back to face him once more. One hand remained firm around your throat, a steady reminder of his dominance. He used his other free hand to find your fold that are already swollen and dripping.

"Look at you," he said. “All that pride, and your cunt greets me like a supplicant. Tell me again to shut up, I dare you!”

The look in his eyes alone told you the night was far from over. He slid in one, then two fingers, prompting you to cry out his name in desperation. His long, thick fingers working you open slowly and deeply, until your hips chased every stroke. But as you neared to your peak, Ormund withdrew his fingers and brought them to his lips, tasting what remained of you.

"Please," you whined, brows knitting together in helpless frustration. You hated how easily he undid you; how completely he held the reins.

"Please what, wife?" Triumph played across Ormund's face. "Please shut my mouth? Or please make you come?”

"B-both," you breathed, the word broken by uneven breaths. Sweat clung to the nape of your neck. "Please shut your mouth and fill me, Ormund”.

If the Mother and the Maiden could hear such shameless pleading, surely they would deny you the grace of another sunrise. Was this truly how a Lady of house Hightower ought to speak to her husband? The realisation sent heat rushing to your cheeks.

As if he could read the very thoughts you wished to conceal, Ormund's lips curled into a knowing smile. He stroked his fully erect cock, a thick, pulsing vein running along its length. It glistened, remnants of bathwater still clinging to the head of his member.

"Since you're so concerned with my talking, why don't you find a better use for your mouth, hm?"

Pulling you into a sitting position, he climbed onto the bed, resting both knees on either side of you. He held his cock up to your face, the scent of him - musk, soap, and raw masculinity - overwhelming your senses.

You didn't need a second invitation for that. Leaning forward, you parted your lips and took the head of his cock into your mouth. The taste of him was a mix of salt and heat. You swirled your tongue around the rim, savoring the bead of pre-cum that had formed at the tip. 

Your eyelashes fluttered as you looked up at him, feeling desire stir despite yourself in such a compromising position, all just to please your lord husband. It was a sight that would surely have every septa and septon in the Seven Kingdoms crying blasphemy.

Ormund let out a sharp hiss, his large hands gripping your hair to guide you gently before began to thrust his hips forward in a slow, erotic motion, pushing deeper into your throat.

“Next time you bid me shut up, remember how sweetly you learned to open your mouth for better use,” he sneered.

You gagged slightly, the thickness of him filling your mouth entirely, yet you didn’t pull away. Despite your disdain for his boastful nature, you relished the way he took control, the sensation of his cock feeling like a brand against your tongue. 

So you sucked harder, your tongue dancing around the frenulum. The sounds of your encounter filled the room - the wet, squelching noise of your mouth sliding over his length met with Ormund’s heavy, labored breathing. The whole time, your eyes remained fixed on him, admiring his form as you sucked and licked every inch. 

"Oh, you're... you're perfect," Ormund moaned. He was getting harder and harder around your lips now. You could feel he was nearing his release. Refusing to cum in your mouth, he pulled out abruptly and pushed you back onto the bed. 

"Perfect little wife. Always know how to satisfy me," Ormund said. The arrogance had faded, replaced by a hint of awe and urgency. He bent down to claim your lips, parting them with his tongue as he tasted your need. He stripped you of your remaining clothes, letting his large hands explore your body, squeezing at each of your breasts. And as soon as his mouth made contact with your nipple, a sharp cry escaped you, calling out his name.

“Do you still wish for me to be silent?” His voice was much softer now. Blue eyes twinkled as he looked down at you. The fury that had burned in Ormund moments before had vanished entirely, leaving behind the gentle, loving husband he reserved only for you.

“Yes, I very much do,” you admitted, fingers threading through his hair. “Sometimes I wonder how that mouth of yours could still be moving after hours.”

He gave you a wink, smiling as he continued to shower you with gentle kisses over your chest, traversing from one breast to the other, dragging his tongue along your collarbone and up to your neck.

"I will fill you up so completely that you won't be able to utter any vulgar words for the entire week," his breath was warm against your ear.

You were already at the limits of your patience. Ormund knew it well, and yet he persisted. One of his hands ventured downwards again, his palm spreading at your entrance that was now too wet. He rubbed his thumb against your pearl. "...every inch of you. Do you understand how much—"

Seven Hells, this man. His endless provocations proved too much; your patience crumbled for the second time. “By the Father and Mother who watch over us, can you shut your mouth?”

Your words carried more exasperation than anger, for you had long accepted that this was simply Ormund: arrogant, insufferable, and utterly yours. “Just be quiet and get inside me, please,"

Ormund let out a laugh, searching for your eyes as he positioned the tip of his cock at your entrance. You were already soaked, pussy throbbing with anticipation.

“As my lady wife commands,” he said. And with one powerful thrust, he buried himself deep inside you.

Your walls stretched to welcome him, the feeling of him permeating every corner of your being. He took a brief pause, giving you time to adjust, forehead resting gently against yours. Then, in perfect synchrony, you both started to move. Ormund swayed his hips, filling you entirely as you pushed upwards to match the rhythm of his dance. It was an obsession that had enveloped you both since the very first night you shared this bed as husband and wife, many years ago.

"More," you begged, nails digging into the muscles of his back. "More, Ormund!" 

He quickened his pace, his actions transforming into a whirlwind of friction and warmth. The feeling of his foreskin gliding against your walls produced an overwhelming pleasure that nearly consumed you. You could feel the pressure building inside, tension coiling in your gut like a spring. You moaned and moaned and moaned, filling the air with the sounds of your bodies colliding.

He silenced you with a gentle shush. “Now look who’s whining. The whole Oldtown could hear you, have you no shame?,” Ormund grinned. He started to rotate his hips in a circular motion, the tip of his cock brushing against your sensitive spot with each turn. Each movement becomes increasingly intense.

You let out a shriek as the first wave of orgasm washed over you. Body trembled with stars dancing in your vision, and for a moment, your mind teetered on the edge of blackout until Ormund's loud moan broke through. His muscles tensed as he delivered three final thrusts, burying himself as deeply as possible, before he finally erupted. Hot, thick jets of his seed pulsing deep within you, filling your womb with wave after wave of warmth. 

And for a long while, neither of you uttered a word. The only sounds were the harmony of your breathing and the distant crackling of the fire. The room had cooled, yet the warmth between your bodies lingered.

Ormund finally adjusted his position, rolling onto his side while still holding you securely against his chest. "You’re a loudmouth, my lady," he murmured, his voice rough from the strain of the evening. “Now we’re even.”

You could not help but smile at his words. The embarrassment and discomfort had long since faded. “At least I know when and where it is proper to be loud.”

Ormund flashed you a smile before his eyes began to study your face, searching for any sign of hurt or uneasiness from what had passed between you. "Did I hurt you, my love?" He tipped your chin upward and brushed the stray hairs away from your face. "I apologise."

Gently pushing his hand away, you brought it to your lips and kissed his knuckles. “No, but I should perhaps pray for another heir to keep you occupied and spare myself from your endless grievances against other lords."

He closed his eyes as he breathed in the scent of your skin. "Very amusing." A pause followed before his voice softened. "Still, that is not something I would ever take lightly. I would not forgive myself if I caused you harm, not even by accident."

With a sigh, you nestled deeper into his embrace. Finally, you were free to indulge in the one thing you had longed for after a tiring day - the quiet comfort of being held by him. Especially after enduring his never-ending complaints earlier, which had left your head spinning.

Bringing his lips down to meet yours, Ormund kissed you slowly this time. His mouth moved gently against yours as he whispered soft promises that made your heart swell with love and adoration for the man you were blessed to call husband. "Sleep now, beautiful. Until tomorrow."

When morning came, the familiar trials of being Lady Hightower would begin anew: dealing with the boasts, the pride, and the endless complaints of Lord Ormund Hightower. He would test your patience as he always did, yet you knew there was no other man in this Kingdom you would rather stand beside.

So you kissed his lips once more. "Until tomorrow then, Lord Hightower."

[asphodelink]

This psycho middle aged man named ORMUND IS SO UNPREDICTABLE I just know he’s like that in bed too!!!

Switching from “beg for more! 😈” to “you look so pretty sitting on me 🥺” is giving me whiplash.

[asphodelink]

Can’t stop thinking about james norton why is he so baby girl and sweet. Every interview is just him “😃😃😃” all the time. I wanna ride— i, i mean i wanna protect him…..

[asphodelink]

✮⋆ READ SLOWER, FOR I WOULD LIKE TO STAY A LITTLE LONGER

Summary: Your husband, Ormund, likes having you read him letters and petitions from other lords. But besides the contentment of hearing your voice, he also seeks other pleasures... 'multitasking', if you will. (AT! THE! SAME! DAMN! TIME!).

Warning: Straight up cockwarming, 18+, MDNI, p in v.

You were just about to turn the page of the book you were engrossed in when the heavy oak door swung open, and Ormund’s tall figure entered the room without delay.

You remained where you were, lying in your sheer nightgown, as your husband moved around, tossing a few sheets of paper onto the bed before hastily removing his doublet. His urgency bordered on desperation.

Ormund Hightower was a man of grace, the esteemed pillar of the Reach. Behind closed doors, however, that grace began to unravel. And you recognised that look instantly.

He craved warmth. He sought the solid comfort of his wife. He needs you.

Understanding better than to ask about the cause, you set the book aside and allowed him to adjust the skirts around your waist, positioning his body over yours. He unlaced his pants, allowing his thick cock to spring free. In an instant, he plunged deep into your wet, pulsing heat, accompanied by a shuddering exhale that caressed the shell of your ear.

Your walls stretched at the familiarity of his size, fingers pressing into the taut muscles of his shoulder. Yet, instead of moving his hips to seek release, Ormund remained still.

He slowly lowered himself onto you, nestling his face into the crease of your shoulder. A soft hum escaped him as he settled comfortably. "The petitions. Read them for me, please."

With one hand gently tousling his hair, you reached for the stack of letters beside you with the other. Holding the first page up, you began to scan the words for Ormund.

"Lord Redwyne addressed the shipping tariffs in the bay," you began. His body was fully relaxed now, given over entirely to the soothing sound of your voice.

It was an intoxicating feeling. While your voice carried on about the tedious bureaucracy of a Great House, your insides, on the other hand, were wrapped around the hardness of a man who had momentarily forgotten how to breathe.

When the letter brought up a dispute over wool shipments, you noticed a slight tightening in his core.

“Did he truly expect a rebate on the harbor fees?” Ormund’s voice vibrated low, a minuscule movement that sent a jolt of electricity coursing through your nerves.

“Hmm, he only said that the storms damaged three of his main vessels. Nothing beyond that,” you said, turning your face to catch a better glimpse of his handsome features. He offered no reply, only drawing closer and hiding his face in the crook of your neck, taking comfort in the familiar scent of your oils.

He nudged his hips upward to adjust his position slightly. A slow, grinding pressure that made your toes curl into the velvet upholstery. You could sense a rhythmic throb. The desire to rock on him was overwhelming, but you knew better than to rush him before he cleared his mind.

This was one of the reasons he constantly sought your company. He often expressed that the world demanded he embody the name ‘Hightower’ - to be rigid, cold, and unyielding. But here, in the embrace of the woman he loved, cocooned by your warmth, he was permitted to be soft.

The more you read the flowery prose and the fervent pleas for prestige, the more you felt him relax, shedding every burden of the day.

You turned to the next letter, a petition from a lesser house requesting a marriage alliance, as it mentioned. "This is quite tedious, my dear husband. Are you prepared for this?" you asked with a playful tone.

He responded with a low groan, weary of the endless petitions and demands that came with his role as the Lord of Oldtown. "Just read it. I enjoy the sound of your voice, especially when you're bored.”

As you giggled, the vibration rippled through you before reaching the place where your bodies were connected. Ormund let out a deep growl before nibbling on your neck, causing your breath to catch. “Stop moving,” he pleaded.

A soft moan escaped your lips as you began to feel a pulsating need in your pussy. You weren’t sure how much longer you could endure this. "The petition asks for a marriage alliance to be considered between—"

"Deny it," he interrupted, cutting you off mid-sentence.

“I haven’t read the rest. Let me finish,” you bit your lip to keep from laughing.

"I don't need to hear it to know the sheer absurdity these men are requesting. Utter nonsense." He shifted his weight once more, pinning you securely against him, allowing you to feel the soft brush of his chest hair against your skin. 

The heat between you had escalated to a feverish intensity, a shimmering warmth that made your head spin. You closed your eyes and let the parchment slip from your fingers, fluttering down like a fallen leaf.

Urging him to penetrate deeper, you wrapped your legs around his waist. The abrupt change in pressure caused him to let out a sharp hiss. Ormund froze, his muscles growing tense.

“All good?” you asked. Dampness pooled around your thighs.

“You’re too… mm— warm,” he choked out a reply. The way he clung to you indicated he never wanted to escape the sensation.

But Ormund remained still, teetering on the brink of something, unwilling to break the spell. You knew he craved the tension to build, the slow burn of warmth to ignite into a raging fire.

So you decided to make the first move. Reaching up, you threaded your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, drawing his head closer for a kiss. His lips were infused with salt and yearning. His tongue danced with yours before he softly whispered your name into your mouth.

The room seemed to constrict until all that remained was the aroma of oils and the sound of tongue sliding against tongue. Then slowly, he began to move.

“I can't remain still any longer,” Ormund said. His eyes were heavy-lidded and dark, a blend of fatigue and desire.

“Fill me then, darling,” you commanded.

He needed no further instruction. Ormund lunged forward, pumping in and out, in and out, completely losing the composure of Lord Hightower. The way he thrust into you revealed a desperation born of hours of pent-up desire; his movements were raw and unrefined.

You matched him stroke for stroke, bodies colliding with a wet slap that echoed in the quiet of the room. It was like a war drum.

His name flowed from your lips sweetly like honey, “Ormund, Ormund, Ormund.”

The climax that arrived felt like a cascading wave. You sensed him shudder intensely, his whole body trembling with the force of his release. His cock twitched as he spilled his seed inside you, while you let out a long, broken sob of relief. Ormund held you close, tightening his grip and drawing out every last bit of tension from his body.

After some time, he turned to face you, smiling as he brushed a stray lock of hair from your forehead and showering your damp skin with kisses. His now-soft member remained deep inside you, showing no signs of withdrawing soon.

As your own breathing began to calm, your gaze wandered to the letters strewn across the bed. There were still many that required his attention and decision. "We missed a few. There’s one from the Citadel though."

Ormund let out a rumbling groan and sank back down. Resting his cheek against your chest, he closed his eyes, content to remain enveloped in your warmth until the sun set and the world called its lord back once more.

"Read to me, my darling," he murmured, his voice trailing off as he almost drifted into sleep. "Let me hear your voice."

You reached down to retrieve the crumpled papers and began to read again. Your voice flowed softly in the room, a gentle counterpoint to the raw act that had just happened. Tales of tariffs, Citadel appointments, and the everyday disputes of men filled the silence as you continued, creating a world of words around you both - a cocoon of stories and skin.

Ormund stirred slightly, an instinctive movement that reminded you he was still there, still connected, still yours.

As the candles burned low and darkness enveloped the room, you kissed his shoulder and leaned back into the velvet, gazing up at the ceiling while listening to the distant chime of the tower bell.

The world continued to spin; the politics of the Seven Kingdoms persisted. But in this room, time had come to a standstill.

All that existed was the scent of your skin, the feel of silk, and the enduring, golden warmth of a man who feared that the heat might dissipate if he released his hold on his wife, even for a moment.

Tag requests: @lexie983 @fandomtrela @kiem16 @xcrybaby555x 🤍

Gif by @notgaybuckybarnes 🤍

[asphodelink]

ADDING 50+ MORE ORMUND FIC IDEAS TO MY BRAIN CART AFTER TONIGHT’S EPISODE.

[asphodelink]

Ormund high TOWER TONIGHT!!!!!!! 🙏🏼🙏🏼🤍🙏🏼🤍🙏🏼🤍🙏🏼🤍🙏🏼🤍🙏🏼✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

[asphodelink]

I thought you have something for Aemond? 👀

I do! But I've gotta be honest, aemond's storyline isn't really doing it for me so far this season compared to the previous one. He's moving slooooooow. Or maybe I'm judging too soon? idk, man. Thankfully, I have his crack-addict, swaggy hot uncle to carry the season for me.

[asphodelink]

✨🌼🌷💗 this is the you are amazing award. send it to ten bloggers you think are wonderful or just take a moment to bask in your own awesomeness! ✨🌼🌷💗

For you. Even though your last fic had me ugly crying. I forgive you because you're brilliant!

Heyyyyy this makes me so happy, my mvp baelor girl!!! 🥹🥹🤍🤍🤍

[asphodelink]

✮⋆ FAREWELL, HUSBAND, UNTIL HEAVEN BRINGS US TOGETHER AGAIN...

Summary: Before he leaves for Ashford, you spend the afternoon giving Baelor a trim, never knowing it would be your last. A/N: SORRY PLEASE DON’T KILL ME. I MISS HIM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The afternoon lay still, broken only by birdsong drifting through the open window overlooking Backwater Bay. Your humming wandered through the chamber as the shears moved gently in your hand, carefully tending to Baelor’s hair.

With his eyes closed, he allowed himself to be swept away by the familiar tenderness of your touch and the sweet song that filled the space.

"Do not fall asleep, husband. Else I might accidentally cut your hair all wrong."

You combed patiently through his hair, trimming away the ends that had begun to curl against the collar. When you first knew him, silver had already begun to thread through the dark strands, but now those streaks were far more numerous. Such was the cost of serving as the King’s Hand. The realm had a habit of taking its due from good men, one strand at a time.

"If that were the case, I might cancel my ride to Ashford," he mused. 

"Do not give me hope, I beg of you." You sighed, snipping away another loose curl. 

You could not see his face as you stood behind him, yet you knew a mischievous smile had surely found its way upon his lips.

Baelor had been tasked to attend the tourney at Ashford in a week's time alongside Valarr, Maekar, and his sons. You could not say precisely why, but ever since he had spoken of the journey, a quiet dread had settled upon your heart, tightening around it with each passing day. 

More than once you had tried to persuade him not to go, yet he had insisted it was good for House Targaryen to strengthen its ties with the lesser houses. As much as you wished to object - even if it meant clinging to his boots until he relented - you understood the truth you had accepted long ago.

Baelor belonged to the realm before he ever belonged to you.

So you decided to steal him away from the endless weight of duties and drew the chamber doors closed, determined to grant him a proper trim before his journey south. Fingers wandered gently through his hair, guiding each lock with the comb before the shears followed in a measured pace.

You plucked a single silver strand between your fingers and held it before his eyes. "Hmm. You have grown more of these since the last time I remember." 

One brown eye peeked open. Baelor had grown quite accustomed to your teasing whenever the mood took you. A smile touched his lips as he glanced back over his shoulder.

“So even the blood of dragons must bow before the passing of years.”

"Oh, thanks be to the Seven! Else you Targaryens would never cease boasting." You said, gently turning his head forward and resumed your work.

The silver caught the afternoon light like pale steel woven through black velvet. Yet to your eyes, it only made him handsomer than any youthful knight or lord in all the realm. You would never confess as much. Teasing him was far more enjoyable.

"Are you certain an old prince is fit to ride so far south?" The shears gave another soft snap as more silver strands drifted to the floor. His hair had always been thick, yet it remained surprisingly soft. 

"You could fall from your horse," you pleaded, grasping at one final attempt to sway him from his journey. "Or worse, lose your way in the woods."

Baelor laughed. The sound filled the chamber with the warmth you had long known as home. For a while, he said nothing more, allowing you to finish your work in peace.

"Then perhaps," he said at length, "should this old man meet the Stranger upon the road, my wife may find herself glad enough to wed some younger lord. One with fewer grey hairs."

The words stunned you. Each one found its way to strike somewhere deep within, far deeper than a jest ever should. Has he lost his mind?! Your heart thundered against your ribs as the chamber fell silent. Your lips parted, yet the reply you wished to give refused to come. The shears remained motionless in your hand. You could only stand there, unable to fathom how a few careless words could cut so deeply.

Sensing the silence that had fallen, Baelor turned to look at you. A single tear had already slipped free before you could stop it. You did not even realise you were crying.

The smile faded from his face, replaced by horror as he understood the pain his careless words had caused. "My love, I was only—"

“Have you lost your mind?! I tease you over a few grey hairs and suddenly you are speaking of dying?” You had not meant to raise your voice, but it had carried in your tone all the same. More tears began to pool around your eyes, threatening to spill down your cheeks.

He reached for your hand immediately to soothe you, but when you stubbornly refused it, he reached for your waist instead, drawing you effortlessly onto his lap despite your indignant protest. You made the faintest attempt to escape before his broad arms settled tightly and securely around you, forcing you to surrender.

“I am so sorry, my love, my heart, my world. It was a poor jest. I am a foolish old man for saying such a thing,” he said, scattering gentle kisses across your damp cheeks while his thumb brushed away the tears that refused to stop.

“That’s very cruel.” Your voice softened, the anger giving way to something far more fragile. “If the Stranger takes you, I will sail to Valyria myself. I will curse every stone of that forsaken land and tear you back from death if I have to.”

A faint smile touched the corners of his mouth before he raised his hands to cradle your face. “Listen to me,” he whispered.

“Nothing shall part us. Not fair ladies, nor younger lords, nor servants, nor duty, nor any burden this realm may lay upon me." 

He pressed his lips to yours in solemn promise. “And when the Stranger comes, he will find me arguing with him over the hour. Not even death shall hasten me from you.”

The matter of his grey hairs no longer seemed amusing. You almost cursed yourself for having brought it up in the first place, and so you reached up with gentle hands to smooth the silver at his temple. “Do you swear it?” you asked softly.

“I swear it with the whole realm as my witness.” He planted a kiss on the tip of your nose.

You both remained like that for a while, held in each other’s arms, until at last you summoned the composure and grace befitting the future Queen and rose from his lap. “Right, husband. Now let me finish making you look handsome before your journey to Ashford.”

Standing behind him once more, you studied the silver strands you had always loved. Each pale strand was a testament to the years he had spent labouring and sacrificing -  striving to become the prince the realm needed rather than the one it had merely expected him to be.

You wondered if any soul within the Kingdom had ever truly seen the grey upon Baelor’s head and understood the burdens that had brought it there, or if they saw only a prince who had begun to age. Your fingers lingered for a final moment around the silver before carefully evening the hair above his ear.

“What would you have from the south, my dear?” Baelor asked, breaking the silence that stretched. 

“You. Just for you to return safely to me.” The words came simply, though your mind was already haunted by the thought of being left alone in this great castle without his presence for a month.

“Consider it done,” he said. And you believed him, for Baelor had never once broken a promise he had made. There was hope and happiness in those words, enough to make you forget the fear of his leaving.

When at last the trimming was complete, you brushed the stray strands from his shoulders before taking a step back to admire your work with a pleased smile. “There. Now you look every bit the prince you were meant to be.”

You leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss to the back of his head, heart swelling with love and pride for the man you got to call husband. One day, a crown shall rest upon this very head, you thought. And the realm shall be blessed to have such a man upon the throne.

Baelor turned towards you, smiling widely as he always did whenever you fussed over him. Taking your hands in his, he pressed a lingering kiss against your knuckles.

“Thank you, my love. Now I have greater confidence that the South will remember me properly.”

You could only smile at him in that moment, never knowing how cruelly those words would return to you. For years afterward, you would remember the silver beneath your fingers, the sound of his laughter, and the warmth of his presence, wishing you had held him a little longer.

[asphodelink]

ANOTHER SAUCY ORMUND FIC IS COMING!!!! WHO WANTS TO BE TAGGED? ⋆˙⟡♡

[asphodelink]

✮⋆ YOU AND SER DONNEL'S MUTUAL YEARNING

Summary: A dual POV between you and Ser Donnel, exploring your mutual daydreaming and longing for one another.

He stands where the garden path meets the royal apartments, calm as ever, silver catching the last of the light. His shoulders are squared under pale enamel and steel. Ser Donnel of Duskendale, sworn to guard doors, kings, and the paths you pretend you are not walking.

The creak of his armor is a summons you answer before you know you've heard it. The measured cadence of his boots upon the stone draws your eyes as surely as prayer calls the faithful. And when he steps aside to let a servant pass, offering some quiet courtesy, your ribs tighten around a heart that has long since forgotten sense.

Your friends tease, sometimes. They call you dreamy, press petals into your palm, and trade rumors like ribbons. You laugh with them and practice politeness with young lords twice a day, but your eyes, traitors that they are, seek out gray at the temples in a sea of gilded boys. 

You found yourself wondering what it would be like to sit next to him at a long table after supper and hear him speak of battles the way old soldiers do. You want to be the one to wipe the blood from his lip after a hard spar. You want to turn his hand over and press your thumb to the ridge of scar across his knuckles. You rehearse it sometimes, in the moments before sleep. The thought shames you a little. 

What a fool's errand, to have given your heart to a man already sworn. He belongs to his vow the way a sword belongs to its scabbard. You have heard every warning the septas and septons could offer, yet none of it stills the wanting in your chest whenever his boots echo across the stone at midnight.

Naive girl, you tell yourself, to fall for a sworn knight twice your age. No song will make a man like him look at a girl like you. The thought visits you every night before sleep, and every night it fails to take hold.

But what you do not know is that, across the garden, behind a face trained never to betray a thought, Ser Donnel keeps watch over doors and thinks of you all the same, until every threshold begins to feel like the edge of a precipice.

He knows his vows like a catechism. To be steel. To be silent. To stand between a blade and the royal throat. Yet in the quiet hours, he cannot help but reckon with every reason he is unworthy of you.

Pathetic old man. What could he offer a young lady of the court? A pauldron for a pillow? A worn name whose shine comes from another man’s crown? His hands are good for holding shields and nothing delicate. He is twice your age in all the ways that matter, and bound besides. But it is not just the age that weighs on him. 

A Kingsguard’s vow does not end at thirty, or fifty, or whenever a man grows tired of it. It ends only with his death. There is no retiring from it.

Still, when your laughter splashes across the garden’s shell fountain and he hears the faint ring of a spoon against a saucer, his head turns before he can stop it. He knows your walk by sound alone. He knows which step along the western corridor makes you hesitate, where you pause before a tapestry of stags beneath winter snow. He learns the rhythm of your humming as you pass him on the stairs.

Once, after a joust, he sat on his horse at the end of the run and looked toward the gallery and caught your wandering face. A foolish thought arrived at him like a splinter. If the day had gone differently, if he were a different man in a different life unbuckled from his vow, he would have ridden to your end of the gallery.

I would win, he thought, and lift the crown, and set it on your head in front of every lord and fool in the capital. My Queen of Love and Beauty.

He thinks of the Rebellion sometimes. The crossing at Redgrass Field, the screaming of horses, the brother-knights beside him who did not ride home. He had not feared death there. He had done his accounting and found it balanced: no wife, no children, no unfinished thing. A life given cleanly to a cause. He had been glad of the cleanliness.

Now when he thinks of that field he finds your name on the far side of it.

If there were another war, he thought. If the dice fell wrong again, and I were to lie in some trampled field with my face to a sky going grey, I would want to go with the thought of you, my lady. Not of vows kept or crowns defended. But you, with your book in your lap, and your eyes doing that thing where they find me and go very still before you look away.

When the night of the king’s feast arrives, it is all sugared and sharp, the hall a river of candlelight, diamonds trembling in the ladies’ hair like drops upon a chandelier. The king is in a good temper. The prince moves as though lit from within. The press of voices stirs both courage and folly in equal measure. Music unspools from lute and reed pipe, and in Ser Donnel something gives way.

So he crosses the floor, his years gathered about him like a cloak, and bows before you without clatter. He cannot remember the last time he bowed like this, not to a monarch but to a hope. He says your name like a prayer he fears will end, and asks for your hand beneath the bright, noisy splendor of the hall. Your hand finds his at once.

Dancing is never his trade, yet he moves as though the steps are familiar paths leading to a well he has drawn from all his life. Your palm rests upon his shoulder. His hand settles at your waist with such care it might be devotion given form. The world narrows to a hum threaded with your breath. Your lashes lift, and every careful barrier you have kept over your longing falls away. He does not look away.

He thinks, recklessly, that vows might yet allow this as an exception. That holding you close is not breaking but bearing, keeping you within the reach of his arm as something sovereign ought to be kept. Your cheek tips toward his knuckles as they brush, and the hall’s thousand eyes blur into lantern-smears.

The song becomes a golden cord binding him to you, strand after strand unspooling between you. In the hidden place within duty where a boy still survives, he swears to keep you here, even as he knows such a vow cannot hold.

You are thinking of the pattern of his breath, the faint nick on his thumb, the way he chose you in a room that has never chosen gently. The words gather behind your teeth, hot and bright. I want you, Ser Donnel. Take me where vows become softer things, not chains but silk.

But the words do not leave you. They turn inward instead, circling the mind, never crossing into speech.

When the songs end, the final note skims away like a swan lifting from water. A young lord with a polished grin and a future draped across his shoulders steps forward and bows. “My lady, may I?” he says, all practicing sweetness. Donnel’s fingers tighten around yours.

“Of course,” you hear yourself say, courtly and composed. It is not what you mean. What you mean would still the musicians and send the king’s gaze rising like a banner. But you dip and turn. Your palm slips from the place you had longed to hold for far too long.

Ser Donnel lets you go as though he has been burned. He folds his hands behind his back so he does not reach for you. He has never wanted anything so fiercely as to cross that distance and keep you near him, within reach of his touch and his vow both. He moves to the edge of the hall where duty waits, patient as a hound, and takes his place among stone and shadow.

You dance with the young lord and hear none of the music. You pivot and perform and think with every turn: I will not let this become a mistake. I will not let him disappear into corridors filled with unspoken things. Your smile fools no one who matters. Donnel sees the fracture at its corner and takes it as both a blessing he does not deserve and a torment he has earned.

The night ends with stars spilled across the courtyard slate. The king retires. Crown princes laugh somewhere down a corridor you do not follow. Servants douse the flames until the hall smells faintly of smoke and beeswax. Your ladies drift away in pairs like petals on the wind. You stand for a long moment in a doorway dividing music from moonlight and try to decide which world is kinder.

His boots sound behind you and stop. “My lady,” he says.

His voice is that space between a blade and a throat again. He is all line and shadow, lamplight tracing the edge of his jaw. Up close, you see the fine threads of gray like frost on a hedge before dawn. He has never looked more like a gate you wish to pass through.

“Ser Donnel,” you answer, and his name trembles on your tongue. 

“The west garden is where I am posted,” he says, the words measured like steps along a wall walk. “The training yard at first light is quiet, saved for fools and men who cannot sleep.”

He does not speak plainly, yet nothing in him is idle. Each word is set with care, each pause carrying weight beyond sound, a message shaped in restraint rather than speech.

“And I happen to think the statues are prettiest there,” you reply.

You step back into moonlight, and he watches you go not like a guard watching a passage, but like a man left standing at the edge of a road he cannot cross and will not abandon.

When dawn breaks, the yard wears a pale shroud. He is there already, rubbing at an old ache in his shoulder, breath snapping through drills that make younger men curse. You arrive with your cloak drawn tight at your throat and courage too quiet for ballads. The air hangs cold and still around you.

“You are up early, my lady,” he says. His voice is even, a blade kept sheathed yet ready.

“So are you, Ser Donnel.”

“I am paid to be.”

“And I am not,” you answer. “So one of us is a fool.”

A faint smile touches his mouth before he reins it in. “Aye,” he replies. “One of us is.”

You stand together overlooking the yard, the raked dirt still dark with dew, the torches along the wall burning pale beneath a sky not yet committed to morning. It is not comfortable, exactly. But it is not the silence of strangers either. It is the silence of two people who have circled the same fire long enough that sitting beside it feels less like a choice than an admission.

You could still hide your longing in pretty lies. Instead, you reach for the truth like a blade at his belt.

“Last night, during the dance,” you say. Your voice is steady, but it betrays you all the same. “I did not want to let go.” 

You pause, and the next words come slower, like they cost you something to spend. “I do not say this lightly, and I may regret saying it at all. But I am tired of carrying this alone, not knowing if I carry it for nothing.”

For an instant he is surprised, the years slipped clean from his shoulders. Then he gathers them back because he must.

“My lady,” he begins, and the words come heavy with caution. He means to lay them before you plainly, the truth made gentle by being named. But instead they turn inward on him, sharp as steel drawn too close to flesh, and something in his chest tightens like a struck thing.

If only you knew how long I have wanted you, too. But I cannot.

I am sworn. I am a man made for oaths and heraldry, with little else to offer. Your life holds rooms I was never meant to enter without breaking something holy. The world is cruel, and I had long since made my peace with that.

Until you.

“You do not carry it for nothing.” His voice roughens on the words, like they were not built for use. “I would not have you think that. Not for one day longer.”

“I know your vows,” you cut in gently. 

“I know their shape. I do not ask you to break them. Only, if there is a way to stand near without shattering, I would stand there. With you.”

Silence takes measure of you both. A moth flutters against hot glass. He looks at you like the first sunrise he remembers after a long winter watch.

At the edge of the yard, where stones have cracked and been left to crack, a thin stalk of chicory has pushed through the gap, blue and stubborn against the cold. He crouches and snaps it free before holding it out to you.

"Chicory," he says. "It grows where nothing else cares to. I have always admired a thing that holds on without being asked to.” 

You take the little blue flower from him and watch him go. The yard fills in around the space he leaves behind. Only the flower remains in your hand, and a heart behaving very badly.

The next morning you find another on the bench in the garden. The same pale blue, freshly cut, laid at the center of the stone. He had come before the rest of the world stirred. He places it there and walks away without waiting to see. You stand over it longer than intended. Then you lift it and tuck it into your braid, feeling it brush your cheek all morning like a whisper.

That noon, the corridor outside the great hall is crowded with the restless tide of court life, pages darting between nobles, servants bearing platters and pitchers, ladies trailing silk and conversation in their wake. Amid all of it, there is the flower. Worn above your ear, tucked carefully into your braid. 

When you walk past him in the hallway, his pace never falters. When he draws level with you, his gaze finds the chicory for the briefest instant before lifting to your eyes. They catch the light at the sight of you.

“My lady.” The same two words he gives every lady in this hall, worn smooth from years of use. But he has never once said them and meant only you. This time, he does.

“Ser,” you answer, a smile breaking through, reserved only for the knight who has long stolen your heart. By the time anyone might think to notice, you are already several paces apart, the crowd folding between you like water closing over a stone.

Only then do you understand what he has been trying to say. Men like Ser Donnel build their confessions from smaller things. A place remembered. A path crossed at the same hour each day. Care given shape and set quietly into the world, asking for nothing in return.

After that, the language only deepens. It lives in glances that linger a moment too long before duty pulls you both away. In routines neither of you admits to keeping. A glimpse of him across the courtyard is enough to carry you through an afternoon. Your laughter drifting from an open gallery is enough to walk him through a night watch.

Neither of you names what is between you. To name it would be dangerous. To deny it would be impossible. So it stays there, woven through gardens and corridors and chance meetings in the halls. Nearness, day after day, with the one true thing left unsaid.

And it is, for now, the only kingdom either of you needs.

Tag requests: @h3k3t @saera-targbooks @baelors-bae

[asphodelink]

✮⋆ THE RETURN OF OLDTOWN'S LIGHT

Summary: Your husband, Ormund Hightower, finally returned home from war. The scent of you was among many other things he missed.

Warning: 18+, NSFW, MDNI, cursing, oral (female receiving), p in v.

Word Count: 2.1k. I divided into three parts. Sorry, not proofread so there might be typos and sorts.

A week had passed since a raven arrived bearing a letter from your lord husband, Ormund Hightower.

The Greens had won the field for the Iron Throne. The pretender had been driven back. The banners of House Hightower would turn south before the week's end.

Ever since Ormund had ridden forth to war, little had brought you comfort. Meals had lost their savor, mornings their light, and sleep had become a faithless companion that seldom lingered through the night. The absence of his steady presence had gnawed at your heart until it bordered upon madness.

More than anything, you longed for the warmth of his embrace and the familiar scent that belonged only to the two of you - one that had come to feel as natural as a second skin.

Ormund had often confessed that your own fragrance haunted him no less cruelly, lingering in his thoughts amidst the ceaseless misery of the campaign. So you had made ready. You filled  the crystal perfume jars with the very essence he had always favored, that when at last the long-awaited hour arrived, you might anoint your skin with the scent he so dearly coveted.

That hour came at last. The bells of Oldtown rang bright under the shadow of Oldtown. Their joyful peals carried across the city as horns sounded from the walls to herald the return of its lord and his men. You stood before the great gates of the castle, eyes searching the endless column of riders until it found him at their head.

Ormund drew rein before you and swung himself down from the saddle. Seven save you, had there been no watchful eyes upon the courtyard, you would have spirited him away to the privacy of your chambers without a second thought. Yet the burdens of Lord and Lady Hightower had ever demanded restraint, denying you both the luxury of reckless affection.

"Welcome home, husband," you greeted softly, unable to keep the warmth from your voice. 

"And my congratulations. May this victory bring an end to the madness that has so long afflicted the realm."

Whether Ormund had read the yearning plainly written upon your face, or whether the fragrance lingering about your skin had reached him upon the breeze, the corner of his mouth curved into a knowing smile. There was certainty within that expression, the silent promise that your long separation was at an end.

Bath has been drawed, candles have been burned and the door oak has been shut, leaving only you and Ormund alone in the shared bedchambers. You had sent away the servant so you could strip him off the armour yourself. He smelled of the road - iron, horse sweat, and the acrid tang of old campfire smoke. 

His eyes fell upon you, only for the perfume you had chosen to welcome him home to steal the rest of his attention. He drew a slow breath through his nose.

"Take this ruddy armor off me, wife," he murmured, his voice roughened by travel and longing alike. "I need to touch you."

A smile found your lips as your fingers reached for the clasp upon his shoulder. You lingered over the fastening just long enough to test his patience, savoring the simple privilege of touching him again. The heavy cloak slipped from his broad frame and crumpled upon the stone with a muted thud, carrying with it the dust of the road and the weariness of war.

"This thing grows heavier with every campaign," you murmured, smoothing an idle hand across the thick wool. "I do not know how you endure wearing it for so long."

“The cloak is the least of my burdens,” Ormund said, one eye half-lidded as he turned a pointed glance your way. “It is your perfume that proves the greater torment. Seven save me, woman, you know full well what it does to me. Must you tempt me whilst I am still imprisoned in iron?”

A laugh threatened to escape you, though you smothered it before it could reach your lips. Now that he was safely home beneath your roof once more, there was no need for haste; you meant to savor every lingering moment before duty and desire could once again claim their hold. “I had thought the war might have taught you patience, husband.”

“I possess enough patience for soldiers,” he answered with an exaggerated sigh. “For my own wife? None whatsoever.”

You made no reply, only circling behind him, your hair slipping over one shoulder as you moved. The motion stirred the perfume beneath your ears, sending its fragrance through the quiet of the chamber. Ormund closed his eyes and released a low, strained groan.

"Please, my love," he pleaded. "What is this cruel slowness? Must you truly torture me so?"

"Stand still, Ormund," you chided gently, unable to conceal the smile tugging at your lips. "I cannot undress you if you insist upon fidgeting like an impatient squire."

Your fingers worked leisurely at the buckles of his gauntlets before easing the worn steel from his large, calloused hands. The weight of the metal struck against your rings with a sharp clang that rang throughout the chamber before you carefully set the pieces aside.

Next came the pauldrons, ever the most troublesome part of his harness. Ormund's shoulders were broad enough that the catches often refused to yield under your gentler hands, forcing you to work each fastening loose with patient determination. By now your perfume had thoroughly enveloped him, and the restraint upon his face had begun to crack. Hunger flashed openly across his features, transforming the disciplined lord into something far more dangerous.

"Get these off me," he growled, his voice emerging rougher than he intended.

The sudden command sent a startled shiver through you. His breastplate still held fast across his chest, refusing to surrender. "Ormund, I swear, if you do not—"

He answered only with a frustrated curse. Stepping away from your hands, he seized the breastplate himself, fingers curling beneath the steel with little regard for the straps you had been carefully loosening. Buckles snapped free under the force of his strength before the armor crashed upon the stone floor with a deafening thunder that seemed loud enough for all Oldtown to hear.

The final layer followed moments later. He shrugged the padded gambeson from his shoulders and cast it aside, revealing a broad chest of hard muscle and pale skin, crossed by silver scars earned through years of battle, with newer wounds still flushed an angry shade of red. 

"Ormund," you breathed, eyes widening. "You have returned from war with all the manners of a starving beast."

“Can you truly blame me?” he answered hoarsely. His hands, usually so measured in every task they performed, had abandoned all patience. “You’re moving too fucking slow, wife.” 

Before you had so much as drawn another breath, he caught your arms and pulled you firmly against him with a strength that left your heart stumbling within your breast. His fingers fumbled with the silken ties of your gown before pulling the fabric free. 

In a blink of an eye, the cream-colored slipped from your shoulders and gathered in soft folds about your feet. You stood naked before him, the last trace of your perfume clinging softly to your skin. Your wits were too slow to grasp all that had unfolded.

"I have been parted from you for far too long," his voice was little more than a strained confession. "I do not wish to spend another heartbeat away from you."

He began to kiss you with an urgent, ravenous fervor. The force of his lips made you gasp and arch your back. You could feel the rigid outline of his cock pressing against your abdomen, straining against his pants.

"Ormund," you moaned. His name leaves a sweetness around your tongue that you haven’t tasted in months. 

Ignoring your plea, his mouth migrates from your neck to your jawline, finally capturing your lips again in a powerful kiss. It tasted of sweat and desire. His tongue slipped past your teeth, swirling with yours in a rhythmic exchange of saliva and warmth. He broke the kiss only to bury his face in the curve of your shoulder.

"I can smell it everywhere," his breath was hot against your skin. "I can’t think of anything in that damn cold tent. I can't breathe anything but you. I’ve missed you."

He pressed his face into the gentle valley between your breasts. His tongue, long and warm, began to savor the oil on your skin, tracing the elegant curve of your breast. He circled your nipple, the tip of his tongue teasing the hardened peak until you let out a soft whimper, your fingers tangling in his thick, dark hair. 

Each time he paused to breathe, he inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring with desire. Heat unfurled within you as though your body had remembered him before your mind could catch up. 

Gradually, he sank to his knees, kissing the delicate skin of your stomach, his lips igniting a trail of warmth as they descended. He lingered at the gentle dip of your navel, swirling his tongue there before venturing lower. As he neared the junction of your thighs, the scent transformed. The floral notes of the perfume blended with the natural, musky aroma of your arousal, creating an intoxicatingly primal essence.

So you lifted him by the wrist and guided him to the bed that had grown cold since his departure. You lay on your back, exposing yourself fully to your lord husband for him to devour you as he pleased, as he wished. "Take me, Ormund, please."

Kneeling once more between your legs, he leaned in and pressed his tongue directly against your clit. Moving strokes after strokes that caused your knees to weaken and your mind to go blank. His eyes fluttered shut, his chest rising and falling with each breath. He inhaled deeply, his entire being trembling with the effort to hold back.

"You put it in here, too, didn’t you?" he asked, glancing up to meet your eyes. 

You could only nod in response, for no words seemed fit to leave your lips. 

“Fuck, I’ve missed this too much.” Groaning low, Ormund plunged his tongue back in, savoring you with an intensity that bordered on ferocity. His tongue moved in rhythmic, swirling patterns, lapping at the oil and cream of your arousal. He drew your clitoris into his mouth, sending waves of ecstasy coursing through you. “You taste and smell as divine as I remember.” 

You moaned and sighed as his tongue danced around you. With your eyes tightly shut, you surrendered to his care, fully aware that Ormund would relish teasing you while nestled between your thighs. You surrendered to him, knowing that your lord husband craved this too, just as much as you did.

The first round of sex was messy and unrefined. At one point, his thrust was so overzealous, so driven by primal hunger, that he completely slipped out due to the overwhelming wetness between you. 

For a brief instant, there was a void, a sudden absence that felt like a loss. Then, he forcefully reentered, the air escaping from your folds with a loud sound that sent shivers down your spine. 

The second time he took you, he flipped you over so you were on your hands and knees, your ass arched high in the air. The cool air caressed your damp folds, a stark contrast to the warmth radiating from his body behind you. He did not take his time. Gripping your hips firmly, he thrust into you with a single, powerful motion. 

The third and final round unfolded in a manner unlike any other. It was a complete surrender, a heartfelt reunion filled with love and longing, intertwined with the fear of losing each other during his time away at war. He savored every moment, tracing the contours of your body with his lips and tongue. An entire hour was devoted solely to kissing, leaving tender marks on the delicate skin of your collarbone, before he began to tease the entrance to your core with the tip of his manhood. 

He gently rocked in and out, whispering promises and soothing you as you sobbed with pleasure that overtook your body. Every now and then, he would pause to inhale the scent that was still ghosting around your throat and the back of your ear. 

When you reached your end, your fingers tightened upon the sheets, as pleasure began to swell within you, akin to a tide gently rising on a serene shore. Both you and Ormund clung to each other, bodies fused, the scent of roses and sweat lingering in the air long after the candles had burned down to stubs. 

“I miss you,” he said, the words simple and heavy with truth. 

“I miss you, Lord Hightower.” 

That night, you dreamed of a green beacon being lit up - not for a call to war - but to announce the arrival of Ormund’s heir, the future Lord of Oldtown.

[asphodelink]

✮⋆ PERZYS HEN ŪNOGON

Summary: Baelor teaching you High Valyrian while he braids your hair.

Warning: NONE. (OMG CAN YOU BELIEVE IT)

"Perzys hen ūnogon," he corrected.

You sighed, letting your forehead fall against your hand. "It’s not my fault your ancestors put too many s’s in their speech. Every word sounds like hissing."

Being married to Baelor was easy. Bearing the title of Princess of Dragonstone proved less daunting than you had anticipated. Even sitting upon the high bench to watch knights batter one another bloody in the yard was simpler still.

Mastering Valyrian, however, proved to be something else entirely. A language that had bested you where swords and courtly politics had failed. Every strange sound twisted itself around your tongue until speaking felt more akin to sparring than conversation.

"You will be queen one day," Baelor said. "Queens ought not require translators."

An hour earlier, the two of you had sat side by side in a quiet nook of the library. As your focus began to wane and the text blurred before your eyes, he pulled you between his legs. His broad thighs penned you in, leaving little choice but to continue the lesson.

"Again," he said from behind you.

Before you could protest, one large hand settled at the base of your neck. A soft sigh escaped you.

His thumb pressed slowly into the tense muscle there, working in small circles. The pressure was firm enough to ease the ache that had gathered from hunching over old books all evening.

You felt your shoulders loosen almost immediately. "Baelor..."

His hand moved lower. "Read, my love."

The broad span of his palm slid across your shoulder, kneading carefully through the stiffness he found there. The lesson was quickly losing its battle for your attention.

You sighed in surrender. "Perzysss—" The word died on your lips once more.

"The s is not to be pressed, my dear." His voice settled warmly against your back. "Valyrian is not a force. The sound comes from lower."

Two fingers came to rest against the hollow of your throat. "Here."

You swallowed at the touch, but it lingered for only a moment before he withdrew.

Then his hand slipped into your hair. Slowly, he spread the strands apart, untangling each knot. His fingertips skimmed your scalp as he worked, never pulling when he met resistance. Instead, he separated each tangle until your hair slipped like silk through his hands.

When a loose curl escaped beside your ear, he caught it immediately, brushing his thumb along your cheek before guiding it back into place and folding it neatly into the plait.

Those scarred hands, marked by countless years in the yard and large enough to encircle a man's throat, moved through your hair with astonishing gentleness.

After a while, he smoothed your hair down your back and divided it into three sections. One strand crossed over another, then the third, and the braid slowly began to take shape.

You tried to focus on the page before you, but every gentle pass made the words blur a little further.

"It's almost supper, Baelor," you sighed. "Can we go now?"

“Almost.” He paid your words no mind, working in silence. With each movement, his hands continued lower as the braid formed, gentle pulls following every weave as he crossed and wove the strands into place.

He worked the braid to its end, fastening the final twists before reaching for the silk ribbon upon the desk. He tied it off and let it cascade over your shoulder.

"There you go." His lips brushed against your ear. "Gevie," he whispered.

At the word, you turned slightly. He was close enough that you could count the dark lashes framing his mismatched eyes.

"I know that one. It means beautiful."

A smile softened his features. "Yes." He pressed a kiss to your cheek, then another to your temple. "Now read, ñuha gevie dāria. Then we'll head to supper."

His strong arms wrapped around you, drawing you flush against his chest. And you found yourself hoping that if death ever came for you, it would find you like this; safe in his arms, his warmth surrounding you, the last thing you would ever feel before darkness took you.

[asphodelink]

HOLD ON GIRLIES ORMUND FIC IS COMING IN LESS THAN 24 HOURS I PROMISE I PROMISE

[asphodelink]

Hiiiiii sorry for the MIA. I took a much-needed vacation, and I also got promoted at work 🥹. Been busy with this and that.

Anyway, things to do this week:

• Catch up on HOTD S3.

• Post my Ser Donnel, continue my Aemond and Ormund fics (hehe), and yup, you guessed it, another Baelor fic. Sighhhh. I can’t escape Baelor Asylum™, I fear.