a/n: still working on part 3 and haven¡t decided what part this will be yet but the truth is that i just couldn't help myself and this kinda sprang out of nowhere, i didn't want to wait to have these two freaks have a good hate fuck
cw: male masturbation, handjob, fingering, p in v sex, rough sex, slapping during sex, manipulation, creampie
Lmk if I missed any cws!
please do not repost my writing anywhere or feed it to any AI/LLMs, I do not authorize!
You could hear the faint moaning and groaning through the door. He'd said he would never disrespect you, and yet, you knew what you would find upon opening the door.
Turning the knob slowly, quietly, you planned on how you would confront him, on how you would expose him to the castle as the liar and hypocrite that he was.
Then you saw him, only him. Ormund laid in the large feather bed with his eyes closed, nose deep in the small clothes you recognized as missing, his tunic discarded on the floor and with his breeches pushed just enough to free his cock, which he fisted at furiously.
He looked so debauched, so desperate. His hand pressed your small clothes to his nose as if the scent imprinted in them was of equal necessity as air, if not more. The manner in which he grunted let you know he was climbing closer and closer to the edge, chasing his release with you... your smell aiding him in this cause.
For all the disdain he so openly shows you, it has always been painfully obvious to you that there is a deep want as well, and you've found confirmation of it just now.
If he wants to spill his seed anywhere on this day, it shall be inside your cunt, you will make sure of it. Even if the power struggle continues, you will be victorious today at the very least.
"Gods, Ormund. Where is propriety?" You interrupted as you closed the door, latching the lock in it. The tone with feigned shock.
No more interruptions tonight.
Ormund was startled at the intrusion of privacy, yet, as he sat back up, thinking about what he could say for himself, he never once let go of your small clothes, his cock still standing hard as he looked at you like he wanted you dead. No words came to his head.
"You are no less two-faced than I, at least I've made my wishes known, you, however... Have been hiding them from me, from yourself." The mockery with which you addressed him surprised even you.
Walking slowly, you approached, leaning on the bedpost as you openly and unashamedly ogled, no... admired the strong body of this husband of yours. The full vulnerability of desire in it that he has so adamantly denied you from the beginning.
He's held all leverage from the moment he set the terms for your coupling, making you feel as if you had to earn it, and even then, that you may never do so.
But here he was, your husband, in search for pleasure you could so willingly give if he would only stop pretending he does not want it.
Ormund's hand still held his cock, even after your interruption you see it as it stands, proud, swollen, reddened, leaking... all for you.
His curls tousled and sticking to his neck and forehead, the sweat collecting and dripping all the way down his chest and abdomen, the continued harsh breathing and his muscles flexing.
His blown out eyes, the blue almost swallowed in darkness, the mere sight of him made you wish you could lick him clean. You could feel the dripping slick down your thighs.
"Don't-" He attempted a warning as you got closer.
"Quiet." You retorted, closing the distance between you two and leaning to his face, his cheeks being smashed with your fingers.
"What makes you think you are good enough to think about me when you touch yourself, husband?" The demand surprised him, so used to being the one to make all the demands.
"What makes you think you can take what is mine by blessing of the gods?" Another question, accompanied by your hand lowering, swatting at his own and taking its place around his cock.
Ormund allowed it, at least he would later tell himself that he allowed it, you knew the truth though, you were allowing him the pleasure of your touch this time as you stroke his cock tortuously slow.
You whispered, kissing and nipping at his neck. "You are my husband. Your mouth is mine, your hands are mine, your noises are mine, your cock is mine, your seed is mine."
He was getting close again, the hand holding your small clothes now reaching for your dress, bunching it up, fingers trailing quickly up your thighs until he reached your core. Desperate, he rubbed his fingers around, collecting your wetness and bringing it back to his face.
"I've grown tired of this game we play, Ormund, I will pretend no more. I want you inside me and you want it as well."
You slowed down once more, Ormunds head hitting the headboard as he now licked the slick on his fingers, revelling in the torture of your ministrations.
"You are mine. I want my husband. I want what is mine by right, you will give it to me, will you not?"
The look of defiance was still present in his face, but you saw as it slowly registered in him that there was more to gain than to lose in letting his desires win.
He grabbed your face roughly, initiating a kiss himself for the very first time, it lacked all the order and control he was so proud of displaying publicly. In here he did not need to be so measured, he only needed to be your husband.
Ormund continued to moan, whining every so often as he devoured you whole, one of his hands savagely pulling at the laces in your back. As you stepped out of your dress and turned around for his help with your shift, he removed his breeches completely, and eventually your shift.
All the other times you had laid together as husband and wife had been mostly clinical in nature, he had always avoided seeing you in your entirety, this was the first time he did it.
It drove him insane, his senses were overwhelmed so he just grabbed you, pushing you to the bed as you opened your legs for him.
He kissed you as he fingered you, getting you ready for him when you broke the kiss, "Put your cock inside me, I need it, I care not for preparations". Obedience looked good on him, he pushed in completely, his cock settling in the warmth of your eager cunt, immediately setting a brutal pace as he stretched you, making your walls flutter around him. "Good boy" you whispered as he adjusted the angle, grabbing your ass and angling you higher
This had been the longest he'd spent with you without speaking, every sound that came out of his mouth was an expression of the pleasure you were now providing for each other.
He continued to kiss you, moving now to your neck and biting harshly, making you cry out and slap him in anger from the pain. Ormund just smiled, laughing and fucking you harder into the feather bed as he licked a soothing stripe on the harsh bite mark, one of his hands pinning yours above your head.
"Mayhaps this is my holy purpose, being buried in your sweet cunt." Ormund slowed down, grinding his hips in a manner that he rubbed at your clit deliciously. He sniffed all over, so aroused by your musk, licking at the salty sweat in your skin.
He moved you again and started hitting that one spot that made your vision blur, your walls clenching on their own as your orgasm ripped through you. Ormund only fucked you harder, his hips pistoning into you roughly as he chased his own orgasm.
As you came down from yours, you saw Ormund getting ready to pull out and got free from his hold, putting your arms around him.
"Spill inside my cunt, husband, if your purpose is to be buried in me, so must it be to fill me with your seed."
You really could play him like a fiddle.
He pulled you impossibly closer as he rutted into you, ropes of his seed filling your welcoming cunt while he rode it out.
You stayed as you were for a long while, so long that night eventually fell, and when Ormund finally pulled his softening cock, you immediately sprang up, moving to the other side of the bed to get your clothes.
The final touch was when you leaned down to get your dress, giving him a look of your puffy cunt and the way his spend dripped down your legs. It did something to him, so much that he had to fight the urge to reach for you to collect it and stuff it back inside.
"See? This marriage need not be miserable." You said, putting your clothes back on as best as you could, realizing he had ripped some of your dress. "You are quite vigorous when you put your mind to it, my lord."
"If I am yours, you are mine as well."
"So you are smart after all..." You started walking towards the door. "Oh, and, husband? do request a bath from the servants. You smell poorly."
a/n: I’m gonna try to keep these under 4k if I can so no smut for now but next part for suuuure
cw: none, maybe talks of sex but super surface level? still, this is an 18+ work!!
Lmk if I missed any cws!
please do not repost my writing anywhere or feed it to any AI/LLMs, I do not authorize!
You closed the door behind you once you and your mother reached your chambers, the morning light already seeping through the Red Keep as it flowed with busy servants all over. Your father had taken his leave when it had become clear he would not be part of the whispering during your walk back to your chambers.
“He is… intriguing.” You offered, eyeing your mother with a mix of emotions.
“What did you learn?” Rhaenys inquired, sitting by the bed as you nervously paced around the room.
“He is devout, that is true. His first question was whether I remained a maiden still, it was very blunt I must say. I think he is accustomed to it, going straight to the point… Then I had to tell him both father and I had chosen to keep me unmarried so far, I made it clear that if I am to marry it will be my choice.” You recounted as you played with your hair, leaning on the wall for support, your head still confused at the interaction.
“Did he have any thoughts to offer on the matter?” Your mother asked, equally confused.
“Not any that I could infer. He did mention a second marriage is only something to consider because of his daughter, she is but one year old. Prince Daeron as well, the marriage would be more so that the children can have a mother, his other sons are almost men from what I understood. I do suspect he is being pushed by his uncle to pursue me in specific, he did not seem too interested in me for most of the conversation.”
“What changed in your opinion?”
“It was odd, he seemed surprised at my looks, not in a manner in which he believed I was ugly but… I suppose he expected the same hair and eye color as father, Laena or Laenor. He complimented me on looking like grandmother, said he, unlike my other suitors, had no need for a Valyrian bride. ThatI did not look the part, he seemed almost relieved at the fact that I did not...”
That made Rhaenys perk up. “A Hightower through and through, Reachlords are not eager to hide their animosity towards us Targaryens and Velaryons. He may only be considering the match because most reachmen would not think twice when they see you, even if your house name is strong enough to trump taking his, looks matter more. Tell me more.”
“Lord Ormund asked if I had a dragon as well, called them beasts. I suppose it has to do with the animosity you speak of, he sympathized with my not getting one, though it seemed more out of politeness than anything else. I also believe he has a sensitivity to odors, I saw him fidget with a little orb that smelled pleasant, and he inhaled slowly at times when we were close to each other. He seemed pleased enough with my scent.”
“And we are the deviants?” Your mother scoffed, chuckling at the apparent quirk. “What else, my love?”
You had been dreading getting to that part. Your mother had spoken to you about the duty in the marriage bed a long time ago when she expected you to be married by the time you were eight and ten. As time had gone by you had become well acquainted with your own body and seeking release whenever you desired, remaining a maiden was not difficult when you were able to fulfill your own needs, you were not in desperate need of some bumbling lord for you to relieve stress. Still, you would never speak of it with anyone else than your mother, and though you trusted her, it remained difficult to repeat Lord Hightower’s words. They seemed so final.
Spitting it out was probably the best choice in this case.
“Duty would be performed on the day we wed, but he said he has no need for any more heirs, and so, the marriage bed will probably remain empty for most of the time. He insisted on the fact that he will have… no carnal desire for me. That sin has no place at the Hightower, so much so that he said he would not disrespect or humiliate me by having any whores called out to his chambers, no bastards running along Oldtown.” You sat next to her. “Said it was sinful too… To lay together when children are not the goal.”
She was quiet for a moment, then, she burst out laughing for what you felt was way too long. Your mother hugged you as her laughter died out, finally noticing you were not laughing with her.
“Darling, even Hightower men are still men. And they are oh so very quick to succumb to their desires. Even the most devout follower of the Seven will eventually need to get his dick wet somewhere, what better place than between his wife’s legs, when she is just a few chambers away from his own.” Rhaenys tucked a loose strand of your hair as she continued.
“He may not want any more children, and that is quite an easy feat to accomplish, not to worry. But he’s had children, he knows what it takes to create them. You are beautiful, I doubt he will be able to stay away from you as much as he says he intends to. Remember: all men are fools, and all men are knights, where women are concerned.” She cupped your cheek, winking at you.
“You truly believe that?” You wondered.
“Of course I do, even if he finds you dull, which I doubt he will once he gets to know you… Men are simple creatures, he is bound to want you eventually. And if he doesn’t, I’m sure you’ve done well on that front so far, you have no need for him to get the job done. Besides, marrying a man that promises to respect you both in public and in private, and asks nothing in return but to mother his daughter and ward… Well, that is much better than the fate of many other ladies, at least you will not have to suffer carrying his offspring and the labour of birthing it.”
She was right, even if he truly did not want you, separate lives within the same keep would still be alright, a life companion that would not pester you for what your body could do for him was not such a bad idea when you really considered it.
You could be friends, even. He would run Oldtown with you by his side and all you had to do was placate the septons and maesters while you led your own life within the keep.
He certainly was better than the late Lord Manderly, maybe a bit more dull… but that could be trained out of him eventually. Lord Ormund was more handsome as well, even if his countenance always had an air of superiority that he could do without, he was easy to look at anyway.
As you continued mulling it over, your mother rose, her hand turning the lock on the door. “Shall I tell your father to be at the ready to enter negotiations, then?”
“Yes. And… I would like to speak with him once more, I told him I would personally give him my answer.”
“That can be arranged. Have a nap, I will come and get you in a couple of hours.” She directed, leaving you on your own.
--
The servants were in the middle of bathing you when Rhaenys came back into your chambers, she carried with her a little pouch and within it, you could hear the soft clinking of little vials.
“I come bearing gifts.” She said, handing the pouch to Jaena, your lady in waiting. “After her bath, rub these all around her, especially on her neck and arms, her hands too.” She instructed.
You motioned for Jaena to bring them to you, opening each one and smelling them. Soft jasmine, fresh cardamom and sharp black pepper flooded your nostrils as you inhaled.
“Thank you mother but, am I mistaken or, does it smell like a Sept?” You asked your mother, confused.
“Aye, so it does. And as the oils settle on your skin… sticky labdanum and a pinch of cloves will come out, rich amber and tonka bean as well. It is like an earthier... naughtier Sept.” Rhaenys smirked as Jaena and the servants giggled. “Make haste, Lord Hightower is eager to see her in the gardens soon, he’s heard there is good news.” She said with fake innocence, taking her leave.
When you were finally in your shift, they began. It felt almost like an anointing, the way they prepared you for your soon to be betrothed, carefully rubbing the oils all around your arms, hands, neck and even the back of your ears for good measure.
As they helped you to your dress, you wondered which necklace to put on. Though you shortly had your answer when you saw Jaena take off her Seven-Pointed Star necklace and clasp it on your neck.
“You may have a better use for it today, my lady.” She offered, placing the charm just above your neckline.
“Quite right you are, Jaena, I thank you.” You squeezed her hand. “Are you ready to accompany me to the gardens, then?”
“Lead the way.” She replied, offering you her arm as you both giggled.
--
As you approached in measured steps, trying not to seem so eager, you finally saw him. He was in the middle of a conversation with your parents and the lord Hand.
Suddenly he turned, whatever words he was in the middle of speaking died out as he made eye contact with you. He swallowed hard, a frown disappearing as quickly as it appeared when he saw the source of the scent. Your smile innocent, as if you weren’t aware of the effect it was having on him. And it was evident, for when you glanced at your mother she was stifling her laughter as she smiled at you.
He walked towards you, bowing courteously as he met you halfway, only a few steps away from the others. “Good day, my lady” Lord Ormund said, not so stealthily letting your scent mess with his senses.
“Good day, Lord Hightower.” You replied as you watched him, it was evident how intoxicated the smell was to him as he sighed with less control you expected from such a stern lord.
He let go of your hand, looking back at you with little restraint, as if he struggled with just seeing your face. All men are fools, and all men are knights.
“Jaena, would you stay three paces behind us? I wish to walk the gardens with Lord Hightower.” You instructed her. “Would you indulge me, my lord? It has been too long since I last walked them, and they are oh so pretty this time a year...” A slight pout in your face as you turned to him and asked.
“It is a beautiful day, I would be honored.” He said, gesturing for you to start walking, getting next to him.
“How did you sleep, my lord?” You asked as you both started advancing through the garden path, fidgeting with the Seven-Pointed Star charm.
Lord Ormund chuckled when he glanced at you, his hands clasped on his back as he now looked ahead.
“You are beautiful, the maiden smiles upon you today more than any other day I’ve seen you. Are the choice of oils and necklace a gesture for me? You did not wear them the other times I have seen you.” He probed.
“I have my answer, I thought it was best to start looking the part as early as I could. More so when I looked you in the eye and accepted to be your wife.” You stopped, sitting on a nearby bench and smelling the flowers.
“We are still a long way from the Starry Sept, my lady. Though I appreciate your efforts, it shows me you are serious about our life together and what it requires of you.” He plucked a flower, handing it to you as he sat beside you. “I am quite glad you’ve made the right decision.”
You sat there for a while longer, enjoying the beautiful day alongside the man you would soon wed.
When you finally started walking back, he asked if you would like a pomander of your own to carry a scent of his choice with you, to remind you of him when you separated.
“Of course my lord, I would be quite honored to carry you with me, even when we are in separate rooms.”
He smiled at you warmly as you were now only a few steps away from your parents and the lord Hand.
“Good day, Lord Hightower.” You smiled coyly at him when you reached them, now walking to make your way back to your chambers with your mother’s arm interlaced with yours on one side and Jaena’s in the other.
it will never be enough - part 1: the secret meeting
ormund masterlist
celebration prompt list
crossposted on ao3
word count: 2.5k
summary: ormund hightower summons a young maiden to a secret meeting, he has a peculiar proposal for a betrothal
a/n:
this little series sprang up from my horny thoughts here so i hope you stick around 💚
reader is a velaryon, corlys and rhaenys's youngest but there are no other physical descriptions other than black long hair and lilac eyes like book rhaenys
the story takes place before the dance
I’m taking some things from the canon and some from hotd so just take that into consideration lol
cw: none really yet other than some discussions about sex (nothing explicit) but eventual smut starting next chapter probably so as always....
please do not repost my writing anywhere or feed it to any AI/LLMs, I do not authorize!
The hour was late in the Red Keep, awoken from your deep slumber, your mother helped you to your robes in hushed tones.
“It is time, he wishes to discuss the betrothal. With you.” She explained quickly as she guided you through the dark corridors, eventually finding an otherwise hidden passageway and pushing it open, with just enough space for you both to slip through.
“With who else, mother? Laena is married already.” You whispered, though it mattered not, the damp corridor echoing your words.
“You misunderstand, darling. He wishes to discuss the matter with you.” Rhaenys turned back, the low light of the candlestick making her face look more stern. “Come, we do not have much time, soon the morrow will be upon us.
“What is it with all the secrecy, mother? If he wished to speak with me, why not in the light of day, at the gardens in the open?”
Through the secret passageways you continued to follow her, the inner workings of Maegor’s tunnels were known to the blood of the dragon only. Rhaenys had made it a game to memorize them through her childhood visits with her cousins, always finding themselves listening in on the crown’s business in hushed tones when they were too young to understand the value of said information.
Tonight, however, she understood the use of the tunnels perfectly.
“You must be smart. Pay attention to everything you can: His body movements, his voice, his gaze, what he says even as he says something else. This is the only time you will be alone with him before you wed, if he agrees to the match, that is.”
“Mother… will you not be there to chaperone?” You stopped, the light of the candlestick reflecting your mother’s features as she attempted to not look as nervous as you now were.
“He let the queen know that this would be the only way he would entertain discussions. First he must speak with you, only after will he officially enter into negotiations with your father.”
Down the secret, narrow and slippery stairways you carefully went, the only way out was through. And yet, there was more calm in the darkness of the maze fashioned by Maegor, than what you expected to get once you were out of it. The request was strange, especially coming from him, knowing what little you did about the man.
Ormund Hightower, Lord of Oldtown and the queen’s cousin.
He had arrived at King’s Landing only a fortnight ago for Daeron, the king and queen’s youngest son who was set to ward at Oldtown. Lord Ormund, whose wife had passed only a year prior during childbirth, was here to take the boy with him after the hastilude that was to be held in the coming days to celebrate the young prince’s twelfth birthday, many had come to the Red Keep to attend and send the boy off. Your family included.
It was only two days ago that your parents had made you aware of a comment made by the king apparently in passing.
‘Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys’s youngest daughter is still unmarried, she is in great health as I saw her upon their arrival from Driftmark. A young, comely lady of high birth could surely be a good match if you wish for more children, my Lord.’
Merely a suggestion, but as everything King Viserys did, it held more weight once spoken in public. And so, the Lord Hand had approached your sire to try and facilitate a match for his kin.
You had seen Lord Ormund upon his arrival to the Red Keep, he’d been announced to everyone in court as he took long, certain steps to kneel upon the king, pledging honorably to take the auburn haired boy clinging to his mother’s skirts and help make him a man away from all the family he had ever known.
It made you feel sorry for the little one that day, he seemed so intimidated. Unprepared for what was to come. Maybe a little like you at the moment.
Stuck between a rock and a hard place, your father had entertained the idea and the Hand’s insistence upon it, and agreed to have a conversation with Otto’s nephew.
It had been Lord Ormund, however, who apparently wished to do things differently in the face of a possible second marriage. And here you were.
“I thought he was concerned with decorum to a fault. How is this proper?” You questioned your mother, now following her on more solid ground as you approached what you expected to be the lower level of the Red Keep.
“The queen informed me he is under threat of being gelded if even a hair in your head is found out of place, it is the only way she would approve the meeting. He is not as dear to her as I had been lead to believe.” She offered, trying to assure you both it seemed.
She stopped, tracing her hand around a wall, knocking on it in search for something. Not a moment later you heard the hollow knock and she smiled knowingly. Yet another hidden passageway has been found, your mother handing you the candlestick to maneuver and create the necessary opening.
“Your father and I will be on the other side of the door at all times.” She continued, taking the candlestick back from you. “Do you believe you can do this? We can still turn back and your father will handle his ire, if there is any.”
For a moment, you considered. “My other suitors have bored me so far, I know father would delay more if he could just as he did with Laena. However, I saw this as an opportunity from the moment you brought this matter to my attention.” You replied, holding her gaze with the same intensity and understanding.
Duty came for all. And part of yours, unfortunately, was to marry and squeeze out some Lord’s heirs. It was better to have options.
“He is not hard on the eyes either, I lose nothing but a good night’s sleep in entertaining whatever this is.” You joked.
She smiled, cupping your cheek, then took your hand, guiding you through the narrow space. You started to see the yellow light barely seeping under what you could only guess was the final secret door leading to your destination.
Rhaenys put the candlestick down and asked for your help once you reached the end. “Push, then pull to the right.” She instructed as she showed you how.
When you finally slid the large stone just enough to fit the two of you, you faced a high banner, surely placed there to help conceal the uneven stone. Your mother blew the candles and you both emerged from the banner, sliding the stone back into place.
Your father held watch next to the half-opened door of a dim lit room, he nodded at you once your mother took her place next to him. Both nodded at each other, then you.
As you stepped into the room, you looked back only to see your father smile at you encouragingly, then he closed the door.
“Come closer, my lady, so I may look upon you.” Lord Ormund sat facing the crackling fire of the hearth, one of his hands fidgeted with a palm sized orb, its chain linked to his tunic. He did not even attempt to face you as he waited.
You took a deep breath, held your head up high and crossed the short distance towards him. As you got closer you saw the way that the fire light framed his features. He was definitely handsome, his jaw was set sternly as he continued looking into the fire, as if your presence had not registered yet.
A few seconds went by and still, nothing, so you closed the space between the hearth and his sitting frame. “I am here, my lord. You may look upon me” You offered, right as he looked you up and down, there was a faint curiosity in his gaze, consideration already in it.
He rose, the chair scraping on the floor sounding louder than you would think, but then you remembered the hour. Morrow would be upon you soon if you were correct, servants would start their day when you least expected it and if any were to see you, negative talk would surely spread through the keep. Whatever business the Lord of the Hightower had, he needed to state it urgently.
“I will be plain: I have no need for more children, three of them are practically men already, however, my daughter Bethany is but one year old. She needs a mother. I had not started considering options as of yet, though I suppose, if you were inclined to… You would do fine.” He spoke as if it was a mere business transaction, the lack of interest in his voice a harsh contrast from the way he looked at you only a moment ago as he rose to your level. As if you leaving your home and making a new one out of Oldtown by his side was but an item for him to cross of a long list. "Daeron would also benefit to have someone like you around, I believe.”
“My lord, I have several suitors, why are you the only one requesting such a secret meeting? Most have met my father directly and offered terms before I’ve even shared the chaperoned space of a room with them.”
“There are other matters I wish to discuss without any prying eyes and ears. Though I suspect you Targaryens have your ways.” He replied, his patience wearing thin already, as if you were the odd one.
You stored away the remark about your heritage for discussion with your mother later.
“Let us discuss, then. You said you would be plain, so be plain, my lord.” You replied expectantly, your patience now also wearing thin.
“Have you been sullied?” He interrupted. “I will do my duty and consummate the marriage on our wedding night… only if you have remained untouched so far. Do not lie to me, I will know.”
“So you wished to insult me in private, then? Where no one would see? Of course I remain a maiden, my lord. Are there any other insults you wish to throw my way before the morrow, or, is that it?” You challenged, attempting to keep a level head. You saw it flash in his eyes though, satisfaction that he had gotten to you.
“Why have you not married? You are seven and twenty if memory serves me right. Women of similar birth and age as you have already squeezed out at least one babe by this time. If you remain a maiden, why have you not found a successful match as of yet?”
Ah, the ‘what is wrong with you, girl?’ question, of course.
“My mother is a dragon princess, my father the Lord of the Tides. As I mentioned, I have had my fair share of suitors, one almost made the cut only to then die at sea, but my father and I have agreed on the same thing regarding the others: the men who covet me only do so with the goal to obtain a broodmare of Valyrian blood, that is not a fate either of us desire for me. Your proposition is, therefore, certainly refreshing for me.” You offered him the same plain speech, as well as making your position clear.
“The blood of Jocelyn Baratheon certainly runs through your veins, and your eyes, I could have sworn they were a pale blue only a moment ago, but only upon a closer look can I see the lilac in them.” He squinted down to you, exploring your features more closely.
He continued, “I have no need for a Valyrian bride, and you do not look the part either. I do expect one thing, you must follow the Seven faithfully, with the Citadel and Starry Sept in Oldtown, the Hightowers set the example. I take that duty seriously, and expect the same from you if you are to become my wife.”
“That would not be a problem for me, my Lord. The maiden and I are close.” You joked.
It only crossed his features briefly, you almost missed it, but he did not appreciate the joke. Another thing to store away.
He then took your hand, bringing it to his lips and inhaling slowly. He was about to kiss the back of your hand when his expression suddenly soured, he asked, “Have you got one of those beasts as well? A dragon.” The contempt in his voice was not well concealed this time.
“I always desired one, but the egg from Meleys petrified and I accepted it would not be for me.”
“Hmm. That must have made you sad.” He finally kissed your hand, smelling it once more, as if to commit your scent to memory.
“It did, I was but 6 when it became clear it would never hatch. Alas, I adore my courser and palfrey. I may accompany you on a hunt sometime, if you wish.”
“Mayhaps.” His gaze was such of a man that had said absolutely everything he had planned on and was satisfied enough with the information he had gathered through the conversation. Then, as if he had almost forgotten, he mentioned, “As you probably know, the marriage bed and what happens in it is strictly for procreation. Not only do I have no need for any more heirs, I do not wish for any. Again, I will be blunt: there will be little to no coupling after our wedding night. The sins of the flesh have no place in the Hightower.”
You were stunned into silence, a part of you had been relieved that you would not be used to fatten the Lord’s ego, but the denial of the posibility of pleasure for the rest of your life was an entirely different matter altogether. If you had attempted to hide your surprise, you had failed, for Lord Ormund immediately elaborated on the matter.
“I will not embarrass or insult you, when I say that the sins of the flesh have no place in the Hightower I speak the truth. Even after our wedding night, there will be no whores being called to my chambers nor bastards running amok, I’ve no interest in sin. You will be my wife only for Bethany, Daeron and the public’s sake, the people need their lord to set a pristine example, and that cannot be achieved without a feminine presence in my castle, not anymore.”
The expression that now marred your face was still evident, even as you listened to his terms.
“When do you require an answer, my lord?” You asked, eager to leave the room and debrief with your mother.
“If your answer is yes, my lady, I would prefer to announce the betrothal on the final day of the hastilude in Daeron’s honor, three days from today.”
“I will let you know shortly, then.” The light was now starting to seep in from the window at the end of the room. “Good morrow.” You said, hastily leaving the room, the air getting harder to breathe.
AN : anon KNOWS whats up OMG, i had so much fun writing this and i MAY have gotten a little bit carried away.
thank you so much for the request, i hope you like it !!
────୨ৎ────
word count : 1.6k
warnings / other information : 18+ ONLY, smut, f!reader, sub(ish)!reader, dom!ormund, mention of loss of virginity, piv sex, creampie, oral (both m and f receiving), general sexual content, scent kink, oral fixation, masturbation, fingering, mention of public sex, genital anatomy and pronouns, slight power imbalance if you squint, not proofread
MDNI !!! 18+ ONLY
Ormund Hightower, whose touch changes as your relationship slowly progresses. During the stages of courting, he's gentle; his touch is careful, restrained, and aware- he was softer with you than with others, and you could see this plainly. During walks in the Hightowers' spring lusting gardens, he always offered his arm for you to interlink your arms with his own, ensuring his pace matched yours.
That was all so different from your marriage night. The consummation of your marriage seemed to be the moment when his facade dropped, giving you a glimpse into a man you could barely recognise.
Ormund Hightower, whose eyes darkened with desire as soon as you entered your new marriage chambers. His deep blue gaze remained on you as he closed the door behind him; he was accustomed to the bedding of a new bride and believed that the tradition did not require the prying eyes of guests.
Ormund Hightower, who approaches you slowly, like a predator assessing the state of its prey, his hands resting on your forearms, thumbs pressed against the pulse point of your wrist.
Ormund Hightower, who cannot help but allow a small smirk of satisfaction to rest on his lips as he feels your pulse quicken; he knew it formed from a mixture of assured fear and possibly longing.
Ormund Hightower, who guides you to the bed, urging you to sit on the edge of the mattress as he stands in front of you, his hands moving to gently thread his calloused fingers through your soft hair.
'It is alright, my sweet,' he tells you slowly, his voice low against the quietness of the room, 'it is normal to be nervous- to be afraid'. His voice drifts towards a mumble as he slowly kneels before you, looking up at you with a heavy gaze as his hands move to bunch and move the fine material of your wedding gown.
Ormund Hightower, who trails his teeth and tongue across the inner flesh of your thighs, slowly, measuredly drifting towards the heat radiating from your core. He takes his time with you; every shaky breath or sound that escapes your lips seems to urge him further.
Ormund Hightower, who takes your time with you that night, his touch demanding, controlling, and almost suffocating as he takes away your womanhood with the power and arrogance that could only arise from a man of his stature.
Ormund Hightower, who enjoys the meek sounds you begin to make more frequently as he laps his tongue against your needy clit. He could not help but be enthralled by the musky scent of your silk, burying the lower half of his face against it, deeply inhaling the essence of you as he grinds against the material of his breeches.
Ormund Hightower, whose touch is demanding and teasing, leaving you breathless and gasping as your pleasure builds, only to move his tongue away from your swollen clit when you need it most, leaving your hips bucking into the cold air of the room.
Ormund Hightower, who lets out a small huff of amusement at your patheticness and need, slowly rises from the floor, much to your dismay, as his hands move from gripping the meat of your thighs to his belt.
Ormund Hightower, whose hands quickly find the width of your hips after freeing his length, leaving his cock hard against the cold air of the room and beading with precum. He pushes you into the softness of the mattress, aligning his length with the depths of your hole, taking his time to press his head into you.
Ormund Hightower, who lets out a shaky sigh of pleasure as you clench around the length of his tip, adjusting to his width of him. His eyes shut and jaw clenches as he takes a short moment to compose himself, adjusting his hips before continuing to enter you.
Ormund Hightower, who only gives you a small moment to become accustomed to his member being deep inside your wet heat before he moves, adjusting your position as he pulls your hips up so your legs wrap around him before pressing one of his hands into the empty space beside your head while the other remains gripping your hip.
Ormund Hightower, who keeps his gaze on your contorting face as he slowly moves his hips, dragging out of you a few inches, before thrusting into you. He was restrained for now, relishing the power and control he had over you and your pleasure.
Ormund Hightower, who loves to see you fall apart into depravity, your head tilted shamelessly back into the sheets, your mouth agape and loud, and the prettiness of your dress ruined with folds, untied laces and sweat.
Ormund Hightower, who cannot help but give you an astounding mixture of praises and words of degradation between every few measured thrusts. 'You look so pretty coming undone for me,' he tells you with a pleased grunt only moments before he groans out, 'Gods, you take my cock better than any whore would. '
Ormund Hightower, whose grunts and guttural groans become louder and more prominent as he feels himself become closer to release, as your tightness envelopes his length with every thrust, but is determined to see you, shamelessly come undone before him.
Ormund Hightower, who moves your legs to rest on the mounds of his shoulders to reach deeper inside you and find the crudest sounds possible to escape your mouth. You cannot help but grip the muscles of his forearms, digging your nails into his flesh as you gasp and moan.
Ormund Hightower, who groans at your release and the sounds you make as you do so, his head tilting towards the roof as he continues to fuck you through your orgasm, his movements becoming harsher and more sporadic.
Ormund Hightower, who comes deep inside of you, holding you in place as he delivers the few dozen thrusts as he feels you with the warmth of his cum, a loud curse falling from his lips as you feel the tremors of his release.
Ormund Hightower, who fucks you slightly differently each time depending on his mood; his thrusts are harsher, and his eyebrows furrow more deeply when he's angry, his hands wander more, and his mouth explores yours with sloopy desire after long banquets, and his touch is softer, more teasing and longing after long hours without seeing you.
Ormund Hightower, who fucks you like his life depends on it, both before and after leaving you for long periods of time; his actions are depraved with the dedication of a man determined to claim you yet somehow controlled in the manner of a Commander and Lord.
Ormund Hightower, who deeply enjoys watching your mouth, whether it be taking his length into your mouth, tongue swirling around the head of the member, or sucking on his thick, ringed fingers after spending his time curling his fingers inside of you.
Ormund Hightower, who makes you clean your release and wetness off of his digits after you've found release. 'Clean yourself off of me,' he mutters in command, only a moment after you've composed yourself.
Amusement sparks in the deep blue of his eyes as he moves his hand towards your already agape mouth, a warm smirk resting on his lips as he watches you, already so used to the routine. He places his pointer and middle finger inside your mouth before you close your lips, tongue traversing the thickness of his fingers as you clean the saltiness of your silk from his skin.
Ormund Hightower, who gets off to the smell of you, especially during elongated periods away from you, his sweet lady wife. More often than not, he keeps a cloth dosed in your scent; the distinct smell of your skin and perfume that he keeps in his breastplate or pocket.
He cannot help but press the cloth against his nose in the solitude of his chambers or tent, his head leaning back as his hand moves to the tent slowly raising beneath the material of his breeches. He pumps his length with his fist, imagining it was you moving against him; whether it be your cunt, mouth, or your own hands.
Ormund Hightower, who would fuck you anywhere in the Hightower, knowing that he has the power, authority, and arrogance to do just that. Although he would never outwardly do it, believing it was unbecoming of someone in his position, except for one exception: his solar. He makes you kneel beneath the desk of his solar and take him into your mouth while he writes a response to the message he received a few hours prior.
Ormund Hightower, who loves to pump you full of his seed and who equally enjoys watching as it pours and drips from your hole and pushing it back into you with his fingers. The thought of you being filled with him and carrying the weight of his child is something he can't ignore and can't seem to escape when he thrusts into you.
Ormund Hightower, whose soft broen curls cling to his sweaty forehead after particularly long or draining rounds. Leaning against the soft pillows of your marital bed, he moves one of his hands to fix his hair while the other lies gently draped around you as you lie against his bare frame.
Ormund Hightower, whose hands wander and stay on you even after sex, his arms seem to always find a way to wrap around your waist, hold you against him, or move to gently run his fingers through your locks
summary: you are to become the wife of a man whose fate is deeply intertwined with religion. you wish with all your heart to be worthy of your lord hightower. you ask him for a small mercy, to teach you to see the world through his eyes. ormund cannot help but bask in the feeling of pride as he watches you, folded in humble prayer
word count: 2.5k
tropes: religious themes ⋆ possessive .ᐟ ormund ⋆ dark undertones ⋆ tender moments ⋆ comfort ⋆ mutual respect
warnings: 18+ audiences only ⋆ sexual tension ⋆ mention of faith ⋆ possessive behavior ⋆ emotional intensity ⋆ mild anxiety ⋆ religious guilt ⋆ implied sexual desire ⋆ heated moments
thea's note: i didn't plan to make a reference to prince andrei bolkonsky, but when i finished writing the paragraph about the tree compared to the mighty man who embodies it, i realized i had. it was such a pleasure to write this fic, oh gods how appropriate is that exclamation here? and it became especially special because i wrote this for someone very sweet @fire-joestar <33
Walking through the lush, life filled gardens of House Hightower, you could not help but feel a light nervousness settling like grey ash in your heart. You paced along the neatly paved paths without any of the pride that many brides surely felt, preparing to claim these grounds as their own. You kept stopping with an internal anxiety that had already wrapped your chest in unpleasant metallic threads. Ormund, walking behind you, mirrored your steps, though he looked relaxed in contrast. His face was smooth, almost blissful. His blue eyes took in the sight of the garden with reverence, but it was nothing compared to the way he looked at you.
A chestnut tree spread its branches with a sense of dignity. The tree looked proud, full of color. Among the lush greenery, reminiscent of your future husband's house colors, lush white flowers peeked through, resembling candles. A sweet, almost honeyed aroma filled the morning air. Looking at the plant, you could not help but think how this garden reminded you of Ormund himself. He carried the same unshakable calm, the same majesty, with an air as if it meant laughably little. Lord Hightower wore a heavy velvet cloak in a deep emerald color. His body seemed tense almost all the time, as if he held an entire sky on his broad shoulders. In this, he reminded you of the crown of a majestic tree.
You awkwardly touched the cold silver of your earrings, adjusting them periodically, not because they sat unevenly, but because you wanted some way to calm yourself. The trinket was a recent gift from your betrothed. They were heavy, the lobes of your ears felt the pressure, like a promise that being the wife of the head of such a house would not be simple. The earrings swayed slightly and settled against your neck, kissing your skin with the points of their rays. Two little stars with seven points and pearls set in the middle. This generous gesture from Ormund had become a nagging thought for you. You wanted to be worthy of it, and that extended far beyond just the earrings. You wanted to wear seven pointed stars in your ears with the same honor with which he carried his faith. You wanted to be part of his world, steeped in beeswax and quiet, devoted prayers.
You were the middle daughter in your family, and perhaps because of that, you did not receive the same attention as your older sister. This applied not only to your parents but also to your septa. You did not want to blame that good woman for not instilling in you the necessary love for faith. But as far back as you could remember, you recalled fingers pricked by a needle more than hands folded in prayer. You felt somewhat detached from this world. You had never been particularly religious, and before, you had never even thought about it. But now, walking shoulder to shoulder with your future husband, Ormund Hightower himself, you could not help but ask yourself many questions about your previous life.
The head of House Hightower noticed how your expression had changed. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, as your head was covered in a white cloth like a dove's wing. Ormund could not help but admire you involuntarily. You looked so innocent and pure, like an angel descending from the heavens directly into his arms. The curve of your cheek was softly outlined, and the fabric clung to your beautiful face. Your gaze was captivatingly hidden beneath the shadow of your lashes. You could not have imagined that your image radiated so much temptation. You were a mystery covered in a patterned veil.
"You've grown quiet. Has something happened? Is it because of the wedding? Have you changed your mind?" Ormund chuckled quietly. You guessed he was trying to tease you sweetly, but his shameless nature pierced through this armor of sweetness very successfully.
You shook your head with a slight smile. This marriage was desired by both of you. It was almost surprising. When you were a very young maiden, you had already resigned yourself to an arranged marriage, because that fate had befallen many of your friends and acquaintances. Some of them married so young, and their husbands were much older, that you were involuntarily grateful to the gods each time for the love you shared with Ormund.
"I wouldn't refuse. Too much has already been done. It would be a shame if all the flowers prepared for the wedding went to waste."
The irony that slipped into your voice gave Ormund a slight thrill. Those rare moments when you teased him while still looking like such a pious lady made him weak. All good and proper thoughts left his head. Lord Hightower turned his head away, pretending that a neatly trimmed bush was occupying his attention. He did not allow himself to cross the boundaries of propriety, for later he would never forgive himself. Such sweet lies, convincing himself that he was not waiting for the wedding night as much as a starving man waits for food.
"But something is bothering you, isn't it?" Ormund rasped quietly, his voice hoarse from pent up emotion.
"I would like everything to go perfectly. I don't want to do something that will later become a constant reminder of my ignorance regarding religion."
"Ignorance is too strong a word, and I would say unworthy of you."
"Lord Hightower, you don't understand. I don't even know how to pray properly," you whispered with some desperation. These words had slipped from your lips, and you regretted not being able to hold them back. Your cheeks warmed with a blush that spread across your skin.
The man stopped and looked at you intently. Something predatory flickered in his spring like eyes. He smiled with the corners of his lips. You blinked in confusion. Shouldn't he be outraged? Did this not truly make you ignorant? But Ormund simply extended his hand to you silently. In this gesture, there was barely a hint of authority. You obediently reached for him. Something was pulling your body, tugging at the strings, forcing you to obey.
His hand covered yours, and it felt pleasantly right. His fingers were long and elegant, like swords forged by a skilled master, clinging to your fingers with a sense of ownership. Ormund still tried to hide the fact that you belonged to him no less than Oldtown. In his "my betrothed," there was a rough love. No one doubted that the marriage would take place, because it was the will of Lord Hightower.
"It's pleasant to be the first at something, hmm?" he purred quite ambiguously. You were slightly less innocent than he imagined, so you caught his hint. The upcoming wedding night troubled you no less.
You nearly gasped when you saw where you had ended up. You had walked through these gardens before, but you had never wandered into this spot. Before you stood a white marble gazebo with a dome of green stained glass and silver swirls that reminded you of ripples on seawater. There were seven columns, unsurprisingly, each representing a familiar figure. The silhouettes of the Seven bathed in golden sunlight, and their smiles at this time of day looked blessing and kind. The work was so masterful that you could make out every fold in their garments and every wrinkle on the faces of the statues. In the center of the gazebo stood an altar, a massive square polished at the edges, made of the same white marble but with graphite veins.
You froze, overcome with reverence. You could not believe that your future husband had brought you to such a sacred place. For you, this meant the same as opening his soul. Ormund gently urged you forward, or rather pulled you along, slowly ascending the low steps.
"This is not the sept, but I tried to make it a little like one. There is a little less strictness here and more freedom." Ormund nodded at the ivy that wrapped around the railings with its green tenacious paws.
"I think for a first time, it will do perfectly." His voice became deeper and quieter, as if he was afraid to disturb the peace of the Seven.
Lord Hightower's knees touched the cold floor. The cushion remained peacefully lying beside his feet. It was clear that he had never performed a prayer with anyone before. You pressed your hands to your chest. Unease gripped your entire spirit. The faces of the Seven could not set you up for confession, nor could Ormund who spoke so gently. His hair caught the light, glowing with copper threads, sparkling almost like amber.
"Come here, my lady. There is nothing to be afraid of." He insisted softly. Your cheeks warmed again. A bad, unrighteous feeling made the pit of your stomach clench into a tight knot.
How intimate it was to see the man who would belong to you kneeling before you. Ormund seemed ready to pray not to the gods, but to you alone. It would cost you nothing to step closer and run your hand through his thick hair. It would cost him nothing to leave a kiss on your stomach and travel lower.
You swayed and quickly sank onto the cushion he offered, afraid that he might hear your bold fantasies. Or were you already sharing one fantasy between the two of you as spouses?
"This might seem humiliating, but it is a posture of humility. Pride is a terrible vice, and how else are we to atone for it if not before the gods?" he whispered softly, like a gentle breeze against your trembling back.
His fingers picked up a thin wax candle, fingers that could easily break it in half, but they held it with the tenderness of a lover. He lit his candle. The flame danced smoothly, swaying from side to side. The glow of the lit candle played in your eyes. Ormund held his breath almost imperceptibly. A protective feeling spread through his chest. One of your locks slipped from under your headscarf and fell onto your soft cheek.
He cleared his throat hastily, realizing he had been caught openly devouring you with his eyes. Ormund offered you the candle so you could light your own, but he could not let go of your fingers. He squeezed your flesh with hidden passion. Desire clouded his mind. Would the Seven approve of him imagining biting your lower lip to push his tongue into your sweet mouth?
The marble face of the Mother now looked stern, and perhaps she was saving you from some foolishness right before your wedding, because Ormund pulled back, trying to straighten up. You watched the dance of your candles' flames standing close to each other. Two thin wax pillars desired each other no less than you and Lord Hightower.
"Place your palms together, warm them, feel the blood in you, that you are alive, and that it is thanks to the Seven, my lady." Ormund sighed quietly. He closed his eyes with extraordinary submission. With each new word, a composure awakened in him. He only occasionally glanced at you, checking how much you were giving yourself to the prayer or to his gentle commands.
"You can pray aloud. That is usually how it is done in the sept. That way you feel your involvement, and also that you are not alone, how faith fills you, making you the strongest person in the world. But you can also pray silently. That is your conversation with the gods. They will hear you because you are their daughter."
Lord Hightower whispered something completely unintelligible, but so tender that it made an indescribable impression on you. Your heart trembled, afraid of bursting. You were not praying. You were looking at your future husband without blinking. He was so devoted, so removed from the whole world, and the Seven, how beautiful he was! You forgot how to breathe. You wanted to immediately confess to the gods for all your sins, especially for the sin that had soaked into the skirt of your dress. Sometimes nature conquered any morality.
"Are you still worried about the upcoming wedding?" he suddenly asked, lazily opening only one eye like a cat. "You are not praying, dear."
"I am praying silently! And yes, I am worried, because I want everything to follow the strict traditions of your house." You began playing with your earrings again to occupy your trembling hands.
His blue eyes watched your nervous fingers. He was curious to feel your pulse, not just to run the pad of his thumb over your thin skin, but to warm your wrist with his lips, to trace the beating vein with the tip of his tongue.
"Everything will be as my wife wishes." Ormund swallowed. "And I appreciate that, my lady, your devotion. I swore to the Seven that my wife would lack nothing, that I would be everything to her that she desires."
You lowered your head so he would not see the wide smile that had appeared on your face. His words warmed you like strong Dornish wine.
Ormund approached without asking, lifting your chin with his fingers and kissed not your forehead or cheek, but your lips. His lips pressed against yours hotly and tenderly, his tongue tracing the outline of your upper lip, and you timidly allowed him to deepen the kiss with a shameless sigh. All you could do was part your lips a little more, letting your betrothed kiss you with pressure. His tongue slid against your inexperienced one. He was teaching you again, but this time there was no trace of anything as pure as prayer. Ormund's teeth grazed your soft lips, gently biting them and kissing them as if immediately comforting you, apologizing. Your moisture trickled down the inside of your thighs, which you pressed together to keep it from spilling onto the silk cushion.
You moaned pitifully, and that became something sobering for him. He did not pull away immediately. Ormund kissed you again, but tenderly this last time, unhurriedly sealing your swollen lips together. A wet thread stretched between your mouths, not allowing you to part so soon.
"The gods are merciful, as you can see, my lady." Lord Hightower whispered with eyes darkened and gleaming with arousal. "For I asked them for this."
You still could not calm your heart and your ragged breath, let alone the ache of your pussy craving sin.
Ormund did not look so agitated, or he hid it well. He meditatively dipped a sprig of hyssop into a bowl of water. With his brows furrowed in concentration, he ran the plant across your heated forehead. Water dripped onto your skin, but could not cool it.
Something vaguely told you that it would be different in the sept, certainly without that beastly kiss between prayer and aspersion, but your future husband looked as if he had done everything exactly as the rules you had so sweetly insisted upon required.
taglist: @lustedbby @pinkdoeweirdo @userhotd @rottenbites @ghostlybfgf @sedonasummer @risingraisin @icebearcucumber @baskettis @senatorpadmeamidala @sinarainbows @believeyourgalaxy if you want to be tagged, let me know .ᐟ
Pairing: Ormund Hightower x F!Wife!Reader
Warning(s): Ormund’s hyperosmia/cacosmia/obsessive-compulsiveness, kinky Ormund, explicit sexual content, blow job/painted face, consensual, bratty-reader pranks her husband, sexual punishment, attempt at humour, sub/dom undertones, porn without plot.
No use of y/n, the reader has no physical description.
No AI involved, all of my garbage is mine, and I'm still human.
English is not my first language; my apologies for any eventual mistakes.
Don't copy, translate, upload, or use my works anywhere.
Like, Comments and Reblogs are always welcome :D
✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:
Don’t play with the box
Ormund’s chambers were always so quiet. You loved staying there, even when he was away. There was calmness, everything was tidy and in order and, of course, there was a good smell in the air. Not to mention the strict order that allowed access only to you and the selected servants who could put their hands in his linen.
You walked around slowly, carefully touching his belongings perfectly sorted on his desk and repositioning them in the same position. You could only pray the Seven to save you if he had found something out of place, until your eyes landed on his precious box, where he stocked the herbs for the pomander.
And so, the idea came to your mind. It was led by boredom mostly, but an eventual punishment from your husband tickled your senses enough to proceed.
You didn’t really know what you were carrying on your way back from the kitchen, but the cook gave you what you were asking for, something that smelled bad. Very, very bad. And the poor cook also minced it in small pieces, easy to mix with Ormund’s herbs. Your stomach was asking for mercy, but it wasn’t the bad smell; the aroused nervousness your body was feeling couldn’t be compared to any strong sensation you ever felt in your life, except when you shared the bed with Ormund. Those nights were aphrodisiac.
Your hands were still in his box when you heard his voice down the hall. Your heart sped up instantly, and you rushed to complete the prank. When your husband entered boldly into the room, followed by four servants, you were standing still next to his desk, with your hands behind your back.
“Welcome back, my love.” You said with a sweet smile.
Ormund looked you up and down, leaving the surprise of finding you there to the pleasure of having you there. “My Life…” He slightly nodded and smirked as he moved toward you for a kiss.
“Nothing is better than the flavour of your lips after a long journey.” He complimented.
“Nothing is better than the idea of having you in my bed after a long journey.” You suggested.
“Forgive me, My Life, but as far as my limbs burn with desire to make you mine, I don’t want to torture you with the smell of days of riding without even the chance to use a river to wash my face.”
“It is only your problem, husband. You know, I find it attractive.”
The effort you made to hold the laugh stuck in your throat was indescribable when you saw his face contorting with disgust. The prank started.
“Is everything alright, my love?” You faked concern.
He nodded again, licking his lips and looking around with a frown. “Leave us, please.” He ordered the servants.
“My Lord, what about the bath you requested?”
“Yes, yes… proceed to prepare it.” He dismissed them with a distracted wave of his hand and started to pace around the room. He sniffed everything he could reach, moving objects, smelling the bed sheets and the pillows.
“Are you looking for something?”
“Do you smell that too?” He asked, frowning at you for a brief moment.
“No, I don’t. What is it?”
“I don’t know, but it’s terrible.” He made a disgusted noise as the obsession increased. “Like rotten meat or something.”
“I can open the windows, I’m sure the…”
“Fresh air doesn’t solve the problem!” He raised his voice in turmoil. “Help me find what’s smelling so bad.”
“Alright.” You casually moved around the room, pretending to smell objects and, from time to time, looking at him to enjoy the view of your restless husband. How cruel you were in torturing him so badly, but how exciting was the thought of the consequences.
“It must be a rat. I can’t think otherwise. Did you eat in here while I was away?”
“No, My Love. Your requests are clear; no one is allowed to introduce food into your solar. I made sure the servants fulfilled your orders as well.”
“Very well…” He said without real satisfaction, proceeding in emptying the library with the intent to find the imaginary rat on the shelves.
Someone knocked at the door.
“NOT NOW!” He yelled.
“Ormund…”
“I’m sorry, my dear wife.” He apologised immediately, hardly finding his composure. “Fuck, I need my herbs; this smell is causing me a headache.”
He reached his desk in long strides, opening his box without ceremony but freezing immediately after. You knew that face. The silent, serious frown that could only erupt into uncontrollable rage. The idea of the punishment tickled your sense shamefully. The warm sensation that grew from your stomach worked along with the wetness of your pussy, as he slowly looked in your direction.
“My Love.” He said solemnly.
“Yes, husband?”
“My herbs have been sabotaged.”
The calmness with which he said it made your skin curl, and your not-surprised “Oh?” that followed made everything clear. Ormund’s gaze darkened as he pursed his lips and looked back at his herbs' box.
“Do you know something about it?” He asked even if he already knew the answer. He knew you liked doing things that bothered him only to catch his attention. But his box, his inestimable herbs treasure… that was a serious matter.
You looked around, pretending to think about it and shaking your head. There was an endless pause before he stood up from his desk and threw away everything that was on the desk with a hand stroke. That sudden action made you jump in fright, but caused a shiver of pure arousal through your body.
“What did I say about my herbs' box, My Love?” He asked calmly as he slowly walked toward you.
“No one can even look at it.”
“Correct.” He nodded, maintaining eye contact. “Then why did you play with it?”
You shrugged and shook your head once again, your gaze still glued to his. Every fibre of you was asking to be punished, and he felt it. His most precious thing, spoiled in every way possible, made him furious on purpose. He hardened instantly, and he felt it was better than usual because the anger he felt was real.
“You disobeyed me.”
“I did, my dear husband.” You said as you slowly moved toward the bed.
“Are you going to apologise for it?”
You didn’t answer immediately because it would have upset him even more, and it worked.
“ANSWER ME!”
“No! I’m not going to apologise!” You yelled back.
Ormund’s jaw tightened as he reached you quickly, tearing apart your beautiful green and gold dress and pulled it down from the neckline. You gasped in surprise since it was the first time he was so disrespectful. Under similar circumstances, he would have ordered you to undress slowly or to touch yourself in front of him. Sometimes he ordered you to take a bath while he jerked off but now, it was violent.
The firm grip around your hair kept you in position as his other hand wrapped half of your face completely. “You crossed the line, My Life. I feel forced to do this the hard way.” He pushed you down on your knees, and unbuttoned his trousers, dropping them to the floor unceremoniously. His cock finally free, erected in all its glory right in front of your face.
You admired it for a while and then looked up, silently waiting for his order. There was something extremely hot in what was happening, and you both were tasting the waters.
“You said it before, you don’t have a problem with my bad smell. So, suck it.”
When your fingertips brushed its tip and gently slipped to the base, Ormund breathed out a delighted sigh. Your tongue licked the sour precum then, and your doe eyes moved to his face as you proceeded in taking it inch by inch.
“May the Seven forgive me, you’re the most beautiful thing I have laid my eyes on in a while.” His low voice reached your core, making your pussy clench in anticipation.
The movements of your mouth and your hand were controlled, an agonising slowness only to prolong the ecstasy. Every time you tried to reach his crotch, gagging from time to time, but never stopped. The confirmation of your good job came with his guttural noises, deep, and sinful, and the automatic spasm of his pelvis to sink into your mouth more and more.
A trembling hand grasped your hair once again, and you felt his struggle in holding back from forcing you to speed up. “Wife, let me stain your pretty face, please…” He was asking nicely because he was fully aware of how gross that request was, but he needed to fulfil that filthy desire.
When you suddenly stopped to suck, but held his cock firmly in your hand, he gritted his teeth and gave you the most miserable glance he could. You were the one kneeling, but you were the one in charge.
“Will my dear husband forgive me for my mean actions?” You cooed.
“You did something serious.” He gasped out, and you replied with a couple of strokes, making him groan against his will. “Yes, My Life… I…fuck, I forgive you.”
His cock was leaking already into your hand, and your smirk vanished only when you resumed your blow job, this time, increasing your speed and making him reach the peak in a few moments. “Fuck!” He groaned as he pulled your face off and came all over your face. You let him dirt you, giving him the illusion you were even.
“Look at you…” He panted. “Beautiful.” He pulled up his trousers and knelt in front of you, taking his green velvet cloth hanging from his shoulder to clean your face. His gestures were delicate and tender.
“I used a small part of your herbs to prank you, My Love. The rest is safe in my silk pouch in your drawer.” You confessed.
“You’re a little minx.” He smirked in sheer joy.
Someone knocked again, but this time, Ormund let them in.
“My Lord, the bath is ready.”
“Thank you.”
When you two remained alone again, he helped you to stand up and kissed your hand. “Will you join me, My Life?”
BLOOD OF MY BLOOD, KIN OF MY KIN
─── ormund hightower
summary: a glimpse into the years you and ormund raised daeron before the war took its toll, and all the years after. (10k)
characters: ormund hightower / wife!reader, daeron targaryen, alicent hightower, viserys i targaryen, mentions of rhaenyra and daemon
contents: established relationship, found family, domestic bliss, angst, hurt/comfort, protective!ormund, canon divergent, not proofread, cw for mentions of pregnancy complications and miscarriages, brief mentions of blood and gore, canon typical manipulation and psychosis from ormund towards the end lol
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
115 A.C. / Oldtown
The bed is still warm from your blood on the morning the babe arrives.
It had not been quite two days since the maester had drawn the small, still shape of your daughter from you and told you, gently enough as not to break you further, that she had never drawn breath at all. You had told none of the household that you had been carrying her at all, save for the maesters and your closest of handmaidens — for you had learned, after the second loss, how courtiers feed on grief like vultures to carrion. So while you wept for days longer than your babe would ever live, the rest of Oldtown simply assumed that their lady had taken ill with a woman’s ailment, and kept to her rooms accordingly.
But today the King is coming, and your mother would surely turn in her early grave if she knew the lady she raised up planned to receive a king from a sickbed — pallid, unlaced, and undone.
“There is no harm in resting, my love,” Ormund coos from across the room, watching with attentive eyes as your handmaiden laces you into a gown of Hightower green. You keep yourself braced on the wooden back of a chair and grit your teeth with every tug, pulling carefully to conceal the subtle bump of your stomach.
The man tilts his head and crosses his arms over the chest of his emerald doublet, in a feeble attempt to extinguish the worry searing between his lungs. “Viserys is a king man. He will understand. Alicent, more than anyone, would understand—”
“And what has Alicent lost?” you argue, sharper than you intended. Your head whips hard to the side in time to find Ormund flinching beneath the bite of your words — a small flicker at the edges of his eyes; a brief lowering of his brows.
You soften with a sigh a moment later and remind yourself that Ormund lost something too, even if the loss was not pulled from his body to claim it.
“Forgive me, I… I only meant that… The Queen has four living children. And she carried each one with grace— There is no part of her that could possibly understand how I feel… And I wouldn’t wish it upon her besides.”
Ormund exhales through his nose and takes a step closer, boots scuffing the cobbles. “Then at least let me tell them that you are unwell—”
“No,” you dismiss with a shake of your stubborn head, eyes shutting briefly when the corset tightens again. “I refuse to be spoken of like some frail, ailing thing while the King sups at our table.”
Your gaze is wet with unshed tears when they open again, snapping to Ormund’s pale ones with a glimmering determination. “I am the Lady Hightower,” you tell him, brows raised and eyes firm. “So I will greet them standing. On my own feet. In my own home.”
Ormund’s chest, still heavy with grief, blooms with a distant sort of pride at your words. Perhaps because a part of him had long understood that you did not always dream of being the Lady Hightower. Your marriage was made of meetings and ledgers and alliances rather than any actual tenderness, as was true in most great marriages in Westeros. He knows, had you had it your way, you would’ve wed that gardener’s boy you grew up with — who you attempted to bring with you to Oldtown upon your betrothal, along with many of your household’s servants.
Ormund had the brawny, olive-skinned boy sent away within a fortnight — the moment he understood what kind of feelings the peasant boy had for you, and you for him. It was perhaps the first mad thing he ever did for you and, by Ormund’s later admission, the first time he realized that he might love you truly. (Though he had not thought it mad at the time, or love until many moons later, when he was struck with the sudden realization that the thought of Oldtown with you in it would be entirely unbearable.)
“Then we shall go,” Ormund nods in acquiescence as he plants himself just ahead of you. His gaze fixes into a sterner look a second later, as he tilts his chin to his chest and ducks into your eyeline. “But know I am not happy about this.”
“And yet Oldtown will remain standing anyway,” you joke in a softer coo. “I have faith that we’ll survive one of your unhappy mornings, my lord.”
The walk from your chambers to the gates of Oldtown is not long, but you feel every stone beneath your slippers as if the journey were some great pilgrimage across the whole of Westeros.
You brace Ormund’s strong arm with both your hands, fingers curling into the fine wool of his coat hard enough to blanche your knuckles. He slows his long stride to match your smaller, more careful one without a word shared between you — a wall of green and muscles at your side, shielding you from the curious eyes of courtiers wondering why their lord and lady moved so slowly. So close.
It’s the first time you’ve tasted fresh air in three days. The breeze smells of the sea from the harbor and fish from the markets — mixing with the sweet citrus of the orange and lemon trees blooming in the gardens. Their white petals scatter like snow along the pale stone with every gust off the bay. You breathe in deeply through your nose, trying hopelessly to clear away the metallic tang of your own blood stubbornly clinging to the inside of your nostrils.
“His Grace, Viserys of House Targaryen,” the herald calls as the royal party files in on fine horses and gilded carriages, black banners snapping in the wind. “First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.”
Viserys is the first to exit when the caravan finally stills. He descends the steps a knight places down for him, portlier than you remember from your last journey to King’s Landing, some years before your marriage. His kind face has started to wither from fatigue and age alike. The crown seems heavier upon his head, though perhaps it’s only from where his silver hair has started to thin at the scalp.
Alicent follows out just behind him. She wears a black dress with drooping sleeves and a veil to cover her long auburn curls, fit for a funeral procession. A knight of white armor and long black hair helps her descend the steps as she cradles a small, dark bundle squirming in protest in her arms.
You sink into a curtsy. A white-hot pain swells from the pit of your stomach to the top of your spine — a lightning strike that burns for minutes after. You grip Ormund’s arm until your fingers tremble, though the polite smile on your face remains when you rise again.
“Ormund,” Viserys greets with an easy smile. He clasps your husband’s free arm with a genuine affection while his tired eyes drift along the white stone towers of the city. “My… Oldtown is just as fair as I remember it.”
“I agree, Your Grace, though I confess I am far more partial,” Ormund responds with a dry humor and a knightly smile. “I hear the view improves the longer one is forced to stare at it.”
Viserys laughs while, beside him, Alicent tries and fails to summon her own. Her elegant features are worn from the weeks of travel, many of which you imagine were spent balancing the fussing weight concealed against her chest just now.
“And my lady…” Viserys inclines his silver head towards you, studying your face with a pair of kind eyes. “You look well.”
You feel, in a word, like death dressed in Hightower green. You feel hollowed out and stitched together again, the farthest thing from well. But you nod once and thank the King all the same, profoundly grateful when your voice doesn’t shake.
“Truly. Marriage suits you both well,” Viserys nods. “Though, I admit, I’d hope Daeron might have had a cousin or two near enough in age to grow up beside him here. Once he’s old enough for such things, of course.”
Ormund tenses beside you.
His arm feels very suddenly like holding onto stone. His pale eyes turn glacial in a flicker; a withheld grief that he forces himself to swallow down the second it rises like bile in his throat. You say nothing at all. You just keep smiling and pray to whatever god will hear you that you do not weep in front of the King and all his men.
“But there’s still time— You’ll have one of your own before long, I’m sure of it,” the older man continues, possessing no notion of what had happened behind these walls hardly two days past. If he notices anything amiss, he does not dwell on it, and turns instead to Alicent. “Go on. Let them see the boy.”
Alicent’s arms tighten instinctively around the bundle in her grasp and inhales sharply through her nose. It had been her own decision that Daeron be sent to her family’s ancestral home. Her last child was not quite six months when she counseled her King to send him to ward, far from the chaos of King’s Landing. But she finds herself suddenly plagued by the harsh realization that this will be the last time she will hold this baby as he is now. The next time she’s like to lay eyes on him again, he’ll be an unrecognizable young boy, and not nearly the small thing fussing against her collarbone now.
“He hasn't slept," Alicent warns as she steps closer. Her green eyes are warm and weary when they flit to you. “He didn’t take well to the carriage. Or the ship. He’s cried the whole way from Blackwater, I think. Poor thing…”
“I’m sure we can manage a crying babe, my Queen,” Ormund says gently, though there’s a distant aching in his voice disguised as good humor that only you could recognize. “I grew up with Gwayne, if you remember. I’m more than acquainted with wailing boys by now.”
Alicent musters a small smile and closes the distance between you to settle her son in your arms.
He’s warm — that’s the first thing you notice — he’s a small furnace swaddled in Targaryen black. He stirs briefly at the transfer from one chest to another, round face screwing tight in the prelude to a wail. Your heart clenches to brace yourself for that sound. It never comes.
The babe turns his face into the curve of your throat and settles into stillness with one small fist curled into the fabric of your gown. The tiny sound he makes isn’t a cry, but it isn’t quite a coo either. He sleeps, finally, in your arms — not even two days after you held your daughter between them, who had never awoken at all.
Ormund’s wide hand settles at the small of your back. Even in its steadiness, you feel the subtle tremor of his fingers against your spine. His throat tightens with the sudden urge to cry at the sight — of you, still frail and yet so bravely composed, cradling another woman’s child after laying your own to rest in the sept. He swallows through the hands of grief strangling his throat and feels a warmer feeling settling in its wake.
“Well…” Viserys hums, watching the baby sleep against you with a proud look in his weathered eyes. “It seems the boy’s found his corner of Oldtown already— Isn’t that lovely, Alicent?”
The woman nods, though shock still etches slightly in her pale features and behind the dark green of her eyes. “Of course, Your Grace,” she says and clears her throat, blinking back her tears with a queen’s practiced grace. “Thank you both for taking him.”
“He'll want for nothing here," Ormund swears with a firm nod. “You have my word. We'll raise him as if he were our own trueborn son.”
You pull the blanket gently back to peer at the sleeping baby swaddled within it. He’s practically all cheeks, with his mother’s mouth and nose.
You had been certain, two days past, that your life had surely ended with your daughter’s. That there would be nothing more to life than a hollow, vacant silence. But now, there is warmth — and a babe’s slow breath fanning along your collarbone.
You do not yet have a name for the foreign feeling swelling inside of you. It’s not joy, not yet, but it isn’t grief either. Or, at least, not only grief. And for now, that would have to be enough.
127 A.C. / Training Yard
The sound of clashing steel finds you before the sight of it does. The ring and scrape of blade on blade carries across the bustling courtyard, where you’ve gone to look for a young prince who was, as Maester Yorrick informed you with a palpable impatience, nearly an hour late for his lessons. You find the boy exactly where you imagined he would be — sword-training with his uncle, who has since stripped down to a pale tunic now darkened with sweat from the exercise.
Daeron, now thirteen years of age, is all knees and elbows from a sudden growth spurt that had taken him seemingly overnight. He presses a defensive attack upon his uncle with all the fierceness of a knight, but with the gracelessness of a teenage boy. Even you could tell from where you stood that his swing had no hope of landing. Ormund turns the blow aside with a lazy flick of his wrist, no more troublesome than swatting a fly from the air.
“Awful,” you hear the man scold from afar. When Daeron grits his teeth and presses forward once more, Ormund steps back and lets the boy’s momentum carry him a half stride too far. His blade misses his mark by inches. “Gods, that’s even worse—”
Daeron lunges a third time, fuelled now by a boyish rage that twists his freckled features. Ormund steps inside the overextended reach, hooks a boot around the boy’s ankle, and trips him onto the dirt with his blunted blade pressed to his ribs. Daeron hits the ground with a thud, red-faced and breathing heavy. His long auburn tendrils cling to his sweaty temple when he whips his head to glare up at his uncle.
“Dead,” Ormund proclaims from where he stands over the boy, flat but not totally unkind. He raises his brows and tilts his chin to his chest. “If this were a real sword, I’d have had your head before the thought to swing finished forming in that head of yours.”
Daeron twists himself upward and shoves the faux blade away with a boyish scowl. “You always say that,” he grumbles, refusing the hand Ormund extends to help him up. He rises to full height on his own and swipes dirt from his pale palms.
“Yes. I always say it because it's always true. You're thinking with your temper again— I can see it in your shoulders before you’ve even moved,” the older man lectures as he turns on the heel of his boot and walks off a few paces. “Again. And this time, think before you swing. Not after—”
“I think that’s enough for this morning,” you call to them as you step further into the yard, dress skirts rushing around your ankles in the summer breeze. “Maester Yorrick has been waiting all morning. And his patience, unlike yours, my lord, has its limits.”
Daeron nods once, shoulders sagging with an absent relief. “Yes, ma’am—”
“Give us a few more minutes,” Ormund dismisses simultaneously. “He’s close to getting his footwork right. I can feel it.”
You flash the man a look — one slight lift of your brow, one flicker of dullness behind the eyes. Years of marriage have honed that wordless look to a firm edge, one which finds Ormund like a blade. He nods in concession with a heavy exhale through his nose.
“You heard her, boy. Go on,” Ormund says, jerking his chin toward the tower and extending his hand out for the practice sword.
Daeron obeys without question. He passes the dull blade over and crosses the yard to you. You see the sweat and dirt streaked across his freckled face the closer he gets. “Come here to me,” you sigh and catch his round chin between your thumb and forefinger when he plants himself ahead of you. You swipe the filth from his cheeks with the hem of your sleeve like you’ve done since he was small enough to fit in one arm.
“I’m not a child anymore, you know," Daeron reminds you with a childish grimace as he suffers your motherly affections. “I’m a squire now.”
“Oh, a squire, are you?” you croon in response with an obvious air of sarcasm. You smooth wild auburn hair from his temples before pressing a chaste kiss to his hairline. “Go on now— before Maester Yorrick decides to make you study your histories until sundown.”
Daeron nods and ducks past you towards the tower stair, though you catch the corner of his pink mouth twitching upward into a grin before he’s turned away. You watch him leave with an attentive stare as Ormund discards the training swords at their posts. He approaches you in long, slow strides, allowing you to see the mark that training has left upon him — the way the sweat dampens his dark curls and the collar of his tunic, making the fabric stick to his broad shoulders and toned chest.
He smells of sweet wine, musky bathing oils, and salty sweat when he towers just before you. He tips his chin to his chest and raises his brows to his hairline, pale eyes glimmering with an expectant look.
“…Well?”
You blink up at him with a feigned innocence. “Well, what?”
“My kiss,” he answers with a shrug like it’s obvious, like he were a man coming to collect his debts. “You gave the boy his, and I’ve spent half the morning training him— I should think that I’ve earned at least that much.”
“Oh, really?” you squint. “After you told the boy he’s like to lose his head?”
“I told him the truth,” Ormund argues with an unrepentant laugh and takes a slow step closer to you. “Is the truth unkind merely because it stings a little going down?”
His hands splay along your waist, wide and warm along the edges of your corset. It takes everything in you not to cave for him right there, in the full view of the crowded courtyard. You cross your arms over your chest instead. “If you keep being so hard on him, he’ll grow to hate sword training altogether—”
“May be. But he will go on alive a good deal longer for having learned it the hard way now— instead of on a real field, with real steel, without me there to guide him.” Ormund ducks his head to catch your eye, pale gaze glimmering in time the pink smile tugging at his lips. “Surely you are not truly cross with me, my love…” he croons quietly.
You shrug with a raised chin, unwilling to concede so easily. “Perhaps I am.”
“Well, then, it’s hardly my doing,” he chuckles, a sound far warmer than the silver-gold sunshine sprawling over the courtyard. The pads of his thumbs smooth over your ribs in an absentminded affection. “You've gone so soft on the boy that you can scarcely bear to watch him lose a practice bout, without petting his hair over it after."
“Well, someone in this household has to be soft with him," you argue lightly, more teasing now than truly cross. Your slipper scrapes the dirt as you take a short step closer to him. What little distance remained between you closes now in an instant; each rise and fall of his chest brushes your folded arms. “You spend your mornings convincing the poor boy the world means to kill him, and I spend my nights convincing him that he could rule the world entire if he wished... Perhaps he’ll come out well-balanced for it, in the end.”
“Assuming one of us doesn’t kill the other over the method first,” Ormund quips.
“Precisely,” you nod.
“Well, I think it’s a fine system,” the man agrees gravely, drawing you an impossible inch closer by the hands still on your waist. His breath fans warm across your jaw as he leans in closer, still smelling of the mint leaves he’d chewed after breakfast. “And one I certainly intend to go on employing indefinitely… If my wife forgives me long enough to let me kiss her.”
His low voice glitters somewhere in the center of your chest. Your eyes narrow despite the small smile curling hopelessly at your mouth. “I don’t think I’ve yet decided,” you lilt.
“Well, I have,” he croons quietly, and does not wait for your retort before leaning down to press his lips against yours.
His broad nose flattens into the side of yours under the weight of his kiss, a slow and languid thing — as natural as the white waves ebbing and flowing against the pale stone tower of Oldtown. Your hands twist in his pale tunic billowing in the sea breeze, dissolving into the man like salt in water.
There is nothing you would not forgive this man for, you think distantly to yourself. There is no madness he could not lead you toward, not if he kisses you like this the entire way there.
130 A.C. / Ormund’s Solar
The raven arrives like all the rest — unceremoniously, on a sunless grey morning, from the trembling hands of the weathered maester. You tend to your needlework by the crackling hearth, burning low to fight off the morning chill blowing in from the sea, while Daeron reads in the opposite chair with one leg slung over the arm of it — both of you still waking with the early morning.
Across the room, Ormund sits at his desk and breaks the seal with a dull crack. Your gaze drifts to the man as he unrolls the letter, parchment whispering beneath his ringed fingers. You watch his pale eyes flit across the words once, and his brows lower in confusion a moment later. He shifts in his seat and reads it again, slower this time. His spine straightens with a soldier’s subconscious instinct as he draws a deep breath in and forgets to let it go.
The quiet feels loud as it swells within the solar. The popping fire startles you briefly, as you get lost in Ormund’s wordless dread. You feel his silent panic as if it were your own. You rise from your seat and lay your needlework on the cushion behind you, careful not to trouble Daeron’s reading as you stroll to the man’s side.
“Ormund?” you call quietly to him. “Ormund— What does it say?”
He says nothing in response; he just lifts his ringed hand and passes you the parchment curled between his middle and forefinger. His eyes remained fixed on a negligible chip in the cobblestone wall across the room as you pluck the paper from his hand. His silence is not convincing; his silence, as you’ve learned in years of marriage, is far more frightening than any voice he could raise.
Your eyes dart over the scrawled ink thrice over, just as he had, because your mind refuses to process the words on the first two passes.
“By the time this reaches you, the city has already fallen. Rhaenyra Targaryen holds King’s Landing and names herself Queen upon the Iron Throne. She has taken the Queen Dowager prisoner, as well as the King’s wife and last living heir. Send word of your household’s safety. Guard the boy.”
The letters blur and steady and blur again, swimming before your eyes. Your blood runs cold while the glowing hearth simultaneously fills the room with a near-unbearable heat. As your breaths come faster and shallower to you, you hear a small voice call from behind you.
“Is something wrong?” Daeron wonders aloud as he glances up from the heavy novel in his lap. His auburn brows knit low over his green eyes, casting a faint shadow over his freckled cheeks, which are slowly starting to lose the softness of boyhood.
“Go on to your chambers, Daeron,” you tell him in a voice strangely steady compared to how shaken you feel. “It’s time to break your fast. I’ll have the servants fetch it for you.”
“I’m not hungry,” the boy insists as he rises slowly from his chair, setting his book aside and walking slowly from the hearth. His eyes dart back and forth between your profile and Ormund’s when both of you refuse to look at him. His shoulders straighten with a strangling tension. “What’s happened? What does it say—?”
“Daeron,” Ormund snaps, voice cutting through the quiet room like a blade. His eyes are similarly sharp when they snap finally to the boy’s pleading once. “Listen to your mother, boy. Go.”
Mother, he says. The word lingers and hangs in the air for a long moment. Even in his newfound worry, Ormund’s eyes still flicker with a startled awareness at how easily the slip-up had escaped him, though there is little time to dwell on it now.
Daeron's pink mouth parts with some half-formed protest at the ready. Whatever words he could conjure up on such short notice turn to dust on his tongue at the look his uncle gives him, chiseled features hardening into an unfeeling sort of look. Daeron exhales a held breath, gathers his book from his seat, and heads for the door without further argument.
Ormund’s knowing voice follows him out: “And don’t stand outside the door eavesdropping, either. Straight to your chambers. I'll know if you've stopped on the stair."
Only when the door shuts behind the boy with a soft click do your teary eyes lift from the parchment in your trembling hands. You say nothing for a long moment. The muffled sounds of the bustling castle fill the silence — the sounds of an oblivious world still living, though it feels a little like yours has stopped.
“I know," Ormund says before you’ve spoken, before you’ve needed to speak. “I know.”
“Okay,” you nod once. “So what are you going to do?”
He huffs a not-quite laugh. “I’ve only just found out about this. As have you,” he answers, a little sharper than he means to. “I’ll need a moment to think about the problem before you ask me to solve it, my love.”
“A moment is no longer a luxury we have,” you argue, voice rising despite yourself and wavering on every syllable with a palpable fear. “Rhaenyra has dragons, Ormund— she has Daemon and three new bastard riders sworn to her besides. She does not need a moment to bring any of them to our door.”
Your dress skirt spins around your ankles when you turn suddenly in place. Ormund’s pale eyes follow your form as you storm back towards the hearth, ranting the whole way there.
“She will come for him, Ormund— not if, when. She will stop at nothing to silence any claim that challenges her own,” you continue, voice cracking under the weight of your unshed tears. “Daeron is a threat to her! Simply by breathing, he is a threat to her, and she will not leave him idling here out of some… familial courtesy for some half-brother she’s never met.”
The flame crackles quietly when you toss the letter into it. The wax seal blackens and weeps; the ink turns slowly to ash. You’d hoped that destroying those words might, in turn, settle the uneasy feeling they’ve brought you; but to no avail.
“I know that,” Ormund nods with a jaw clenched tight, ringed fingers curling into fists over his thighs beneath the desk.
“Then think!” Your shout bounces off the cobbled walls as you turn to face him once more. His face blurs behind the burning tears clouding your vision. The swelling emotion thickens your voice as you yell to him, half-wild with a preemptive grief. “I have already buried children who never got to draw breath— I will not bury another who has drawn fifteen years of them under this roof! Do not let them take him, Ormund— I don't care what it costs. Do not let them our boy!”
Ormund’s chair scrapes the cobbles as he rises slowly to full height. He crosses the solar in slow, silent strides. Your glassy eyes stay locked with his as he nears. You peer stubbornly up at him from beneath your lashes, clumped with unshed tears; but you do not protest when his palms smooth over the outsides of your elbows to pull you into his arms.
You melt hopelessly against his chest, fisting the back of his doublet in both hands, and trembling slowly as you choke down a sob. Ormund’s wide hands smooth along your back and feels his chest tighten with a striking, familiar ache. He thought once there was no worse sound in the world than hearing your weeping over a lost child; but he knows, now, that there is something equally as troubling: your weeping over a child you fear you’re about to lose and feeling like there is no time yet to stop it.
“I will not let anyone take him,” Ormunds promises evenly, with a distance that suggests he’s already assembling a plan in the depths of his mind. His arms curl tighter, pressing you harder against him. “I swear it to you. By the gods, they will not have our son.”
You pull back from him, just far enough to search his steady gaze with your wearier one. “But how?” you press weakly, more of a demand than a real question.
Ormund ponders for a long moment. The shadow of his adam’s apple rises and falls in his throat as he swallows. And when he speaks again, the words fall from his tongue flat and even, as if he were testing each one the moment they left his mouth.
“No one at court has laid eyes on the boy since he was a babe in arms…” he answers lowly, brows lifting to his hairline. “Alicent hasn’t seen him in years… There is no one outside these walls who would know what he looks like… So if they come— when they come… I suppose Rhaenryra would presume any silver-haired boy as Viserys’ heir.”
Your brows furrow as confusion twists slowly across your face.
“We’d only need enough lye and patience,” Ormund continues with a shrug. “And a boy willing enough to answer to a name that isn’t his, and to go with Rhaenyra, should her dragons come calling.”
You tense within his hold as the words run through you like ice-cold water. “You mean to… to send a different child in his place?”
“Yes,” Ormund answers instantly and without apology. “It isn’t a kind plan, I know. And I won’t pretend that someone else’s son won’t have to suffer for it, if it comes to pass, but… You did not ask me for a kind plan.”
You grieve the heat of his hands when he lifts them from your back, just to smooth his gently calloused palms over your jaw a moment later. He rubs the rough pads of his thumbs along your burning cheeks. You melt into his touch of warm velvet and peer up at him with teary eyes. Ormund’s gaze softens around the edges as his mouth lifts into a sad sort of smile.
“You asked me not to let them take our boy,” he continues lowly. “And however cruel it may be… this is but the only coin I have to buy that promise with.”
You know that a part of you should be horrified. You know what he is describing is a monstrous thing — an innocent boy’s whole life offered as a shield for another’s. You search deep within yourself to find that terror, but cannot seem to locate it. Instead, you find relief, like a crack of sunlight peeking through storm clouds — the very hint of a promise that your family was not long in the dying just yet.
“Do it,” you hear yourself say, shaking your head between his hands. “Whatever it costs… Whoever it costs… Do it.”
Ormund nods with a deep inhale through his nose, leaning forward to press his mouth to your hairline — to seal his promise with a kiss.
130 A.C. / Tumbleton Sept
Rhaenyra's dragonriders come for Daeron not nearly a fortnight into the army's march. Ormund sends the son of a merchant in his place — a boy of the right age and the right pale coloring, plucked quietly from Oldtown and dressed in borrowed finery before anyone thought to look twice. “Be brave, young prince," Ormund had said to the blanch-haired boy, only for show, though what he really meant was: “I will have your family hanged if you do not play your part.”
Ormund knelt before Daemon Targaryen and swore his fealty to the Queen, but marched on for Tumbleton the second the dragons took flight, all the shame.
The chaos follows them there, too.
Daeron attempts to seek a momentary refuge in the foreign castle’s candlelit sept. A cramped chamber made of brown stone and hazy smoke from the flickering candles, where Tessarion grumbles in protest of captivity. The lack of sunlight has dulled her fluorescent blue scales, and has made her ill-tempered due to the lack of exercise. Daeron alone she allows close, pressing her great head into the boy’s small neck, and momentarily forgetting about the heavy chains around her throat when he pets her stony scales.
Ormund finds him there. Ormund has a way of finding him anywhere. It is a gift and a curse, perhaps — comforting when Daeron was small and frightened of the dark; but less so now, when Daeron’s every attempt at solitude is interrupted by his uncle, constantly watching him as if he were a traitor to be surveilled and not his kin.
“I have warned you against indulging in affections for the best,” Ormund says as he approaches. The man cradles the boy's freckled cheeks in his wide, calloused palms despite Tessarion's low growl of warning.“You are a good boy,” he says, and in the very same breath, without losing the tender smile on his face: “You have a taint in your blood,” and “You must be king.”
Ormund makes less and less sense to him these days — the throes of war, Daeron supposes, though a part of him is frightened that it began long before that.
Sometimes he thinks Ormund only makes sense when you’re near enough to translate his tangled, wild emotions back into something grounded and real. You’ve always had a way of gentling the man; usually with nothing more than a steady hand along his wrist to calm whatever storm had been moving within him.
Daeron has seen you do it a hundred times over without ever quite understanding how. But he prays now for your swift return from the city, so that you might do it again — so that you might soften whatever unfamiliar thing has taken root in his uncle when he commands his soldiers to drag in the peasant man from earlier that afternoon. The one who broke Ser Garrick’s nose defending against his own wife’s assault; an act any decent lord would have called simple justice.
Ormund draws his sword from its sheath at his hip. The hiss of the steel leaving the leather fills the small stone sept, loud enough to echo off the old walls that have likely seen a great many prayers and, Daeron suspects, not so very many murders. The older man turns the blade and offers the embellished hilt to the boy, pale eyes hardening when he hesitates.
“We have risked much and more to raise you up,” Ormund says, strong features twisting into something resembling offense. “Surely, you do not wish to disappoint us now.”
Us. Daeron is pulled into his uncle’s orbit at that single syllable alone; the unbearable thought of failing the only two people in this world who have ever troubled themselves to love him — one standing before him with a blade held out like a peace offering, and the other somewhere in the depths of the dark city but still steady on his mind all the same.
Daeron lays his palms out flat before his brain has fully comprehended the motion. He prays Ormund doesn’t notice how they tremble when he rests the sword upon them — the weight of the blade cold and heavy upon his fingers.
Daeron’s hands tremble around the ornate leather hilt of Ormund’s sword. His misty eyes find the prisoner kneeling just before him on the cold stone — bloodied and chained for a crime any noble man in Westeros would surely commit with honor — before glancing slowly to where his uncle looms behind him. Candlelight flickers in shades of orange-gold upon the man’s chiseled features, pooling a deep black in the hollows of his eyes.
“What would Mother think of this?” Daeron hears himself ask, voice cracking under the weight of the tears burning hot in the backs of his eyes.
It is his last and most desperate attempt to reach for his uncle, just as he has seen you do, and to pull him back from the dangerous ledge he stands upon. But he knows the man has already made up his mind; and he knows that there is no version of him that walks out of this sept without spilling blood.
Ormund’s face softens slightly, though there is little tenderness in what he asks of the boy now. “Alicent would understand,” he coos in a gentle voice. “War asks difficult things of every great house—”
“I didn’t—” Daeron swallows hard, smaller now than moments before. “I did not mean the Lady Alicent…”
Realization flashes across Ormund’s face — a visible recognition of exactly which woman the boy had meant, and has always meant every time the word slipped accidentally from his mouth and was never corrected for it after. Daeron was not yours by blood, but he was yours in every other way that matters. The small, warm weight of him stopped crying the moment he was placed into your arms fifteen years ago, and never truly stopped being yours since.
Still, Ormund does not soften for it. If anything, something in him hardens further as he takes a slow step closer to the boy.
“Your mother would be proud,” he answers, brows lowered as if the answer was the plainest thing in the world. “Don’t you see? Any strike against this army is a strike against her, against everything she’s built to keep you safe… Any man who raises his fist against our men raises it, in the end, against her… And do you not want to protect her, just as she has spent every day protecting you?”
Daeron swallows hard. The weight of Ormund’s words feels heavy in his throat, heavier than the blade in his hands as his trembling fingers tighten around its hilt. His teary green eyes linger on the steel, flickering shades of gold in the candlelight.
“No, please, I beg you,” the battered prisoner rasps, dried blood matting at his curls from whatever rough handling had brought him here. “I have a family, my lord. Please—”
Daeron’s eyes lift to find the man’s pleading gaze and linger upon him for a long while. He sees your face in the very back of his mind, the only real mother he’s ever truly known, and hears Ormund’s disappointed voice layered over it as he draws the heavy blade back.
Then he strikes.
The cut is not clean. The blade lodges at an off angle in the man’s corded neck and sticks somewhere deep between flesh and bone. The man’s pained shout comes out wet and gargled, bouncing off the cobbled walls and in the depths of Daeron’s mind.
The boy’s body flinches from what his own hand has done as bright crimson blood spouts from the gaping wound and splatters along the old stone.
His face crumples as he removes the blade. It takes a world of strength in his thin arms to wrench it out again. A quiet whimper sounds in his throat when the blade drags against bone and stumbles backward when the man’s limp body collapses at his feet with a dull smack. Dark blood spreads slowly across the stone in a widening, glistening pool that catches the candlelight like moonlight on the bay.
Daeron looks down at the crimson dripping off the steel blade. He does not notice his uncle’s approach until his broader hands are gently guiding the sword from his fingers — fingers that no longer feel like his own.
Ormund wipes the steel clean against the dead man's tunic, one side and then the other, with the methodical care of a man cleaning a hunting knife after a kill. He sheaths the blade back into its hilt and closes the remaining distance between him and the boy.
When Daeron’s mind finally returns to his body — ears still ringing, vision still hazy — his wide eyes snap to his uncle’s face and sees a quiet pride swimming in his features once more. It’s as comforting as it is horrifying. And when Ormund's strong arms wrap around the boy’s shoulders and draw him close to his chest, that feels like a dizzying concoction of the two even more so.
“I am proud of you, boy…” Ormund tells him as he leans in close, pressing his mouth to the boy’s hair in a near-kiss, though he whispers to him instead: “Do not tell your mother of this. Understood?"
Daeron does not answer, though Ormund does not ask him for one now.
130 A.C. / Tumbleton Castle
You return to the castle late in the evening, weary down to your bones from the long day.
You had gone into town with what coin and grain the army could spare, and found Lady Kat there among the frightened smallfolk, tending to the smith's wife, whose arm still sat bound in a rough splint. The woman's round face was kind, but you knew that no amount of offered bread or soft words could cure what comfort had been taken from her.
“Do you know where my husband is?” she had asked you before you left, with something desperate in her voice that made you wish you had a better answer than the only truthful one you could give.
“I’m sorry. I do not know," you told her, smiling in what sympathy you could muster, honest in your ignorance if nothing else.
The question sits strangely in your chest on the ride back to the castle, though you struggle to place exactly why.
Dinner is already laid out by the time you arrive. The long table is embellished with more food than Tumbleton's starving smallfolk have likely seen since the war began. The notion sits heavy in your stomach before you’ve even entered the dining hall, where Ormund rises from his seat to greet you.
His warmth is striking, a shade too bright for the late hour. He presses a jeweled chalice of ale into your hand with a tender grin and a pair of soft eyes, asking after the wife and the town's wounded with an attentiveness he doesn’t usually spare for such small domestic accounts.
“Sit,” he tells you with one wide hand along the small of your back to urge you the short distance to the table. “You've had a long day, my love. Eat something before it goes cold."
Confusion floods your face at the emptiness beside your usual seat. “Where's Daeron? He hasn’t missed out on lemon cakes since he was old enough to chew them.”
“He's not feeling well. Best to let him rest,” Ormund answers with a polite smile as he pours himself a goblet of wine. His soft eyes flit between you and the glugging flagon. “Sit with me, love. I’m sure you’re half-starved yourself."
He sits down in his cushioned seat at the head of the long table and gestures for you to take yours. You remain stubbornly in place, because you know him far too well for anything else. Years of marriage have taught you every register of his voice; every flicker behind his eyes; every twitch in his features. And this one, all warm and careful and slightly too eager, is one you’d learned to trust least of all.
“What have you done?” you deadpan.
Ormund scoffs a breathless laugh, bouncing his broad shoulders in a shrug. “Why do you insist I’ve done something?”
“Because I can hear it in your voice.”
Ormund huffs again, though it’s more of a sound of surprise than true laughter this time. “Well, I assure you, dear wife, I have done nothing at all.”
“Is that what will Daeron tell me?” you press. “When I go to his chambers and ask him myself?"
“He will tell you that I'm an excellent uncle and an even better husband," Ormund quips with his elbows propped on the table and his pointer fingers steepled together. “And also that you ought to sit down and eat your supper with your poor husband, before you go making a production out of a boy's upset stomach.”
You leave despite his words, led purely by the intuition swirling in your stomach that drags you directly to Daeron’s chamber door. You knock once and receive no answer — when the silence holds on the third try, you let yourself in and find the boy alone in his room, curled small on the edge of his bed in a way that strikes you deep in the chest; a reminder of that swaddled babe curled against your chest fifteen years past.
He does not look up when you enter, nor when you lower yourself gingerly onto the edge of the mattress beside him without a word. His shoulders shake in small, tight increments as he struggles to choke down his own sobs. He drags each breath in through his nose and holds it for a beat too long until it shudders out of him again.
He freezes when you lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, going rigid against whatever emotion he’s trying not to shake loose.
“What's happened, my love?" you coo to him, gentling your voice the way you might for a much younger child. “Tell me."
He shakes his auburn head against the pillow and sniffles to himself. “He told me I couldn't…"
“Who? Ormund?” you press and feel a preemptive anger kindling hot in your chest before you’ve even heard the whole of it. “Well… Your uncle tells me a great many things that I’ve long since learned to ignore. So I imagine he can spare us the indulgence of a secret or two.”
After another shaky breath, Daeron pushes himself up from the mattress. He snivels wetly and wipes his flushed cheeks with the back of one hand. You smooth down his wild flaming tendrils until he finds the words to speak.
“The blacksmith…” he wavers. “The one who struck Ser Garrick this morning…”
Your stomach swirls with a sick feeling when he trails off. Your blood runs cold with a fear of what he might say next. You think instantly of the woman with the kind face and the splinted arm, asking so gently if you knew where her husband had run off to. You have to remind yourself to breathe again as you ask, “What of him?”
“Ormund made me…” Daeron’s breath catches in his throat with a horror reignited in the pit of his chest. “He said any strike against the army was a strike against the crown. Against me. Against you.” He forces each word out through unshed tears and feels half-furious at himself when his voice shatters. “He told me it would be a king’s justice. That it— that it would make you proud.”
The boy’s eyes lift to yours then, glassy and green and rimmed red. They dart back and forth over your face, searching for an ounce of comfort within it.
“Are you?” he asks in a voice barely above a whisper. “Proud of me, I mean.”
You nod until the words have climbed through the fear swelling in your throat.
“Of course I am,” you answer breathlessly, but with no hesitation at all despite the dread searing in your chest. “I have been proud of you since the day I met you. Nothing you could do— Nothing of what your uncle made you do could change that. And you did it, I have no doubt, because some part of you believed it would keep our family safe. Protecting the people you love, even when doing so costs so much, is no easy feat, my love. I know this better than you might think…”
Your mind drifts to the pale-haired boy — the merchant’s son who was brown of hair before you found him. The boy who was borrowed and dressed up in a prince’s wardrobe and sent off to whatever fate Rhaenyra’s justice had in store for him. The boy who is very likely chained or worse for a crime that was never truly his, simply because you and Ormund decided his captivity was a fair trade for Daeron’s freedom.
Daeron watches your eyes well with tears of your own, and his freckled face crumples further at the thought of hurting you further. “I did not mean to make you sad…" he mutters with a wet gaze that flits between yours.
“You haven't," you tell him firmly, though your voice remains steady. You gather the boy into your arms and press your cheek against his hair, feeling his tear-stained cheeks wet the skin of your chest. “I’m not sad, my love. I promise. I only love you. That's all….”
You sit with him for a long while after that — until his breathing steadies and his shoulders lose their edge. Only then do you rise, with one last kiss to his forehead, and leave him to whatever uneasy slumber he can manage after what the long day had done to him.
You run into Ormund on your way down the long corridor. His broad form towers in the narrow passageway as his wide hands splay before him in confusion. “What’s taken you so long? Your dinner’s already gone cold.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Your shoulder scrapes along his arm as you shove by him with little affection. Ormund huffs and falls easily into step with you on his much longer legs. The two of you move through the stony corridors in a silent tension that grows with every step you take, torchlight guttering along the damp walls as you pass them. The words of an argument well in your throat the whole way to your chambers and refuse to break free until the door has shut finally behind you.
“I cannot believe you!” you shout, features twisted in anger. “How dare you tell my son to lie to me! After everything—"
Ormund shakes his head. “I only told him to spare you a grief that serves no purpose—"
“You told him to kill a man, Ormund! A smith. A husband.” The words come out through a jaw clenched tight. Your eyes glitter in the flickering candlelight with every one that spills from your mouth, hands gesticulating wildly at your sides. “I stood in that town not an hour ago and told his wife I didn't know where he was. And I didn't know, because you hadn't thought to tell me you hadn’t let him go at all! And now I have to carry that too, on top of everything else because you've decided I didn’t need to be troubled with it—”
“It’s war!” Ormund shouts, voice ringing through the cobbled walls. His handsome features harden instantly as he stares you down with emotionless pale eyes. His long fingers curl into fists before relaxing once more in a repeated cycle intended to calm him. “I will not apologize for teaching that boy what war requires of men who mean to survive it. For now, it’s only Ser Garrick’s broken nose, but we will have far worse than that done to us before this war is through. If Daeron doesn’t learn that now, he’s as good as dead—”
“He’s sixteen—”
“He’s the King's last trueborn son, with any righteous claim to the throne!” Ormund thunders over your teary retort, approaching you with long strides. “He is the rider of a dragon that is the only thing standing between this army and total ruin— What don’t you understand about that?”
Ormund towers over you at once. His firm hands close hard around your arms, keeping you close and unmoving before him. He ducks his head to your height, eyes darting wildly between yours.
“Do you think I enjoyed putting that sword in his hand?” he continues, quieter now. “Do you think I've slept easy a single night since we left Oldtown, knowing what I'm shaping him into— why I have to?”
You swallow hard through a tight throat, peering up at him through the tears clouding your vision. “I think you’ve decided his suffering is a fair price for war,” you waver. “And I think you decided that without asking me.”
“Yes,” Ormund nods without reservation. “I have decided a great many things without asking you first— I did not ask you first when I decided to blanch that stranger’s hair and send him off in Daeron’s place, did I? And yet you still thanked me for it with your words and body when it kept our boy breathing.”
His words tear right through your chest. You shake your head in protest of them even though you know that he’s right — that you are no better than Ormund even in his madness; that you would do worse and more for Daeron if the war called for it, if you were brave enough to do it.
“Did I complain, all those years, when grief after grief left this house without an heir of its own blood?” Ormund goes on, quieter now but no less harsh, as his features twist in a stifled sort of anguish. “Did I complain when courtiers wondered in whispers why a man would stay wed to a wife that could not give him an heir?”
You flinch at his words like you can feel them physically, tearing you from the inside out, though his long fingers caging you force you to stomach them.
“I never complained. Because I love you and because I understood it was no fault of your own,” Ormund continues. “So I have earned, I think, the right to make one hard choice without you looking at me as though I’ve become some monster for it.”
Anger pricks your skin beneath your heavy gown like needles.
It is not the unfairness of the blow of his words that sends you reeling, but rather the sheer astonishment at how low he has stooped in his fury — in his grief. It is, perhaps, the cruelest thing he’s ever said to you; made crueler still for how plainly he does not seem to recognize his own cruelty at all.
“Say that again,” you tell him in an emotionless monotone. “Say it plainly, exactly how you mean it— that you think I am some monster—”
“I didn’t mean…” Ormund huffs and hangs his head, tense shoulders dropping as the lingering anger slips from his skin like rain. “I am not saying this to be cruel— Gods know, I’d sooner cut out my own tongue before I meant any cruelty to you.”
His pale eyes are wet and soft again when they lift to meet yours. His hands loosen their grip on your arms as they lift to cradle your cheeks, softly calloused and warm like velvet along your blazing skin.
“Daeron is the only child either of us has been permitted to keep,” the man continues, softer now. “He is not merely a boy I love, though gods know I do, but he is the only proof that we were ever meant to be parents at all… After everything this life took from us in the trying… Do you understand what I’m telling you?"
“So what?” you press, voice breaking. “The only way he gets to stay ours is if he survives long enough to sit a throne? Is that the only way to remove the taint from his blood— that’s what you called it, right?”
Ormund softens further in the face of your anger.
“Without Aemond, without Vhagar, this army has no dragon to answer to whatever Rhaenyra sends against us next… But Daeron has Tessarion, and Daeron has a claim that half this army would follow into the fire itself,” he coos gently to you, as if anything louder might break you entirely. His thumbs smooth gently along your cheekbones, wiping away a tear that clings stubbornly to the burning skin there. “The war is coming here, my love. It is not a thing we can shield him from any longer. He is our only hope of surviving what is coming, and every bit his birthright to lead it."
“Surely…” you trail off in disbelief, wild eyes searching his bluer ones. “Surely you do not mean to make our child fight in this war."
“It is the will of the gods,” Ormund croons as if it were that simple.
Something in you knows, as each word spills from his mouth, that this is not a man reasoning clearly. You can hear it in the smoothness of his voice and in each too-quick answer on his tongue. And yet, you want more than anything for him to be right. You want it so badly it frightens you — for the gods to will this war’s end, for Ormund’s victory, for your son’s survival.
You don’t realize you’re crying until Ormund draws you fully into his chest with one wide hand along your back and another cradling the back of your head. Tears fall from your lashes and wet the front of his emerald doublet.
“Listen to me…” he mutters into your hair. “If he sits that throne, no one in this realm could ever call him anything but ours. He is Viserys’s heir, yes, but he became a Hightower the moment you held him— and if he rules, no man will ever again whisper that he is not truly yours. He will restore ancient order to the throne. That is how we keep him.”
You shake your head in protest as you lean back from him again, just far enough to peer up at him with tear-heavy eyes. “Just bring him back to me,” you plead fiercely to him. “When this battle is done, I don't care what it costs you to manage it. Bring him back—”
“I will," Ormund nods with the same iron certainty that has carried you through every hard year of your marriage. “I swear it to you. I’ll bring him home—”
“And you,” you remind with a stern finger jabbed into the center of his chest. “You come back to me, too— I have buried enough of what I love in this life, Ormund. I will not bury another. You come back to me. Both of you.”
He nods and leans down to press his forehead against yours. Each of his heaving exhales through his nose fans warm across your chin.
“I will,” he breathes against you, thumbs sweeping again along your cheekbone. He shifts against you to brush the smallest of kisses to the bridge of your nose — so gentle that it makes you feel like crying. Your hands curl hard around his wrist to keep him close. “The gods owe us a debt. And we will see it repaid in full before this war is through, I promise you.”
You cling to the certainty in his voice the way a drowning woman clings to driftwood; the way a starving woman clings to the memory of her last full meal — you cling to him the way a grieving woman clings to the gods themselves.
a quiet morning with your husband ormund hightower
wc. 800
no war! au
the faint, gray light of early morning just starts to seep into the solar, filling the large room with cool shadows. high up in the tower, the air is drafty and cold, clinging to the stone walls.
ormund sits at his large weirwood desk, weighed down by everything he has to do so early in the morning. spread out in front of him is an overwhelming pile of ledgers, tax records, and trade reports. he already has a faint headache from the stress, and his tense shoulders and tight jaw show just how exhausted he is, even though he has only been awake for half an hour. his fingers are smudged gray with ink, holding his quill loosely as he forces himself to focus on balancing winter food supplies against grain taxes.
then, the quiet click of the heavy oak door breaks the silence, and the stress on his face immediately starts to melt away.
you walk into the room, your bare feet making soft rustling sounds against the rushes on the floor. the cold stone sends a sudden chill through your toes, contrasting with the still warm linen of your nightshirt. but you carry two heavy mugs of hot, spiced honeyed milk, steam rising softly into the dim air to cut through the cold.
"you are working again," you whisper, walking over to his desk. leaning over his shoulder, you press a soft kiss to the dark curls at the back of his neck. "the harbor masters can wait until the gulls stop screaming, my lord."
ormund catches your wrist, his touch warm against your chilly skin. with a gentle pull, he brings you down to sit in his lap. his hand rests comfortably on your hip, his thumb softly tracing circles through your nightshirt.
"trade waits for no man, sweetling," he murmurs, though he doesn't sound serious at all. his dark eyes soften as he looks up at you, taking in your sleepy, relaxed face. for a moment, he forgets about his heavy title and just looks at you. "least of all a hightower. the citadel expects reports on the granaries by noon."
he takes one of the warm mugs, sets it down near a huge stack of papers, and wraps both arms around your waist. leaning forward, he buries his face in your neck and takes a deep, quiet breath, letting out all the stress of his work as he holds you close.
"stay with me a moment," he whispers, his voice rough from sleep. "before the septons and the maesters wake and demand we pretend to be sensible."
you laugh softly, the sound light in the big, quiet room. "if i stay here, you will only keep reading about ironwood shipments. come back to bed."
he lets out a small huff and a faint smile, though he stays sitting in his chair. "my lady, the city is already waking. if i do not finish these ledgers now, i will be tied to this desk until dusk."
"let them wait," you say softly. you slide off his lap, take his ink-stained hand in yours, and give a gentle tug. when he hesitates, you step closer, resting your hands against his broad chest and pressing him back against his chair. "ten minutes, ormund. the starry sept hasn't even rung its second bell yet."
his eyes search your face, softened by the genuine warmth in your smile. he looks back at his desk—at the tall piles of paper, the drying ink, and all his unfinished work—and then down at your bare feet. the choice is easy.
"you are terrible for my duty," he grumbles, but all the tension finally leaves his shoulders.
"i am the lady of the high tower," you remind him with a small smile, pulling his hand until he finally stands up. "it is my sworn duty to keep you from working yourself into an early grave."
a quiet chuckle escapes him as he gives in, letting you lead him across the cool floor toward the bedroom. the stone beneath your bare feet loses its bite with every step as he follows your lead, his heavy hand intertwined with yours, his long fingers warm and slightly rough against your own.
inside, the bedchamber is a dark sanctuary, completely shielded from the morning light by the thick and heavy velvet curtains draped over the tall arched windows. the bed itself is still messy with tangled linen and heavy woolen quilts, which still hold the comforting warmth from the night before.
ormund climbs under the thick blankets with a long sigh that seems to release every ounce of tension left in his body. the moment you slide in beside him, he doesn't wait; his long arm sweeps around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest until there is no space left between you. the sharp chill of the drafty solar vanishes instantly, replaced by the warm heat radiating from him.
"ten minutes," he mutters, his voice a low rumble against your skin. he leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, his stubble lightly brushing your skin as his heavy eyelids flutter shut. "not a second more, my lady."
you cuddle closer, tucking your chin into the comfortable crook of his shoulder and resting your head against his neck. your breath hitches for a second at the sheer warmth of him before settling into a steady rhythm. beneath your cheek, you can hear the strong beat of his heart.
"ten minutes, my lord," you whisper back, your hand resting gently over his ribs, feeling the deep rise and fall of his chest with every breath he takes.
congrats on 650!!! for the prompt requests might i ask for office sex with bff dad!baelor? maybe reader comes to visit him at the museum?? i cannot get these two out of my head (nor do i want too lol)
thank you so much for your words and for the request! i actually got pretty heated up with this one ngl
Grateful Prompt List
57. Office Sex | modern!Baelor x f!reader
You brought him coffee.
This was, officially and if anyone asked, the reason. The truth was that six days without seeing him — schedules, work, the general inconvenience of life asserting itself — had woken up that the specific restlessness of someone who had decided that enough was enough and the museum was not, in fact, that far out of the way.
You were also wearing a dress he had particularly liked a few weeks ago.
The receptionist waved you through without looking up. Third time this month. You were furniture to her at this point, which you found enormously pleasing because she didn't ask you anymore about your reasons for visiting.
His office door was half open. You knocked on the frame and he looked up from whatever he was reading and the specific sequence of things that happened in his expression — you, the coffee, that dress, back to you — took approximately two seconds and communicated everything.
"Hi," you smiled.
"Hi," he mimicked, and took his glasses off, which he only did when he had decided the reading was finished.
You set the coffee on the desk and settled into the chair across from him with the ease of someone completely comfortable in this room, which you were. His office had become one of your favourite places in the city, all books and warm lamplight and the particular quality of a space that was used thoroughly and loved. You had spent two hours in this chair last month while he finished a report, reading one of his books, and had left feeling inexplicably content.
That visit had been less eventful than this one was going to be. You'd made sure of it.
He picked up the coffee. Drank it. Set it back down. Looked at you over the desk with those eyes that had never quite mastered neutrality where you were concerned and said nothing, which from Baelor said quite a lot.
"I was in the area," he raised a curious eyebrow at your words. "Taking the scenic route," you explained.
The corner of his mouth moved fractionally. He glanced at the dress and back to your face and stood up.
He crossed to the door and locked it.
The sound of the lock was specific. Immediate. You watched him do it with the calm deliberateness he brought to everything and felt the cheerful composure you had arrived with become something more complicated.
He came back to the desk. Did not sit down. He stood in front of you and looked at you sitting in his chair in the dress with the coffee you had brought and the smile that was, second by second, conquering your whole face.
He offered you his hand.
You took it and he pulled you up and kissed you, and the kiss had six days in it and the specific warmth of finally, and your hands went to his lapels and you stopped thinking about anything more.
He lifted you onto the desk.
His hands — those hands, large and certain and spanning you completely — and then his mouth at your throat and the papers he had been working on somewhere beneath you.
"I gather we have to be quiet," you said softly, against his hair.
"Mm," he replied, against your throat, which was not a commitment exactly but was all you were getting.
His mouth bit specifically that funny point Baelor knew too well and you made a sound immediately — involuntary, too loud for the context — and his hand came up and covered your mouth with the calm efficiency of someone implementing an obvious solution.
You bit his palm and passed your tongue a few times across it. He pulled back and looked at you and you could see there was little of his usual restraint in his eyes.
"You absolute menace," he whispered amused, which earned him an extra pair of swipes from your tongue. You pressed a smile to his hand and he descended again to your throat.
Baelor decided that kissing you was the better solution instead of stating the thing your eyes, completely lewd looking back at him from behind his hand, was doing to him.
Six days made it fast and necessary in a way that your previous times had not been — urgent in the specific way of something that had been waiting and was done waiting, his hands on your hips with a certainty that left no ambiguity and his mouth finding every place he had apparently been thinking about with the focused efficiency of a man working through a list he had been maintaining.
He pushed his cock inside you and went completely still — that moment, always that moment — his forehead dropping to yours, jaw tight, every muscle held.
You moaned against his palm. A rough exhale from him. His hands tightened. Then he moved and both of you made sounds that were immediately muffled — yours into his palm, his into your throat — and the specific quality of trying to be quiet together, the shared effort of it, was somehow more intimate than anything that did not require the trying.
Footsteps in the corridor and you both froze for a moment.
His eyes found yours in the stillness — wide, slightly stunned, and then something else moved through them that was the contained version of what you were also feeling — and you pressed a smile against his hand again and felt his chest moving against yours with the suppressed laughter of someone who not only found the situation equal parts amusing and risky, but that was also getting turned on by the perspective of getting caught by one of his colleagues.
The footsteps faded. He exhaled, pressed his mouth to your temple and resumed the thrusting of his hips against your core.
You came quietly with your face pressed into his shoulder and his name breathed so low it was barely sound, and felt him follow with your name muffled into your throat and his whole body shuddering through it with the specific effort of containment.
The room settled. Both of you worked to find your breaths again, his forehead against yours and a smile sitting on his face. After a moment you became aware of the crumpled papers on which you had been sitting the whole time, now a crumpled mess underneath you.
"Those seem important," you mentioned.
"They were," Baelor simply stated, pressing soft kisses against the column of your neck.
"You seem strangely calm about it," a smiled tugged at your lips.
"I find that the tradeoff was entirely worth it," a swipe from his tongue.
Heat crept up your face again. You laughed. "You are impossible."
"I'm actually rather pleased with myself," he smiled, and kissed you once before he started dealing with the mess.
You watched him straighten with his shirt untucked and found yourself thinking that this was one of your favourite versions of him — the composure not quite reassembled, the warmth of the last twenty minutes still sitting visibly in his expression while he sorted some papers with the focus of a man who was pretending to be entirely normal. The slight trembling of his hands that you saw when he straightened and fixed his shirt told you that he was far from feeling normal.
He picked up the coffee and drank the rest of it cold without comment. Looked at you still sitting on the edge of his desk.
"So," his tone was openly teasing in a manner that you were getting pretty used to, "how was the scenic route?"
"Absolutely worth it," you replied with an open grin as you ogled the dip of his neck, a few of his chest hairs adorning the skin.
Something in his face did the thing and he kissed you once more before he went and unlocked the door.
Summary: “I did. Hiding in the middle of shrubbery. A small child. I thought it was—Well, I thought it was you at first. For he ran to me and I saw he had your eyes.” How Baelor would handle having a dreamer wife, even as she tries to hide it from him.
Tags: dreamer!reader, arranged marriages, falling in love, brief mentions of dysfunctional families, brief nsfw
A/N: this is how i cope with my insomnia
The marriage had been arranged, but your feelings for him were not.
You dream of him your first few nights in the Redkeep. A welcome change from your usual dreams. Not violent, not loud or bloody. You are walking behind him, the sun haloing the cropped dark hair atop his head. He turns his head towards you, just an inch, revealing mismatched eyes and a twice broken nose, and that is when you wake.
It is the few times you have had peace to yourself. You do not question it, you cherish it.
When you do meet the prince, it feels as though the air rushes out of the room. You realize then that the crown prince, Hand of the King, has been the same man in your dreams. You do not really know what it means.
You had expected him to be as arrogant and boorish as anyone in the proximity of power. Yet what met you was gentleness and kindness, a presence that levelled the room with that same mismatched gaze that has fixed you in your dreams.
You stare at him a little too much during feasts, or when you chanced upon him in the training yard, and when you had accompanied your father in the small council chamber, those eyes fixing men in their seats or persuading them with that voice of his that you finally chanced to hear. All this staring caught his eye, and Baelor, naturally curious, found a way to start a conversation.
You are quiet, yet observant, he notes. He’s heard the other lord’s remarks about you: your beauty accompanied by your eerily serene expression. So he pays closer attention, every reaction, no matter how miniscule and files it away. He sees when you decide to listen, when you decide to appear as if you aren’t listening but actually has a keen ear in the conversation. He sees it in your eyes that sweeps over a new room, as if turning every crevice, every important person in your palm. But even more so the way you stare at him, as if a little struck, as if you have seen him before.
You have been having vivid dreams since you were a child. Your mother has taught you to hide it, keeping the benefit of your future husband in mind, so much so that she fails to consider your wellbeing in the matter. You had hidden it well enough, had managed to rearrange your entire life around it, especially since the offer of betrothal to a Targaryen prince was presented to you during your time at the Keep.
The court sings praises of a wise match, of dowries and fleets, strategies and alliances, unaware of something that has been burning there steadily, unaware of your dreams.
He had chanced upon you by the balconies looking over the garden of the Keep. There were no other witnesses other than the crickets in the night and the wisps of the trees.
“I thought I was the only one awake at this hour.” His voice makes you jump and you know it is him before you’ve fully turned around.
“Your Grace.” You curtsy.
“My Lady.” He returns. His cloak is the color of the night, the familiar black and red of House Targaryen making him seem more formidable even in a chance encounter.
“Forgive me, your Grace, sleep does not come easy to me.” The stone wall is cold underneath your hands.
“There is nothing to forgive, I am the intruder here.” He bows his head, stepping forward to fall into step beside you. “Though it is a nice surprise, I usually work into the late hours and rarely see other living creatures at this hour. How are you faring, my Lady?”
“Quite well though… It is certainly an adjustment, though I have always been told I sleep at odd hours.” He casts you a sidelong glance. “I prefer the night, it seems more to yourself does it not? It is lonely but it is yours.”
When the betrothal is confirmed a few moons later, your mother makes note of talking to you after the ceremony, reminding you to maintain your secret. You return to the high table tense and you think you are hiding it well until your husband’s hands find yours under the table, giving a reassuring squeeze. It is then you realize after feeling displaced in your own home that you have finally found something you can call your own.
Later, in performing your duties, he is gentle as one can be. More than that, he learns what you like, and when you ask for more, he is not shy in giving it, as if it is the permission he has been waiting in bated breath all along. He memorizes the sound of your panting breaths, the twitch of your hips. He plucks the pleasure out of you like a skilled artist attuned to his instrument.
You’re basking in the afterglow of it all, laying side by side in attuned breaths. Your husband was handsome, and you were more than aware of the gossip that plagued the court. More Dornish than Targaryen. You never understood why that was such a terrible thing as you lay next to him, the firelight dancing along his features.
“I have seen you in my dreams.” You do not realize saying it out loud, a mere mindless mumble, until he laughs. Not mocking, not demeaning. He laughs as if flattered, and his cheeks go a little flushed, as if you had not just spent the past hour doing ungodly things to each other.
“There’s no need for you to woo me, sweet girl. We are already married.”
You return his smile then, moving to perch yourself upon his chest, the contact sending warmth through your whole body and causing him to make space for you in his. “And if it is not flattery, but truth?”
His hands find your hair then, winding his fingers mindlessly through them. “Then what sweet dreams you have.” If only he knew, you think. He is as you have dreamt of and that night is one of the few nights you have slept dreamlessly.
The moons turn and you settle into a peaceful routine, though your secrecy slowly mounts your chest with guilt. The visions are often in your dreams, so vivid and almost real that any threats in your unconsciousness are registered as real to your senses. So much so that you cannot help your reactions to them.
You are awoken one night to a form at the foot of your bed, like a terrible assassin, illuminated by the dozen candlelights in the room. You do not question why the candles are all lit when you have retreated to bed nearly an hour ago. You register the threat as real, yet when you shoot up from bed, he is not there, and the room is nothing but shadows.
Your heart is hammering in your chest, and you move to curl up against his side then, counting your breaths, eyes wide and searching the room for the assailant. But nothing comes. Baelor does not wake, merely wrapping an arm around your shoulders as you slither closer to him. He must think that you are simply seeking warmth, unaware of the war drums banging in your chest. You sit up then, simply to watch him, the rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps half on his side. He looks good like this, unbothered and untethered. You wonder what he dreams of or if he dreams of anything at all.
He must be so tired, you think, more tired than I. You walk over to the dying hearth to tend to the embers, looking for something else to occupy your mind. Over the years, you’ve become familiar with the night.
You jump later when a hand brushes against your arm, and you look up to be met with your husband’s face, ladened with sleep yet amused at your reaction.
“What are you doing here?” He rasps, occupying the seat next to you.
“Night terrors.” The lie keeps him placated, though you did not fathom for how long.
Although now you cannot think of that, or anything else. His hair was ruffled from sleep, in a simple sleeping tunic, yet you found yourself unable to look up.
He is looking at you from where he sat, eyes bearing that same intensity.
“I apologize if I woke you.” You say just to say something, to stop him from looking at you as though he means to devour you whole. “I could suggest separate quarters to the maids. There are so many rooms, I’m sure no one would mind—”
“Is that what you would like?” He asks with an air of finality, a gentle end to your ceaseless string of words. He does not challenge, but when your eyes meet, his mismatched ones illuminated by the fire, it seems determined to draw an honest answer out of you.
“No, but if— I am quite a light sleeper and I don’t want to be a bother.” Another lie. You’d prefer to be alone in the chambers so if you woke, which you will, you will only have yourself to frighten.
“You’ve never bothered me.” He stands with a quiet grunt, offering a hand to you. “Save for when you decide to wander when I am searching for you in my sleep. Come, please.” You follow his movements, then save one last look to the hearth before you take his hand and follow him back into bed.
“I’m frightened.” You admit in a whisper, settling back against the pillows and tucking yourself underneath the covers. “I know it is so childish, to be frightened of one's dreams, but…” It is the closest truth you can give him. His hand finds a pattern on your hip.
He watches you. “Do you have them often?”
You nod. “Since I was a child.”
“Then you have nothing to apologize for. You’re safe here. This is your home.” He sees the worry on your face. He wishes he had the power to take it away, though he knows it is not that simple. “Why did you not wake me earlier, if it bothered you so?”
“I know how tired you are.” You cover his hand with yours, absent of any rings that adorned his fingers in the day. “You need your sleep.”
Wake me, he whispers, a kiss against your shoulder, if it gets worse. His tone does not leave room for arguments. His words remain with you as you get dragged into a fitful slumber, dreamless as you hope.
–
Fire blooms in the walls of your chamber, glowing coals etching itself into the cracks there. The crackling of it is vivid and real, orange glow consuming the stone walls. It sets the room alight on its own accord, casting its own shadows to dance along the wall as if they are their own living and breathing bodies. The smell is putrid, unlike woodsmoke or the rising of smoke from the hearth.
In your state, you had picked up a porcelain washing bowl and hurled it at the door. Exactly when Baelor had decided to come in. That is the moment you wake up. You do not know why you did it. Perhaps it was frustration coming to the surface, of no longer knowing what was real and what was not.
He ducks deftly, just in time so the pieces fall on his back and do no real harm. For a moment, the both of you stand there, frozen in shock.
“Stand down,” he responds to the Kingsguard’s inquiries almost immediately. “I’m fine.” When they try to come in, he shuts the door behind him, taking in the room, your state. Your hand comes up to cover your mouth, cupping the apologies spilling from there.
“I’m sorry—I thought I—” You stutter, eyes welling with tears unconsciously. You had almost harmed him, someone that you cared about, that welcomed you into his home and made it yours after years of feeling displaced on your own. “I thought I saw—” There is no fire there, the room is intact and not engulfed in flames.
“What did you see?” He asks, taking a cautious step forward. His tone remains calm, as if he already had his own suspicions, but his heart is hammering in his chest. You feel it later when he takes you in his arms, attempting to soothe you, running a hand along your back.
He begins to reach for you, unsure if you’d like to be touched, and preparing for you to create some sort of distance between the two of you. But when you don’t, when you simply take his hand and let yourself be maneuvered to him, a relief wells in his chest.
You admit it to him that night, your secret that has been weighing on you, how horrible they get, how keeping it hidden was almost as worse as the dreams themselves. It is a relinquishing of sorts, of the burden of a secret, of your exhaustion. You expect the worst: anger, fear, disgust, caricatures of a man you’ve grown to know well enough to understand that he would never act like that towards you. Yet you expect it, and it doesn’t come. He understands, and a part of him has known, you think. All those nights you could not sleep through, twitching awake at the sensation of falling in your dreams, jerking awake.
Later in bed, he asks against your hair, “Have you ever had good dreams?” He sounds genuinely curious.
“I do,” you answer, fighting to keep your eyes open. For how much you dreaded sleep, you were only human, and you were exhausted. “I dreamt of you before I met you.”
From then on, he takes note of what calms you, and cultivates it without a word. If it is the gardens, a seat by the sea or a quiet nook in the Keep, it is yours without even having to ask for it. He makes a passing, yet calculated, request to a handmaid, a knight, a servant, and suddenly no one dares to pass by that part of the Keep. The space wordlessly becomes yours and you do not have to fight to keep it. Baelor had grown used to it rather quickly. You’ve suggested separate chambers on numerous occasions and he has turned it down all the same.
You’ve taken to writing your dreams down, sometimes in detail, sometimes in vague scrawls. But you learn to live with the dreaming, and you find that ceasing to fight it proves to be a better comfort than suppressing it these past few years.
In talks of politics, he will heed your warnings, but he does not like his wife to be used as a pawn. So, he keeps it hidden. The Red Keep had taken note of your habits. Night owls, they call the pair of you, though you’ve given them no other reason to gossip badly. There is little whisper of how the heir apparent’s wife is a dreamer. The little whisper dies down with no evidence, a flame with no kindling.
The lack of sleep is concerning for the both of you. He has been known to work until the late hours of the night. You’ve taken to accompanying him more often in the late nights in his solar and not complaining when you rose in the early mornings. Your body has learned to function on as much sleep as it can take. It is a refreshing change for Baelor, to find his lady wife already up before him.
Once, you had attended a feast with little to nothing but a nap and your head lolled to the side once, in the middle of a lord’s gratitude to King Daeron. At everyone’s applause, you jolted awake and he silently took your hand underneath the table, an amused smile on his lips you’ve come to know too well. You mumble your own gratitude against his cheek, stumbling down the hall towards your shared chambers, when he excused the both of you, needing to retire early with his lady wife.
Other than that, the Keep have whispered of heirs, of little princes and princesses running around the Keep once more. On more than one occasion this was announced in your presence, you have caught your husband’s eye across the room, an uptick of his lips then.
The confirmation comes to you first—in a dream. Baelor was more than happy to hear that you had a good night’s rest, but even more so if you had good dreams more than night terrors. In a way, he had seen it as his duty, that if the Realm, his responsibility was well-taken care of, so would your dreams.
“Baelor,” you whisper to him one night. The candles had burned low into their iron pots and the hearth had slowly died down into the night. You’re curled up against him for the sake of warmth. “I had a dream.”
“What was it about, dearest?” He hums awake, reaching for you even as his eyes remain closed.
“We were in the gardens of the Keep. ‘Twas a good, bright day out, like the ones you favor. And I was searching for someone.”
“Did you find them?”
“I did. Hiding in the middle of shrubbery. A small child. I thought it was—Well, I thought it was you at first. For he ran to me and I saw he had your eyes.”
He turns his face to you then, expression open. You had never seen that look on his face before. You realize then you had never seen the prince so well caught off-guard. “I think, perhaps, we should send for the maesters.” You whisper to him then, unsure, yet a smile has found your lips.
He sits up then, a rustle of sheets. “Are you certain?”
You nod and he cradles your head, pressing a kiss there. The maester had been sent for in the middle of the night, discreetly. The next day, the bells had been rung every hour of the day to welcome the news.
a/n: something short and sweet… and to help take the edge off lol…reposting cause the first one was flagged; for the suggestive picture im assuming lol
The chamber is warm. That is the first thing you notice when you wake.
The fire has been tended to recently—wood placed with care, not hastily, the flames steady rather than roaring. The curtains are drawn just enough to soften the light without keeping it out entirely. Even the air feels settled, as though the room has been arranged around you rather than simply occupied.
Your body feels heavy.
Not with sleep, but with the dull ache of having been unwell—your head thick, your throat dry, your limbs slow to respond. You stay still for a moment, taking in the warmth.
Then you feel the hand at your side.
Warm. Steady.
Aemond sits beside the bed, unmoving, as though he has been there for hours and intends to remain. His head is slightly bowed, one hand resting over yours, the other braced against the mattress.
When you stir, he looks up immediately.
“You’re awake,” he says.
Your voice is rough. “What time is it?”
“Early.”
You swallow. “Did I—”
“No.” He shakes his head once. “You slept.”
You watch him for a moment. Up close, the signs are harder to miss—the loosened sleeves, the faint shadows beneath his eye, the way his focus never leaves your face.
“You didn’t,” you say.
“I did,” he replies, too quickly to be true.
He reaches for the cup at the bedside and brings it to your lips. You drink because it’s easier than arguing. When you pull back, he lowers it and sets it aside.
“You should’ve gone to bed,” you murmur.
“I was fine.”
You glance at him. “Aemond.”
A pause.
“I didn’t want to,” he says finally.
You shift, uncomfortable, and immediately his other hand moves to your back, adjusting the pillows, lifting you just enough to ease the pressure before settling you again.
“Better?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He nods and reaches for the bowl warming near the fire. He tests it, then sits back beside you.
“You need to eat,” he says.
“I’m not that—”
He looks at you. Not sharp nor angry. Just steady.
You stop.
He lifts the spoon. You hesitate, then lean forward and take the bite.
The warmth settles slowly. You hadn’t realized how empty you felt until now. He waits between spoonfuls, unhurried, watching your breathing rather than your mouth.
“This is excessive,” you mutter after a few bites.
“No,” he says simply.
You huff quietly. “You’re hovering.”
That earns the faintest curve of his mouth but it’s gone almost immediately.
You study him for a moment. “You were worried.”
“Yes.”
The honesty surprises you.
“I’m okay,” you say. “There’s no reason to worry.”
He pauses. Then speaks, lowering his voice, slowly and tempered. “You’re my wife. You’re carrying my child. That’s reason enough.”
The words settle without spectacle.
You look away, throat tightening. “I don’t like needing this much help.”
“I don’t mind giving it.”
His hand settles over your belly without thinking. When he realizes, he doesn’t move it.
You rest your hand over his.
When the bowl is empty, he sets it aside and eases you back carefully, as he gently slips into bed next you; guiding you against his chest. His arm comes around you, solid and warm, his chin resting briefly against your hair once you’ve settled.
Neither of you speaks.
The fire crackles softly. His breathing evens beneath your ear.
cw: smut (+18, MDNI!). canon divergence, modern!au, age difference (baelor is in his late 40s and reader in her late 20s), erectile dysfunction, oral (female!receiving), pussy pronouns, pussy worship, spanking, slight anal play, outercourse. | wc: 1633
modern!baelor targaryen x female!reader.
part one.
i just can't stop thinking about how BAELOR is older than the men you usually date, and the way he'd have you gripping the bedframe as he circles the tip of his tongue across your needy, throbbing, swollen clit.
it would be morning—the sun has barely risen and he's lying in bed, with your clothes thrown carelessly around the vintage frame and his arms circled around your thighs. sunlight, warm and golden, would seep in through the blinds, bleeding across the wooden floor little by little, occupying the space as a clock, somewhere nearby, ticks, and ticks, and ticks.
it had rained the night before: not too violently, not for too long, just hard enough for a faint chill to remain whenever the wind blew in through a set of wooden blinds that were left open half-way. it makes the beams creak and the walls whistle, and it brings a shiver up your spine.
it is, after all, the beginning of summer.
BAELOR’s hands, however, feel hot against your skin. his fingers are splayed along the expanse of your thighs, digits pressing into the plush skin as he circles them in a caress. and his tongue, running along your puffy, glistening folds, feels the warmest of all.
"look at how pretty she is," he murmurs, pointing his words with a lick. "how she throbs and leaks, begging for my touch. tastes so sweet, too. could just—mhm, could just lick her for hours."
he just about has been.
he’d started just as you were waking up, dragging his fingers along your slit under your sleeping shorts, sucking them into his mouth before asking you to ride his face instead. and how were you supposed to refuse?
"no, no," he hums, sucking your clit into his mouth as he pulls you down lower against his face. "i didn't say hover, pretty girl. i said sit."
a moan rips through your lips as his tongue enters your hole, and he circles it around as he revels in the sound. he gulps, savoring your taste, feasting on your slick, whimpering against your skin at the way you begin to move your hips over his head. he sucks around your hole as he kneads at the bottom of your ass, working his lips in tandem with his tongue.
his hands move again, making you gasp, making your teeth sink into your bottom lip the moment he uses them to land a spank just over the place he was kneading. and, as if feeding off of your response, as if growing only from your pleasure, does it again the moment you begin to move faster.
"that's right. mhm, take what you need. yeah, just take what you need," he moans against your skin, moving his face upwards to rest his tongue beneath your throbbing clit. he lays it flat, feeling you move against it, your cunt dripping down his chin.
and there’s a part of him that’s still ashamed. there’s a part of him that still whispers and grumbles in the back of his head, telling him that he’s too old for you, that you deserve better, that you should want better—
you quiet it, moaning over him. he puts it to rest, willing it away if only for a moment, nibbling on your clit as he treads a hand between your folds, collecting moisture with his fingers.
he moves his thumb back, digit dripping with your slick, and circles it, softly, tenderly, along your asshole. he hears you gasp, feels you tremble, and tongues at your clit as he applies more pressure with his finger. the tight, puckered ring of muscle clenches under his digit, and he presses in, and a moan, broken and hoarse, echoes across the room.
yours. or his?
BAELOR laps at your cunt, moving his finger in slow, delicate motions, accompanying your moans with the wet, debauched sounds of his sucking.
“i’m so—BAELOR, i’m—”
“yeah? gonna cum?” he groans, moving his finger in deeper, sucking your clit in harder. “soak my face, yeah? gonna do that for me?”
you want to answer. you try to.
but then BAELOR’s tongue flicks along your pearl once more, and you’re weightless, and you’re sinking down, and you’re soaring up. your hands grip the headboard so tight your knuckles begin to hurt, and you’re seeing blue, and pink, and white, and all the colors of the rainbow on the back of your eyelids as you move faster against his face, riding out the bliss.
your orgasm ripples through you in a way that has him all but feeling his, almost succumbing to it, almost coming untouched.
he’s careful when he pulls his finger out of your hole, caressing it once more when it starts to clench at the loss.
his cock rests over his stomach, soft and heavy, bright red and leaking. you lean back, opening your mouth as you spit on your palm, and he groans into your clit. your head is fuzzy with want when you take reach back and him in your hand, hot, throbbing, wet against your palm as you grip on his base.
“can i ride it?”
BAELOR stops. he halts in his movements at your question, his brain trying to make sense of the words as he tastes you on his lips.
“pretty girl, i can’t—”
“i know,” you say, noticing the way he moves his hand back up so they both rest on your hips. “i saw something online, and i want to try—you don’t have to be hard. and i’ll stop if it doesn’t feel good for you, i promise.”
there’s a pause.
seconds trickle by raindrops on his skin, and he feels them drip, drip, drip away as the voice, speaking louder, being meaner, pops back inside his head. you shouldn’t have to settle. he should be able to make you feel good, his cock should be—
“please. i really want to try it.”
and then, there’s that. there’s you, quieting it again, almost as if sensing his shame before he can let it fester. before he can let it burrow.
"alright,” BAELOR says, parting from your cunt so he can speak, breath hot against your tender skin. “try whatever you want, love.”
he presses one last kiss upon your clit, smiling when it throbs, and he knows he would have given in either way. you take in a breath, deep, and stretch your back to move down against his figure.
your fingers map down your descent: kissing his clavicles, feeling the mat of hair on his chest. they trail down his stomach, caressing his belly, following the path set by a graying happy trail.
and then, with your eyes set on his, you let yourself hover over his lap for a brief, fleeting minute. your skin is still buzzing in the aftershocks of your orgasm, charged with electricity, eager for more.
"go on. rub yourself off on my cock. make yourself cum on it again," a pause. he takes in a breath, moving an arm to have it rest under his head.
there is something he doesn't say—he does not need to. it lingers between you, restless, charged, and you lower your cunt onto his cock, your lips glistening with his spit, his cock covered in yours, and feel the head of it come in contact with your clit.
you don't need him to be hard get him off. it feels just as good, just as he is.
"that's it. that's my girl. rub that perfect pussy all the way along my cock. cum on my—fuck, cum on my cock."
it throbs under you, twitching as your clit runs all the way down from the base to his sensitive tip. you move your hips in a slow, circling motion, putting down pressure, and a moan catches in his throat. you move your hips back, rubbing yourself faster against him, and it breaks free.
and there’s no shame in this moment. he doesn’t overthink. he doesn’t let himself stray away from the way your tits move with each and every one of your movements. he doesn’t let himself stray away from the sound of your moans, soft and melodic, loud and violent, each and every one existing as a response to him.
he doesn’t let himself stray away from the way your folds, dripping and puffy, swallow the humiliation whole as they take on his cock.
he is not feeble. he does not fade away.
he watches as another orgasm rips through your body: making you shake, making you shiver, making you rut down against his cock in fast, desperate motions that have him choking on air. you look beautiful like this. otherworldly. he decides to treasure the sight for as long as he lives.
and he cums like that. you’re hunched over, stiff nipples pressing down against his chest, hips still moving down against his cock as he begins to spill. white messy ribbons paint the outside of your cunt, and you don’t stop moving, and he feels like he’s on fire.
your hands find his over the mattress.
a sound is born somewhere along the bottom of his stomach, traveling upwards, ripping past his lips as a breathless moan. he doesn't close his eyes, doesn't dare to miss a moment—just stares at you as he pants.
he looks at you, lost in your pleasure, with your eyes closed and your head laid to rest over his figure. his cock is soft, beating with a pulse, resting between your slit the way a heart would inside a ribcage. he still smells like you. his cum is smeared across the inside of your legs, warm and thick, and his fingers close in around yours, tight and sure.
Your splayed, oiled palms ran down the hard planes of Baelor’s back, his muscles rippling and tensing beneath your touch as you massaged the knots that had formed over the past several weeks with reverence.
You were seated atop his backside, knees pressing into the bedding below while your calves hugged the sides of his waist.
“How’s that?” you murmured, admiring the way his tan skin glistened in the candlelight.
The tops of your fingers would occasionally trace over one of the many scars that had been etched into his body; the sizes and colours of the faded lesions varied, some the length of your forearm and a lighter hue, while others were as small as a quill tip and similar in tone to the surrounding skin.
Baelor hummed in reply before a muffled, “perfect,” left his parted lips.
The right side of his face was pressed into a cushion below, providing you with the alluring image of his open mouth, flushed left cheekbone, and fluttering, dark lashes.
He made a content rumbling every time you worked out a stubborn lump, the hand he had resting around your calf tightening in appreciation of your efforts.
A raspy, dizzying moan left his throat in a long exhale when your hands kneaded at a particularly sensitive wound–one that, despite being eleven years old, would periodically still flare up and throb.
The sound made your legs constrict around him and eyelids flicker as arousal settled thickly at the base of your spine. You lingered around the edges of the aged laceration, evoking another low, unconstrained noise from deep within his chest.
Slowly, your fingers dragged upwards, leaving a trail of long, red welts that took their time to vanish, along the length of his shoulder blades.
The dark grey and silvery hair that rested around the nape of his neck and ear was sleek from a coating of oil, darkened from when you had earlier threaded through the strands in a besotted manner. They had looked enticingly cute; their naturally curled shape too tempting for you to not reach up and twirl them around a single, slick digit.
“Turn around,” you commanded once you had managed to get all of the painful nodules out of his shoulders, your hips rising to provide him with room to flip over.
Once Baelor was comfortably facing you, you sat back down over his pelvis, legs tightening around his body once more when he peered up at you with a knowing smile.
This part wasn’t for him as much as it was for you.
He had gained a thickness over his muscles as the years passed, a supple, malleable layer of meat that easily surrendered to your ministrations.
You poured more lotion over your palms, rubbing them together until the liquid was warm, and then placed them atop his torso.
The hair that was scattered over the stretch of his chest immediately darkened as the balm coated his skin; the glossy sheen that enhanced the bulkiness of his upper body caused heat to unfurl within your lower abdomen, drift up, and settle in blotchy, tingly patches over your throat and face.
Baelor’s own hands were resting over the upper part of your thighs, his new position supplying him more access to you.
His body jolted forward when one of your nails accidentally scraped his dusky nipple, eliciting a startled intake of air from the older man. You bit the inside of your cheek to refrain from remarking on how sensitive he was, despite knowing that he would never retaliate even if you were to do it again.
“Enjoying yourself?” Baelor inquired after several minutes of being thoroughly prodded, scraped, and tugged at.
His scarred brow rose in response to the engrossed, fixated look on your face.
You hadn’t noticed how drastically your breathing had changed; immersed with the way his short, coarse hairs felt when you combed through them, and how every sinewy ridge of his flesh pliantly absorbed each stroke and squeeze you delivered.
“No,” you lied, fingers following the silvery-dark trail of hair that led downwards, to the top of his linen breeches, “but I will be soon enough.”
Summary: Showing Baelor how much you loved his happy trail.
Warning: (18+, nsfw, mdni)
You hadn't been able to explain it to Baelor properly when he'd asked about his grooming. Every time he complained about the discomfort of hair beneath his gambeson or spoke of having a servant trim it, you stopped him.
You forbade it with a passion that left him bewildered. He'd only laughed and asked why you cared so much. He didn't understand the craving, the visceral need to feel that roughness against your skin. It was primal. Something that bypassed logic entirely and reached straight into the darkest corners of your desire.
So you showed him instead.
You asked him to lie on his back, and he did so without hesitation - with both arms tucked behind his head, a curious smile lingering on his lips.
Your gaze traced the length of him: from his face, down the line of his jaw, to his chest where dark hair sprawled, then lower still, narrowing into a dark line that disappeared under his breeches.
How could he be completely unaware of the effect it had on you?
The mattress dipped as you climbed onto him. Baelor’s hands settled on your thighs, steadying you as you lowered yourself against his lower abdomen, caging him beneath you. The position placed that dark line exactly where you wanted it. Your eyes fluttered shut.
You could feel its faint texture against your skin, coarse strands brushing in a way that sent a sharp, unfamiliar signal through your senses. Every nerve seemed to respond at once, the sensation unlike anything else you had known - a stripe of ruggedness you found utterly intoxicating.
Slowly, you began to move. Drawing pleasure from every stroke. The roughness created a steady, simmering heat between your legs. Leaning forward, you rested your forehead against his - breath breaking in short, uneven bursts.
"Is this it?", he whispered. "Is this why you wouldn't let me trim here?". He watched you with open fascination, his gaze following the sway of your hips and the gradual unraveling of your composure.
A soft groan escaped you as you shifted your weight, moving in circles and savouring every sensation. Ensuring that every single hair of that happy trail rubbed against your slickness. You could feel yourself opening up for him, the natural lubrication of your arousal soaking into the coarse hair, making it slide and pull in a rhythmic, maddening cadence. The pleasure was intoxicating.
You couldn’t stop moving. Your motions creating a gradual vertical line along his lower abdomen. Each time that hair grazed the damp area at the base of your opening, it triggered another surge of warmth between your thighs.
Baelor's hands roamed upward, skimming along your ribs. His touch was light, almost teasing, a counterpoint to the increasing desperation of your movements.
"You have a strange obsession with this, darling," he whispered, pausing for a fraction of a second to look up at you. His eyes were dark, blown wide with lust, but his expression remained one of pure, unadulterated love.
Then your attention drifted to his chest, fingers sinking into the thick, dark hair that spread across his pectorals and tapered toward his sternum. It softened the hard lines of muscle beneath. You traced through it lazily, relishing the coarse strands against your skin.
The contrast of tanned muscle and untamed growth left you feeling small against him, enveloped by his scent and strength. It deepened the hunger already coiling within you. The sight of him alone left your mouth dry. You loved every inch of him.
"You're so wet for me." His eyes never left your face. The slickness between you had grown impossible to ignore, easing your movements while somehow heightening every sensation.
"Tell me what you're feeling." The amusement in his voice had softened into something far hungrier.
"Full." You rocked faster, chasing the feeling. "Even though you're not inside me. I feel so full."
Baelor continued to watch you with naked admiration. His hands never stopped their gentle guidance, never tried to rush you or take control. He simply held you while you used him, patient and attentive, those dark eyes drinking in every reaction.
The coil in your belly tightened. Your thighs trembled with the effort of maintaining the rhythm. And still, that trail provided the perfect friction, the perfect texture, everything you needed to spiral higher and higher.
When you started to feel the pressure build, a golden heat radiating from the centre of your being, his name was all you could manage.
“Baelor… Baelor… Baelor.” His name was a prayer on your lips now.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice steady and grounding. “Just let go.”
And so you did. You ground down hard one final time, pressing yourself against that trail, against his navel, riding out the waves until they finally began to subside. Your body went lax, and you slumped forward. Baelor’s large arms catching you before you could collapse fully onto his chest.
A few moments passed before he cupped your jaw, tilting your face up to his. “My heart,” he whispered, planting a kiss on your lips.
“I’m definitely never trimming now,” he said quietly, his eyes bright with amused disbelief.
“Good.” You laughed weakly, fingers returning to his chest. You spread your hands across him as though trying to absorb every part of him at once. “Because I never wanted you to. Ever.”
summary: as your secret writings grow in success, the proximity to your husband causes restraint to weaken- how will he handle a scandal entry about the failure of your marriage? how will he prove you it’s wrong? (wc: 6.2k)
warnings: detailed descriptions of sex, male masturbation, insane levels of yearning, fem reader, no first name mentioned, horny reader, secretly horny maekar
note: i highly recommend reading pt 1 first!! also im so glad a lot of you enjoyed part one, your feedback made me so happy!! hope u enjoy this part as well
Your trafficking of chatter had yet to slow, though your life improved in station and fortune. You felt no compulsion to spitefully scribble about lives who were better than yours, despite scandal.
The cruelty in your words were often rooted in envy. A heartless reminder to yourself that you were not alone in your misfortune. One hundred and twenty one days passed since whispers unmeant for your ears found yours. You kept your eyes from slumber nightly, so that you may drink them again.
Each Valyrian whisper a token of secret gentleness. The words began to vary in sweetness, some tender, some proprietorial. The broken confessions left you astonished each nightfall. Some words were too advanced for your understanding, though some phrases undid themselves like riddles in your mind.
Your familiarity with the language improved each passing night. As a silent favor of care, you began to siege the haven in which he hid from you. Replacing his ink, sharpening his letter opener, organizing parchment, polishing leather. He was under the impression servants had grown more meticulous, and that you did not know a word of Valyrian. And like most matters, he was wrong.
His feigned hatred became less convincing as days passed. You had a newfound respect for one another. Not affection, nor resentment. Just a general sense of toleration. You began to seek his company more frequently, to his dismay. Though his hushed proclamations betrayed him. Duties occupied your every moment when the sun hung high. As night fell, It grew your custom to sip wine together within your shared chambers. You both grow merrily drunk, as he pours forth his condemnation of fate and the tiresome humours of court.
“Fucking idiots.” He mumbled, shaking his head. The keep lay shrouded in stillness whilst the children took their rest. In that hush, your husband’s grievances found voice. He sat tensely in his most favored lounge chair, close enough to be given warmth from the crackling hearth.
You stood behind him, fingertips kneading the stiff, stressed muscles of his shoulders. The act was to your preference, given he would not see you rolling your eyes as he went on about his insipid troubles. To relieve him of strain was the only time he allowed such contact.
“You will find the scandal writer soon enough. I estimate she is of Northern blood.”
“Humour me, wife. Explain to me.”
“Well, her false name lacks any indication of where she may reside. If she was southern or perhaps somewhere in the middle, she‘d choose an exaggerated Northern name. But, if she is from the North, it‘d be best to use a name that could not be recognized anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms. To remain neutral, rather than using a southern name, which is her total opposite. It would lead us right to her. And Gods know northern maesters are proficient in the pursuit of language. I hear literacy is common amongst northern common women. Surely she has learned elaborate words from them. If she is even a she at all. Or if it is the work of more than one person. Besides, these writings are surely a means of boredom. What is there to do up North anyhow?”
Your writings became more treasonous than the last. The hunt for Hollowmere became an endeavor every member of the court had undertaken. Nobles do cherish a hunt. And their prized catch happens to sit amongst them, learning their every tactic.
It proved advantageous, altering the deployment of ravens depending on their strategies. The burden of your wrongs weighed heavy.
You had become a device of truth, a vessel of verity. If you cease your writings, you will be discovered, upon seeing how the relief has improved your mood. And just because the scrolls stop, does not mean the hunt will.
Each word you dare commit to parchment binds you tighter to a pit of sin, the chastisement swelling with every scroll, until you are confined within the narrow bounds of your own wrongdoing.
“It is possible. Merchants who sell the writings will be interrogated, bribed for word. The Wall will soon be crawling with traitors to the crown, I’m certain.” He shrugged as you continued your assault on the expanse of his shoulders. Your movements slowed, as you spiraled into a doubtful worry.
Your movements slowed, as you spiraled into a doubtful worry. You had not named yourself when exchanging ravens with common folk. Did your lack of words regarding The Anvil‘s Lady reveal itself? It would be long before you forgave yourself, for a means did manifest before you. The preservation of your identity was crucial. Your good name could afford insipid slander. As well as his.
***
Dearest Gentle Reader,
It is with most delicate restraint and undeniable fascination, that I turn my quill toward a matter that has, as of late, set many whisper fluttering through drawing rooms and banquet halls alike. For in a season otherwise rich with blossom and expectation, there exists one union curiously untouched by nature’s most anticipated blessing. Pray, cast your thoughts upon a certain royal coupling, whose vows were once apprehended with such heed that even the oldest amongst us declared it a match cursed by fortune itself.
Their keep is vast, titles secure. And yet…the cradle remains empty. The Anvil and his young bride seem to merely tolerate one another, which is most unsurprising, given the Prince’s coldness. This author must also take note of the Prince’s fulfillment of duty, having given the realm six children already. Nevertheless, dear reader, feigned affection for prying eyes sustains a marriage of consequence.
Duty, expectation and most crucially, issue, form the pillars upon which such alliances stand. Without them, even the grandest union may find itself…wanting. Moon blood continues to soil their sheets as the Princess is not yet with child. Or perhaps not laid with at all. Is the Prince incapable of performing his marital duty following his first wife’s abrupt demise? Or is there something undesirably plain regarding his current bride?
A barren womb or a troubled widow? And so the question remains, whispered behind cupped palms and carried upon the breath of scandal: is this merely a pause before joy, or the first crack in a most carefully constructed facade? As ever, I shall observe with the keenest interest.
Yours in curiosity and candor,
Lady Hollowmere
***
“You said what to her?” Through the oaken barrier crept Baelor’s voice, and you, with an eager ear, laid yours upon the door’s cold face. You knew the words exchanged in the other room were not for yours ears. It was erroneous.
The procurement of your decorum was a brittle conviction, given it is what had beckoned your ear to the door. The brothers words were concise, sharp berates, that never seemed to grow louder than a murmur.
You have wrought a cage of your own choosing, and now you must dwell in it. Coin would grow scarce if your words did not grow harsher. Every word promised you to the fondness of rope and the pardoning from livelihood. It was a fearsome reality you have burdened upon yourself, plagued by the lives victimized by your debauchery. The ravens have nearly made a slave of you.
”I reminded her I had a wife. And she is not her.” The familiar hoarseness rang in your ear. His tone carried little trace of remorse. The words brought you back to where you stood in that study, astonished by the cruel jest your life revealed itself to be. Moments before your eyes found quill and parchment.
You empathized with that angry girl, longing for the impossible chance to tell her the joke that is your life is rather humorous, if you would just laugh. There was a deal you had dealt with every sinister evil in this realm, obligated to fulfill its wicked whims. You are shackled by your own quill.
The starved public no longer wished to read about jovial dalliances and petty disputes. It is blood they craved, words like lashings upon the backs of those who surpassed them in life. You had spat upon the cheek of every noble. Even your own.
You had gone as far as faking trouble reading, claiming words and letters move on parchment. The protection of your identity became something you’d endure humiliation for.
“And yet, we debate why she has not given herself to you. It is too obvious to examine, brother. You have shunned her from any chance of winning your favor. She is not Dyanna, but she is no trifle either. She is as good as any. To her, she is substandard in your eyes.”
True to his nature, Baelor rides in the defense of the weaker cause.
“Yes, well, it’s not as though I demanded her to take my side, did I?”
”It was expected of you, brother.”
”I never asked for another fucking wife.”
If you were any fragile lady, tears would have spilled from the rims of your eyes. It was nothing you hadn’t heard before. With time, you familiarized yourself with his detest for tenderness.
Vulnerability frightened him like no joust or bloodshed could. His cruel tongue was a means for a shield, a buffer to uphold his severity. Borne of southern heat and yet he was written by winter, kissed by cold gray bloom. You did not fear him, nor did you take his rigor to heart.
”I forbade a bedding ceremony, because I trusted you would do your duty. And you jeopardized her position in this court for your own selfish impulse.”
”And you’d rather I perform the act, and treat her with the same apathy? To burden her with a child she’d father with a stranger?”
”Behold the crown’s custom, brother. I loathe the notion no less than you.”
You wished to see their faces as they exchanged words. You pictured your husband’s lasting scowl, his jaw flexing in the midst of his ire. Baelor with his hands clasped behind his back, with a tilted head.
”So, this writer, she speaks the truth? You have not yet finalized the union?” Your eyes were denied the chamber’s sight, yet you were certain Maekar was nodding in somber resolve.
“She…the Princess does not hold me in such regard. I am partly at fault, but it shall not soon be undone. Our marriage is…abstruse.”
You withdrew your ear in surprise. It felt out of his nature to use such a flowery word to describe something so plain. You held little esteem for one another, but you were man and wife after all. Obligated to accompany one another.
But, to him, you were blithe to the reverent whispers, when you appeared to be deep in sleep. Your reciprocated passivity was necessary, so that you may continue hearing them.
“And I find your perception false. She sends for you much more frequently. Surely it is not because she loathes your company. By persistence and courtly grace, her heart may yet be persuaded.”
“Ha, I am not courting the woman. That is a ridiculous notion, given we are already married.”
”Are you?”
The cold plain of the chamber door offered you silence following Baelor’s words. A stiff, unyielding, forceful silence. Just as you thought to leave, that Maekar will storm out in a fit of rage, he speaks.
”If that scroll had not been so fucking untimely, I might’ve had a chance. But she will discern my efforts without fail, now that there is talk. I must be wiser with my contrivance.”
“Or, you can be honest, and simply pay heed to her feelings. I am not suggesting coercion. I am suggesting you tread at a pace with her best interest in mind. Affection is much less fickle and taxing than you think. Feigning your devotion will be no great task. You’ve endured far worse.” Verily, to fake such warmth was far from his main worry. What frightened him most was the honest stirrings of his soul. Something he had guarded like fine gold.
***
Your knees were once again taken by a familiar anguish, once again met with a stone floor. Fortunately, you were able to take your leave before they left the study. In your newfound rite, you kept vigil by the hearth of your bedchamber, where letters are engulfed by fire’s embrace.
Parchment written with cold hands, burned the same way warm ones did. Ravens that came from every way of a compass, all were rendered into ash alike. The pages curl as though in whispered protest, ink darkening before it yields. Edges glow like dying suns, as the flame licks its way through the words. The song of gentle crackle sings, till it is reduced to a soft, sighing drift of ash. Oh, to be that curious blaze.
To be lit up from within, vein by vein. To be the sun. As the flames bloomed, you felt the warmth caressing your cheeks. Perhaps it is a brief taste of the burn you will endure in all seven hells.
Your gown blossomed in soft folds around your seated frame, whilst you gathered your knees unto your chest, as if to ward off some unseen chill. The parchment, alight and consuming, drew your eyes in a cruel fascination, as though they had bewitched your will. You pondered if your husband found it odd how servants never tended to our hearth. For it was fueled solely by the secret you hoarded feverously. The sting of ash in your eye and itch in your throat was a punishment of your own design.
“Are you cold?” His stern voice roused you from your addled trance, rescuing you from the abyss of your thoughts. They often went blank as you stared into the flame.
”I am well.” You replied, eyes still fixed on the hearth. It was plain to you his asking was in light of the prior discourse. The one you should not have heard.
“Is there anything you require?” A newfound gentleness found his voice, an unconvincing display of care.
“Only silence, my Lord. Which I’m certain will pose little interference with what you always require.” A hitch of silence breathes between you, along with the hisses and pops of the fire. With a long measured sigh, a weight sinks heavily into your every bone. You felt yourself succumb to the fatigue of stealth, so drained by the restlessness of my antics. It was a petty lament, the soreness in your fingers, the depletion of thought onto paper.
”And what do I always require?”
A fine dust from an early pyre, you wanted to say.
”My absence.”
Your eyes flick to your feet, beseeching your lips to remain shut. He had spent hours debating the topic with his brother just moments ago. You did not wish to test him. Without a word, he stood beside your seated form.
Before you could apologize for your austerity, he sat beside you, heavy lids gazing mindlessly into the hearth. He heaved a sigh similar to yours as you both came undone before our fire.
The distance between you was cumbersome, reminiscent of your wedding night. Yet it lacked the same rigidity. You yielded unto ease with him at your side, simply reveling in the warmth of your chambers. Not a word stirred in the air, not even a whisper.
As long moments passed, you tore your sights from the heap of char. A glance turned to a stare as you mapped his face. Though his eyes remained transfixed upon the flames, you watched as their glow danced across his blemished skin. The silvery gold hair of his jaw, the exhaustion in his stare. It was remarkably endearing, drinking the sight of him. A troubled, imperfect man. With a strange neglected beauty.
The glance began to border greed as your sights returned to the fire. There was a foreign haste in the drumming of your ribs. A heat in your cheeks unrelated to the fire before you. He had given you exactly what you required, silence, whilst proving what he didn’t. Your absence.
“The children have taken a liking to you.“ He spoke. It may have been the highest praise he‘s given you since…ever.
“It‘d be a pity if they didn‘t, considering I am tasked with looking after them.“
You ended your remark with a breathy laugh. It was then you and Maekar‘s eyes met, your gazes warmed by the hearth before you.
“Well, you‘re managing the nettlesome brood you‘ve been saddled with well.“ You hum in reply, amused by his urgency to flatter you. Had Baelor truly infiltrated his mind so thoroughly? Or was this the work of your writing?
“You know, when I play with the children in the garden, they insist on reciting to me their reenactment of the Blackfyre rebellion. It‘s silly and watered down, but…they always fight over who gets to play you. It‘s the highest honour they can think of. I know I have assumed the role of their mother rather swiftly, but they still need you. They love their father. But we must love and raise them together. I am not trying to replace what you grieve, husband. But the children need both of us, which means we must be civil. Like…“
You racked your brain for a similar dynamic that could describe yours in an understandable way. Or at least use imagery he‘d resonate with.
“Like a fletcher and bowyer. So that way we might be well-mannered to one another, but work proficiently."
“That sounds manageable. I will try to be more present.“
Time, the sly and silent thief, crept upon your tiresome bodies. You found yourself beneath the hush of your shared bed. As many nights before, you feigned your slumber, yet kept your ear keenly bent for secrets soft and lowly whispered. You awaited the harbored words with a vigilance, ready for them to ease you into rest.
“Ao jorrāelagon issa ñuha syt se qogror.” (loving you is my sweetest peril).
“Sōvegon, nyke ziry iksos gaomagon.” (hush, I’m trying to sleep). You murmured into the plush of your pillow.
✧˖°── .✦────☼༺☆༻☾────✦.── °˖✧
Nights passed in silent procession, and you were brought again to where you had first stood. Right back where you started. It seemed the Prince was not seeking an answer from you that night, embracing him from what he believed possible. He made himself scarce (again), refusing to see you following the events of that night.
The bed laid barren and chilled, yet you reserved his stead beside you, as though he might yet to come. The notion was foolish, his actions fickle. All your striving came to little worth. Your labours proved to be vain and fruitless.
Diligently pursued, yet rendered void. Was it amiss that you should mark his affection? What profit lay in his disdain of you, when even you knew the truth? To what end served his scorn? Your marriage was a trifling riddle, vexing, and unwilling to unravel. Fortunately, you had other concerns to occupy yourself with.
You sat before your desk, still in a state of nightly undress, making sense of the scattered ravens splayed across the wood. You begin gliding your letter opener through each scroll, noting the realm’s most promising scandals.
”Mad for the gambling halls, he is. Throws away gold and sense alike. It’s a ruinous path he walks, so I’ve heard.”
“He’s lost to vice and wagers. Spends what’s his and what ought not to be spent, heedless of all. A danger to himself and his own, M’Lady.”
”The man’s bewitched by hazard and dice. Squanders his purse and shames his blood. No wit or caution left in him. Aye, tossing away coin like chaff in the wind.”
Separate accounts of Lord Lannister’s whoring and spending came from every corner of Westeros. It seemed to be all they could muster, as Lord Lannister made himself the easiest target.
At the hush of the maid's steps, you scramble to conceal your writings in a hurried disquiet. With feigned ease, you welcomed them into your chambers, languidly drawing your hand through your unbound hair.
You watched as they dutifully prepared your garments, a concise rhythm like second nature. Nimble fingers loomed through your hair, heels of palms pressing fragrant oils to the skin below your ears. In a quaint vigil you sat, warm tea meeting your lips as you were obediently tended to.
”Your Grace, the Prince would have you receive these as a most humble gift.” The words nearly drew a laugh from deep within your chest. A gift? From my husband? Was she new at Summerhall? With reluctance, you reached for the box she offered you, intently studying the contents.
A fine pair of earrings, wrought in fine silver. Rubies adorned the garments, their crimson gleam catching the morning light like drops of fresh wine. They were exceptional.
“Right…how thoughtful.“ You murmur, your tone riddled with a mocking disbelief. It seemed unlikely a reclusive, ill-tempered, war hero would have such refined taste in jewels. As you gazed into the gems, your vexation only worsened. He refuses to sleep beside you, after answering him in Valyrian, refuses to meet your eyes, refuses to grasp your very existence. And you are gifted…earrings?
With an exasperated scoff, You attach them to your ears. Now it is your turn to refuse, and deny how well they compliment your complexion.
◣──•~❉᯽❉~•──◢
The great hall where you broke your fast was host to a mischievous company indeed. Four restless, troubled boys, two rowdy young girls and a stepmother whose writings strayed close to treachery. Yet their quarrels, bright and unserious, wove themselves into air so often, what was once discord became a strange soothing refrain.
“Where is father?“ Aemon whined beside you, a book laid in his lap as he ate.
“He is rather occupied, unfortunately. So it is me who you are stuck with.“ You joke, ruffling his hair, earning youthful giggles from the boy. In light of your neglect, you had grown close with each of them. Even Aerion, to your bewilderment. The naive hope of having a child of your own felt as though it had slipped from your fingers. Though you were bound to their company by duty, your chance of motherhood felt somewhat redeemed.
“Why is my wine watered?“ Daeron‘s words are slurred as he inspects his goblet as though it had been laced with poison.
“Because it is merely dawn. The only time you should be drinking is when the moon rises. Not the sun.“ With a theatrical groan, he leans back in his seat, defeated. You stared across the table, eyes boring into the vacant seat before you. You could so much as trace his scowl in thin air.
Though he stood absent in body, his spirit lingered grievously. You pined to behold him seated opposite from you. You wished to be thought upon with fondness. The same kind he showed you when he thought you asleep.
“Mother?“
“Mm.“
“When do you suppose Lady Hollowmere will write of my search for a wife?“ The laughter that escapes you is instant and boisterous. Uncontrollable, in fact. Tears pricked at your eyes, breath escaping your lungs. You felt yourself begin to turn a flush crimson shade, resembling your gown. You ceased your laughter upon realizing you were alone in your amusement.
“Oh, Aerion, dear, I am deeply sorry. That was… ill-mannered of me..“ You wipe at the stray tears, composing myself for your step son‘s sake.
“What is so humorous? I am in earnest, mother. I intend to take one soon.“
“Seven above, finish your eggs first. Then you may seek any unlucky woman you please.“ Your jest is met with an eyeroll reminiscent of his father. An eyeroll you‘ve been subjected to far too many times.
“I‘m certain Lady Hollowmere has far more pressing concerns to write about, brother.“ Daella squeaks from her seat, playful malevolence in her tone. You had given little heed to the fact they had been reading the scrolls.
You began to weigh each word within your thoughts, seized by dread of what they might discern of those they were raised to respect. By what artifice could you deny them Lady Hollowmere?
“Those scandal writings are not for your eyes. None of yours. There is an entire library just paces away. You all have no tenable reason to be reading such filth.“ The words have a firm rigidity, a tense quiet blanketing the hall.
They mumble words of apology, glancing nervously at one another. The thought of them reading the scrolls provided you little comfort. But my, what exquisite taste they had. With a repressed sigh and plastered smile, you rise from your seat.
“Now, if you will excuse me, I will attend to your father and see how he fares.“
╭────-·-ˋˏ-༻𖤓༺-ˎˊ·-────╮
╰────-·-ˋˏ-༻𖤓༺-ˎˊ·-────╯
The fear that once coiled in your stomach, unraveled itself, reborn as wrath of iron and will. With a fierce, steadfast ire, you sought his study, as though summoned by fate. There was an unrelenting thunder in your steps. A purpose sharp as steel. He held no claim to deny you. You considered mercy, had he not gifted you ruby earrings.
The gesture stung with insult. He judges you so shallow, it seems, that such trifles might appease you and banish you from his life. You were the hound he so dutifully trained. Ruby and silver were as good as stale bread, in comparison to his presence. How you wished to be content with heaps of jewels. How you wished to feel equally inclined to shun him, as he shunned you.
With a strangled anger, you allow yourself into his study, allowing the doors to shut in a muted click. His eyes refused to leave the parchment before him, as though he was preparing for war. A veiny, rigid hand carded through his silver hair, a fractious sneer on his lips.
“I did not send for you.“
“I don‘t recall you ever have.“
Your candid words linger in the air, the room accommodating a newfound heaviness. Between you lingered a grievous strain, eager for your bitter tongues. Like a drawn bow, quivering before fatal release.
“You know, entering this marriage, I reckoned I would often be the one to sulk like a scolded child. To my astonishment, the child is you. Alone, brooding in your solitude and held fast to every duty your father entrusts you with. Though they are never of any worth. Fourth son.“
You hadn‘t anticipated the remark to leave your lips with such spite. Ever saddled with his unamused frown, he lifts his head, sparing you a glance.
“Have I done something, woman? Are the earrings too heavy for your empty skull?“ His jaw clenches as his eyes narrow, spurring me further.
“Fuck your earrings. You may shower me with however many jewels you please, but none will keep me from this room. From you. Remember? Fletcher and bowyer?“
A vagueness plagues his eyes. Like a harbored, frustrated, remorse. A glance that shuns you. A glance like an apology.
“Will you compose yourself? How many times must I deny you? When will you understand I do not want you?“
“You did once, clearly. When I lay awake, faking sleep.“ His frustration was displaced by embarrassment, a crimson flush creeping up his collar. The silence swelled, dense and oppressive. It pressed harshly upon your lungs, depriving you of ease. Reluctantly, you approached his desk, honoring the sovereign ground he calls his own.
“Speak plainly then. We have been wed for nine months, yet I remain untouched. If you deem me repulsive, then give me peace of mind. I will not take it to heart.“
“You are repulsive. In character, that is.“ In his own troubled way, he had managed to compliment you. It was difficult to conceal your flush as your charged conversation was yet to meet an end.
“It is not my intent to berate you. I am sorry for my brutality. It is only that I have beaten myself to a pulp, to prove I am deserving of being your wife. Caring for children that are not mine, attending to this keep, going above what my station expects of me. I do not wish to stay hidden from you, behind those doors, because you will not allow it. And I do much more than care to admit, to prove that to you.“
It is at this point his quill is resting in a vile of ink, his parchment set aside.
“And what is it, you‘re proving to me now?“ His stare was piercing, a scrutinizing audience of your vulnerability.
“That if I must leave my home, my family, my customs, my life, it will not be for a man I do not know. I do not ask for much. Only that you return to our bed, help me off my mare after riding, speak to me every so often. And you cease embarrassing my position in this court. We shall inform the court our duties of marriage have been met, and I am not to carry forth a child.“
He replies with a solemn nod, his lips a firm line. You patiently stood before his seated form, awaiting words.
“Have you gone mad, woman? You think it is an accident, the distance I keep you? Seven above, if you only knew. There is nothing I mourn more bitterly than the man I have failed to be. I am sorry I am not the lord of your girlish dreams. I am sorry the road of your life curved so cruelly that it led you to my side and no one else’s. Pity me if it pleases you. I have pitied myself enough for us both. I know you heard me…those nights past. Those words were spoken by a frightened man hiding from truths he lacked the courage to face. But heed this, wife, every step I take away from you is taken for your sake. I would sooner bear loneliness than see you harmed by drawing too close to me.“
“I am not so easily frightened. Certainly not by emotionally stunted princes who think it best to never touch their wife.“
Your steps drew closer to him, causing him to stand, stepping away from his desk. Your chest was nearly flush with his as you peered up at him. You could see his restraint weakening like a rope ready to snap.
“Prove me wrong, husband. Touch me, if it pleases you. It would certainly please me.“ Your voice became a quivering whisper despite the lewdness of your words. He swallowed, his stare never daring to leave your eyes.
“Take me right here, on your desk. Put your mouth on me. Let me learn every part of you. Please.“ His breathing labored in his chest as he felt his breeches begin to tent. Gods, it took everything in him not to take you in his arms and claim in ways that would make a whore blush.
He envisioned pursuing every filthy fantasy, showering you with the brutal force of his devotion to you. The ravenous hunger of his affection.
But, he deemed the situation in his pants something he’d tend to when you took your leave, and when he could let your name fall from his pleading lips.
With his lips just a hair’s length from yours now, he turned, seating himself back into his chair. With a scoff you storm out his study, your hands aloft in utter disbelief. Maekar heaves a sigh when he hears the door shut.
His attention shifts to his rigid cock, throbbing in his breeches. He groans at the feeling, angered with himself. He wanted nothing more than to touch you, revel in the feeling of your soft skin. Or have you tend to him beneath his desk and he tried to keep focus. The thought drove his band straight down, freeing his cock to bob against his thigh.
He took it into his palm, so eager for the feeling to leave him. To be freed from the torment of keeping you out of his reach. He lets out a breathy groan as he begins to drag his hand up and down, head falling back against his chair. He pictured you riding him in his study, languidly rolling your hips, teasing him. Chasing your own high. Using him like a good husband.
He envisioned your tits swaying in his face, fighting to take a hardened peak into his mouth to suck.
“Fucking hells…”
He whines under his breath as his strokes hasten in fervor. The thought of taking you from behind pops into his mind. How your desperate mewls would sound against the pillows. How the gentle curve of your back would arch with each punishing thrust. How he would murmur in your ear to “take him like a good girl”, while giving a few slaps to the flesh of your ass.
Maekar’s mouth fell open as he breathed heavily, ugly. Loud, breathless pants pleading for you. To hold you within his arms, to kiss you where you liked, to caress you where you moaned.
“Fuck- mmm, yes-yes-yes”
Maekar listlessly begged as his fist moved faster. He was beginning to sweat in his seat, hoping no one in the corridor could hear his groans or sounds of wet skin.
Then as he felt himself teetering on the brink of his pleasure, his need for you overtook his senses.
“Uh huh-fuck-such a good girl…gods, let me fuck you, pretty thing. Could make you f-feel so fucking…”
His trailing words were replaced with wanton whimpers as he came into his palm. He shuddered, cursing under his breath as he pictured filling you up. Fulfilling his duty.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
Aemon rested heavily against you as you wandered the hushed corridors, striving in quiet earnest to not wake the slumbering child. It became all too clear your arms were unfit for motherhood, as they trembled beneath his motionless weight. You found him, face down amid his reading in the library, the hour unspeakably late.
You gathered the sleeping boy, returning him to his chambers, though rest would have had him remain. The trek doubled in length, as you navigated near darkness and Aemon‘s dead weight in your hold. You anticipated the remainder of your evening as you walked, envisioning the void bed and the haunting stillness of sound.
The nights you had spent in solitude seemed to feel unbearably silent, vacant of all livelihood. It was as though the air held its breath, weary of reminding you you are the only one to hear its drifting sighs. Despite his absence of body, you prepared his side of the bed each night, longing for the familiar dip in the mattress.
*CLUNK* Your palm flew to the back of Aemon‘s head as it collided with the stone walls, glancing around the corridor in search of potential witnesses. You mutter a hushed apology to the boy, grateful there were no servants to observe your clumsiness. After what felt like moons, you opened his chamber door, onehandedly lighting a candle so that the child would not be subjected to further head injuries.
You bestowed the boy upon his bed, seeing him well with rest. Yet with a gentle stirring he awoke, and knew himself restored unto his own chamber.
“Mother? Did you mark the place in my book?“ A yawn slips past his lips, tugging his covertures to his chin.
“I did, not to worry.“ You falsely assured him, taking the candle from his bedside. He seemed appeased by the falsehood, eager to return to his rest. You offer him a final smile, rising from the edge of his bed.
“Those earrings are most lovely.“ His tiresome words are slurred as his eyes flutter shut. You pinched the candle‘s wick, the room yielding unto darkness.
“Rest well, sweet boy. I will see you in the morrow.“ You withdraw yourself, the chamber door shutting quietly from behind you.
With weary, leaden steps, you made a slow return to your chambers. You hungered greatly for the gentle embrace of sleep. The tender grace of slumber's quiet hand. It is the only respite you are granted, so absorbed by pursuits and obligations. It was a quiet moment unfit for your solitude.
A blissful stillness not to be hoarded. No sooner had you entered your chamber than a strange vision did present itself, which you deemed a shadow of your own fatigue. Yet, it was true. There he lay beneath the gentle coverings of your bed. He laid in stillness, as if in tender vigil for your return.
“The hour is rather late.“ He remarked from his place in bed, knees bent slightly to support a book resting in his lap. The image was nearly verbatim of what you had seen in the library.
“I did not expect you. And I certainly didn’t expect you to await my return.“ You did not stray from your nightly pursuits despite his disrupting presence. As you withdrew pins and braids from your hair, the room fell into a familiar quiet. You remained in a thin chemise, hair spilling from your shoulders.
“If you must know, I was returning your son to his chambers. Seems he does not know when is appropriate to retire, just like his father.“ You taunted, lifting the covertures to slide into bed. Composed in comfort, you turned yourself to him. Amidst the dull candlelight, you study his face with a quiet reverence, regarding his visage as he reads. You committed every scar and line to memory, marking each feature with a careful eye.
“It is unseemly to gape.“ His gruff voice mumbles, eyes transfixed to the page of his book. Armed with a newfound resolve, you shut the volume upon his lap as though to draw him from its spell. Reluctantly, his exhausted stare finds yours.
“And it‘s unprincely to dottle.“ You grin at your own petty taunt, settling further beneath the covers. Regardless of how many juvenile mocks you may torment him with, he always seemed to observe your gratitude for his presence.
Your tired sight is met with a veil of black as he extinguishes the last candle, isolating you both to the resolution of nightfall. You hear him stir beneath the sheets, settling with a sharp exhale. You count the seconds in your thoughts, just as you had the prior nights he laid beside you.
“Sōvegon ēdruta, ñuha ābrazȳrys.” (sleep well, my wife)
summary: your strange, distant marriage leads you to pursue writing westeros’s most revered scandal sheet. while you and your new husband harbor true feelings, you must navigate a new life as a step mother and lady of summerhall
warnings: arranged marriage, smut, wedding night consummation (sorta?), vaginal fingering, loss of innocence, maekar spits on your *****, no aftercare, alcoholism (daeron), maekar is bad with feelings, mentions of death
WC: 6k
note: definitely will be a part two! also, some scandal entries are directly inspired from real lady whistedown entries so if they sound familiar, that’s why! enjoy and let me know if you’d want to be added to the tag list for this series :))
The chamber door shut with a gentle thud. And with the door’s heavy sigh, all sound was swallowed by stillness. The straggling wedding merriment, the mortal ruckus had vanished. No whisper dared stir, as though the air itself held its breath. It was a tension so dense you prayed the stone floors would engulf you. To shield you from the unbearably stiff quiet.
You stood a modest distance from one another, merely five paces. Though it was just far enough to feel ill at ease. It was a night that you had been adequately prepared for. The entirety of the day felt as though your every muscle had rehearsed it. Every deliberate movement, with the intent of procuring your perfect day.
To your youthful dismay, it was far from perfect. Upon the announcement of your betrothal, you were offered no sincere congratulations. No one you knew from home met your eyes and said, you are vastly fortunate, my Lady!
You were graciously given solemn stares and consoling words. Your position in court had the same number of takers as aspiring leech collectors. Dear friends had mourned your departure like you would soon slay yourself in the matter of moons.
You knew of your husband’s image. Gruff, stern and unspeakably blunt. He had certainly hardened with age, that was undebateable. Despite the gossip, (and nickname), you oversaw the image bestowed on the man, and approached the remainder of your days with cheerfulness. Your home regarded you as positively charming. Why would the Prince see you any different?
“My Prin-“
”You are quite young.”
Oh, he’s a genius! you thought. Young, you were. Though you were under the impression he had taken note of that by now. Despite your age, you were now his political equal. Though, your composure surpasses his immensely, you‘d never boast about such matters, should your humility allow it. But you knew it was just as clear to the rest of the court.
His comment left a sneer on his face as his eyes assessed your form, from a cumbersome distance. You were merely four years older than his eldest son. If circumstances were different, you may have felt his cloak upon your back.
”But no less sensible I can…assure…you…that…” You trail off as he turns his back to you, striding toward the farthest side of the bed. Your spine corrected itself, anticipating instruction. Consummate and be done with it, you tell yourself as he settles onto the bed.
A sharp exhale leaves you as you undo your garment, the silk beginning to slide from the curve of your shoulder. You kept your eyes fixed upon him as you began to undress. While you could not slow your labored breaths, you remained attentive to your task. Your duty.
The silk fell into a puddle at your feet, the flickering candlelight cast over your bare skin. The lingering chill within the chamber scattered goosebumps on your skin, causing you to tense up. Sheepishly you approached the bed, watching him sit up as you crawled onto the mattress.
Maekar remained completely dressed, a bitter contrast to your vulnerable state.
“Lie back.“ He spoke with a gruffness that made your thighs press together. It wasn‘t cruel, or spoken with any intention of making you uncomfortable. It was simply his most gentle way of directing you.
You obliged, feeling your bare body sink into the mattress. You crossed your arms over your chest in an attempt to shield yourself from him, which to your surprise, he made no effort to move your hands. With coarse hands, he parted the soft flesh of your thighs that were clenched together. You spread your legs for him in response to the gesture, feeling yourself grow more nervous beneath his piercing gaze. His hands found your thighs once more, soothing the skin of the inside. The closer he got to your pussy, the more you felt your breath stall in your throat.
“This will be over soon, girl. Tell me and I will stop.“
His tone remained stern, steadfast to his duty. Though his words held no falseness to them. Yes, the way he speaks is gruff, like gravel running down a hill. Yet it became progressively harder to ignore the warmth growing in your stomach with each stern word he uttered.
His fingers gently began to trace your folds, earning a stifled gasp from you. It was unlike something you‘ve ever felt, let alone someone else‘s fingers. His touch was exploratory, tentative, heeding your small reactions. As his finger ran up and down your pussy, it began to collect the wetness he drew from you. But, that wasn‘t enough.
You felt it, a warm wet glob spat straight onto your eager cunt. Maekar continued rubbing the wetness up and down your slit, till he was seemingly pleased with the feeling.
His finger began to explore higher, gently rubbing your clit into little circles. The foreign sensation drew breathless whines from you, as you bucked your hips into his touch. As Maekar‘s finger returned to your core, you whimpered at the lost contact of your clit.
Though, he soon replaced the sensation with a long, thick finger, sliding itself inside your tight pussy. It stung, especially when he breached that small film of skin that confirmed your maidenhood. Yet as he withdrew the digit and drove it back deep inside you, the pain began to melt into mindless pleasure.
The sensation surprised you as the warmth deep in your tummy pooled. Your bottom lip caught between your teeth and you felt yourself being jostled by the new pace he set. He wasn‘t withdrawing his finger anymore, only thrusting them deep to hit the spot inside you that made tears well in your eyes.
You gripped the curvatures beneath you as you writhed beneath his touch. Wanton pants and moans escaped your parted lips, careless of how they may be embarrassing you before your husband (or a stranger, rather). Your hips bucked and humped into his hand as his fingers thrust harder, with a newfound haste in his touch.
“Mmmphh, my Prince- you- it feels so good, husband.“
Your whine was accompanied by the wet sounds of your pussy echoing through the chamber. Maekar grunted as he felt you clenching around him.
“Hush, needy girl. Hold still for me.“ His voice had sounded as though it had deepened. Maekar‘s tone remained stern and demanding yet it met your ears like silk slipping through someone‘s fingers. Through the haze of your aching pleasure you could see him restraining himself with every bone in his body. His cheeks bore a red flush beneath his beard, his chest heaving at a pace one could only mistake for ravenous hunger.
You only began to squirm harder despite his command, feeling the building pleasure in your core threatening to snap. You felt it grow with every brutish thrust of his finger. Until the feeling was so overwhelming, you had no choice but to succumb to the feeling.
“Fuck- my Prince I-ah, it‘s too much.“ His response to your pleads was a stifled groan as you felt your walls flutter around his fingers. The sensation climbed and climbed till it broke, drawing your bows into a tight pinch, allowing desperate moans to tear through your throat. You shuddered as your orgasm thrashed through you, Maekar fingers fucking you through your high.
As you felt it weaken and your core clench around its own emptiness, you let out a content sigh as your breathing slowed. While you enjoyed your after glow, Maekar inspected the sheets beneath you, lifting your hips slightly to grant himself a full view.
Whatever was he searching for? you thought. When you raised your head, your eyes snagged on what he had seen, a faint reddish blotch beneath you. It was proof you had been breached. Though, not necessarily bedded.
You opened your mouth, ready to ask if he was ready to actually consummate the union. The question never seemed to escape you as the room was soon blanketed in the shroud of nightfall. Maekar pinched the flame on his bedside, settling into the bed for rest to take him.
It had confused you entirely. Pleasant, yes. Anything your maids or mother spoke of? No. And it certainly wasn‘t anything that would result in children. Was proof you had been prodded at enough? Were you not to fall pregnant with his babe? As every noble wife should?
You sat in the darkness, still naked, utterly vexed as to what you were to do. For now, you decided it was nothing that would be solved in that moment, so it was best you sought rest instead.
You shuffled into bed, a cold distance from where your husband laid, faced away from you. Visions of your home, your family and everything you held dear seemed to plague your thoughts every moment you tried closing your eyes. Though to be granted sleep, you yielded to the sorrowful memories, praying every night of your life was not to be so dreary.
***
As the days wanned and waxed into weeks, you made yourself scarce. Attending every possible duty and indulging in every frivolous hobby. Your new gowns weren’t exceptional either. What was once elegant and pastel was now dark and heavy. Though your marital bed remained drier than sand it had grown colder than the North. You felt no dip in the mattress as you slept, no steady breathing beside you. Your “husband” had made it abundantly clear he felt no obligation to become better acquainted. Or speak to you at all. Or look in your direction, for that matter. Moons had passed and yet your marriage was still not legitimately consummated. Rather than succumbing to woe, you undertook being the lady of Summerhall and a mother to six troublesome royals.
The endeavor proved grievous, affording you scarcely a moment for your own pursuits. Leisure had become a rarity. Choosing fabrics for the royal seamstress, learning the ancient family dialect, reading ravens, sending ravens, attending to the children. And now, the botanicals, it seems.
”Are you certain, your Grace?” The caretaker of the royal gardens seemed startled by your request. You both stood before the withered, overgrown flowerbed of carnations. You had grown fond of the royal garden, though it could hardly compete with the one you had grown up with. The carnations were appallingly unkept, a heap of rotting petals. They may have bloomed years ago, by the looks of it. His hesitation was mildly insulting. You were a nature enthusiast, when day was done. If wisdom be yours in any measure, it lies in the study of flowers.
”Quite. This garden is in desperate need of something…invigorating. Something to enhance its charm. Not keep hidden behind wilted flowers. In my estimation, tulips, orchids and peonies shall do the task most handsomely. Wouldn’t you agree?” You offer the man a smile as you envision your proposal. He nods sheepishly offering you a worried grimace in return. Strange.
***
“Wha- you are letting me win!” Aegon pointed at the chess board, the disputatious boy pleased with his observation. You both remained in the silent library as night unfurled its sovereign bloom. Three candles illuminated the board, burning low as your match refused to seek a winner. Your chin rested upon your folded hands, raising a brow in feigned surprise.
”Daring of you to accuse me of such a thing.” You hum, taking your turn, deliberately giving him the perfect opportunity to take the king. The night grew dark and you were proving to be as old as your husband. In dire need of sleep after a day of listless, insipid tasks.
“There!! You did it again!!” His shrilly boyish voice rang through the library drawing a laugh from you. He was too smart for his own good. Yet, not smart enough to conclude you wanted to retire. You put an exaggerated look of shock on your face and a hand to your chest, earning a giggle from your opponent.
”That is utter nonsense! I would never!” Now it is the both of you laughing with little grace, filling the empty silence of the room. The likelihood of raising a child of your own grew slimmer every passing day. Though you were perfectly content in moments like these.
“Father!” The boy chirps, as your heart plummets into your gut. Your eyes go wide as you hear his footsteps draw closer, a frustrated haste in his stride. His impending presence was palpable, even with your back turned.
“Aemon, you are up quite late. With company I see.” You turn to face the boy’s father, offering something foreign to him. A smile.
”Oh, I am at fault, my Prince. Aegon could not sleep so I insisted a game of chess may ease his mind. Though he did play rather skillfully. You would be impressed.” He heaves a sigh at the explanation, deeming it verbose in his mind surely. What part of you bonding with his son did he find pernicious? You had put much effort into the matter. Wine tasting with his eldest, frolicking with his youngest. As for Aerion, you had little luck winning his regard. The girls seemed to adore you, insisting their maids replicate your hairstyle on them every waking morrow.
“Retire to your chambers, Aegon. You may finish the game tomorrow.” The boy nodded, flashing you a smile as he withdrew himself. Your reciprocated grin was cut brief, upon realizing Maekar meant to speak with you. What could he possibly want after avoiding you like the plague?
”Does something trouble you, my Lord?” You kept your voice gentle as you straightened your skirts. Your patience knew no bounds, much like his brother. If he wished to be angry, unable to find the right words, then you would welcome the unbearable quiet.
“They were hers. The carnations.” Without further explanation, you knew the woman in which he referred to. The woman whose shoes have dwarfed you entirely.
“I am…terribly sorry, your Grace. It was never my intent to over step. The fault is mine.”
”Do not coddle me, woman.” His tone grew firm, the tone he used in political discourse. The tone he uses to evoke fear. It was purely calculated tactic. You were unafraid of your husband. And you certainly do not cower behind babbling apologies.
“I am not coddling you, your Grace. I am merely conveying my regret. Apologizing for my carelessness. I know there is no replacing what you’ve lost. Man and wife should be able to have such conversations, without fear or judgement.”
”I had a wife. And you are not her.” In a fleeting second, he turns, withdrawing himself. Like he had done since the day you wed, he marooned you in solitude. Cast you into a dark quiet where no solace dwells. A companion to none.
His gruff words impaled your now rotten sense of hope. He does not even wish to try to start anew. You are forced to care for the children she cannot, and rejected by your husband, wistful for his late bride. But I am right on time, you thought. You were meant to marry at this age, to be enamoured, to have children of your own. Yet you were confined to a marriage your husband was still mourning.
The feeling made you writhe in your own skin. You weren't a woman of hubris or pride. Yet it pained you to blend so seamlessly into the walls. So overlooked, unforgivably undermined. Another radiant noblewoman forced into red and black. You were proven to be too cheerful for this family. Too quick to smile. As though your own warmth had outcasted you.
You exhausted yourself, competing with a ghost. Rivalling ash. To hold you to her standard was unjust. It was dishonorable, to make you contend with the dead. If they meant to disregard your value, you shall disregard theirs, you decided. Beat their image to a pulp. Slay their false prestige. Why stop at the royal family? Why not uncover every misdeed and flaw noble families harbor like sin? Relay every detestful thought you shooed from your mind. Every snarky jest you had to stifle by biting your tongue.
There was truth to the bitter assessments. And Seven knows greed is unladylike. The amiable thing to do is share. Before you could defy the immoral tempt, your gaze flicks to the parchment and quill on a desk. How it begged it to be used. To be a device of callous truth. Who were you to deny it such glory?
Dearest Gentle Reader,
As the bells of septs toll and the candles burn in noble halls, there arrives amongst you a humble scribbler. One who keeps no banner, bears no crest, and yet observes more than many a lord. It is my kindest intention to set quill to parchment and faithfully recount the triumphs, follies, dalliances and indiscretions that flourish so abundantly in our realm.
One may wonder by what authority I undertake such task. The answer is relatively simple: none at all. Yet, while knights ride to tourneys and ladies exchange honeyed words behind their jeweled fans, someone must preserve truth of what truly passes between them.
And what a fortnight it has been.
Lord Arryn was observed departing a maid‘s chamber well after the moon had been hung at its highest. Though the Lord claims he had merely been discussing the matters of estate management, one suspects broomsticks were not the only items receiving close examination that evening.
Nor may this author neglect the unfortunate incident at Lord Tully‘s feast, wherein two noblemen nearly came to blows over an emerald necklace, a disrupted inheritance, and if—whispers speak true—the affections of the same maiden. The necklace survived the encounter. The gentleman‘s dignity did not.
Yet these matters are but the smallest drops in a very deep goblet.
For beneath every velvet cloak lurks a secret, behind every courtly smile a hidden ambition, and within every grand castle chamber a tale begging to be told.
Rest assured, dear reader, this author shall keenly discover them all.
Until then, guard your reputations carefully.
One never knows who may be listening.
Yours most observantly,
Lady Hollowmere
***
Lady Jena snickered to herself as she brought a Dornish red to her lips. It has been one month since you made a slave of all ravens. As the slander scrolls made their debut, noble houses became fussy, displeased and utterly captivated.
They were amusing each other with their own transgressions and wrongs. A scene of rare hilarity, as they laughed heartily at one another. All stirred by the governance of your own quill.
The fear you dangled above their noses simply because you wield the pen and them, the foolishness. The transaction of gossip for coin turned out to be a remarkable sum indeed. You used the proceeds to employ more ears across the realm, harvesting filthy dalliances and common yammer. Every scroll sold more than the last. It became the name on everyone’s tongue.
“Do the scrolls amuse you, my Lady?” You ask, your tone more smug than you would’ve liked. Jena and you were now sisters, (mostly). She was fascinating company to keep. Her words were thought provoking, or plainly provocative, depending on her cups.
“How could they not? She is the first gossip writer to address the subjects by name. I should like to meet her, before she is hanged.” Her remark earned a scoff from you. You glanced around the royal terrace in which you lounged.
Beneath the kindly gaze of the sun, your spirits were made warm as the hours passed. Humorous stories and womanly horrors spilled freely from your lips in the company of greenery. You minded your tongue, omitting any details about the security of your coupling and the ink stains on your fingers.
Perhaps with time she will come to know of these things. After exiling the image of being hung, you set your eyes proudly upon your royal garden. A flowerbed of assorted beauties beside a now blooming bed of carnations.
“You know how court can be. So exacting, so much…propriety. It is exhausting to pretend we don’t fraternize with stable boys ever so often, or speak ill of our own kin. I think it is a remarkable thing indeed, even if we must endure the laments of the offended nobles. They should be learning discretion, rather than blaming the scribbler.”
Jena nodded slowly at your words. You could not be so obvious with your flattery, nor could you openly detest the writings. You had to remain impartial yet amused. A line finer than a rib in famine.
“And how often is it you fraternize with stable boys, my Lady?” She asked through a light chuckle.
“Till it starts to border on overindulgence, I’d say.” You both begin to laugh. Perhaps the heat had begun to melt your manners.
“The noble houses have only two choices. Put an end to their shameful deeds, or find clever ways to hide them.” To that, the rims of your goblets meet with a gentle clink. You sat before the chess board, callow nobles playing the opponent. You could give them every chance to win and prove their self proclaimed graciousness. You could eliminate every pawn and examine every fault. They could dare to outsmart you or succumb to your rules. But the wisest will let Lady Hollowmere decide for them.
***
Dearest Gentle Reader,
I must send felicitations to Lord and Lady Mormont. Congratulations and stamina as they embark on the most exhilarating time in a young couple's life. I am, of course, talking of the honeymoon. Is there a more romantic notion? To retreat from society together finally leaving watchful eyes behind.
You crumple the parchment in your palm, smearing your skin with black ink. Seven above, pull yourself together, you think. Lady Hollowmere‘s misfortune shall find no root in your envy. You’d be incapable of forgiving yourself if your own troubles jeopardized your writings.
You’d be incapable of forgiving yourself if your own troubles jeopardized your writings. Morning, tender and unrisen, found you seated at your desk in stillness. It was the only hour you were afforded the time to write, even if it meant wrangling your mind awake. Swaddled in a linen chemise, quill shaking in your grasp, unkept hair falling from your shoulders. Your eyes are hazy from rest, though your ears worked exceptionally. In the midst of your frustration, you were forced to abide the dreadful symphony of his sleep. Behind you, your “husband’s” steady hushed snores found your ears like ocean tide. A galling, nettlesome, abrasive, exasperating ocean tide. With a huff, your quill is reunited with ink.
Dearest Gentle Reader,
The frenzy of competition. The thrilling delight of hazarding your all. I am referring not to the lure of King Landing‘s gambling halls, but to a gamble with far higher stakes. Matrimony. For once that particular wager is placed, it cannot easily be undone. A fact which, I am sure, is met with both regret and sheer relief.
*Zzzzzzzz*
You whip around in your seat, spitefully glaring at the bane of your success. There he laid, sleeping as though he did not carry the burden of a secret so critical. As the sounds persisted, you resisted the urge to not write word of him committing loathsome debauchery, despite it being treasonous. The stifled snorts burrowed themselves deep within your good graces, bones and joints beginning to itch.
“WILL YOU STOP THAT?? I AM TRYING TO WRITE OF LORD AND LADY MORMONT‘S SEXUAL DEVIANCE, YOU SORRY EXCUSE FOR A HUSBAND!! I WOULDN’T BE IN SUCH STATE IF YOU WOULD JUST ACKNOWLEDGE I EXIST!!”
Your voice was hardly above a whisper, just loud enough for him to stir. Another sigh escaped you as you tried returning to your work a third time. You rubbled slow circles into your temples, undoubtedly spreading the ink onto your face.
If you allude to your own unhappy coupling, the small council will discover you like hungry hounds. If you write fondly of the Targaryen’s, the people will lose trust in you. If you write ill of the Targaryen’s, your ruby necklace will soon be replaced with rope. Similar to how you must speak of the scrolls, you must remain impartial. You are not regarded for hate speech. You are regarded for honesty. So falsehoods, they shall have!
Dearest Gentle Reader,
The chase, the hunt, the thrill. It is a fact that all the world is searching for something. And our dear court is no exception. Some are searching for meaning, others for their better halves, while others are searching for tranquility, much like the honorable Prince Baelor and the lovely Princess Jena; who have decided to seek respite in Summerhall this month. And for one of the court’s most notorious bachelor, Prince Daeron Targaryen, who was last seen arriving fashionably late to the Lady Anvil‘s banquet. Even the most determined rakes must bow to that most powerful of forces, mothers. This author cannot help but wonder what he is searching for. More wine? Sensibility? But be cautious of searching too hard, dear reader, for you might not always like what you find. Ladies of court may have a new prize to seek, the heart of a certain eldest son. It seems this free-spirited reveling drunkard has been seen chasing the regards of Ladies, intent on leaving bachelor life behind. This author can only speculate. Could it be this rake has reformed?
***
With steadfast heart and urgent step, you made your way in haste through the castle’s depths. The latest Hollowmere was now put in the covetous hands of the public, having sent the scrolls six nights passed. Surely, there are at least twenty vessels and ships making their way to the keep at this very moment. Not a breath could be wasted, time was dearer than gold in a pauper’s purse.
You greeted passing servants, maids and guards with an unyielding grin as your plan unfurled. Without breaking haste, you open the chamber door, humming to yourself as you open the drawn curtains,
“Good morrow, Daeron!” You hum, drinking in the state of his chamber. It was a sty, to put it kindly. Broken, assorted, empty, full bottles littered as far as the eye can see. Everything was so askew, it almost looked purposeful. It was no condition a wife should have to reside in.
“Come now, up, up!” You give several light slaps to the plane of his cheek as he begins to resurrect himself. With strangled whines, his eyes flutter open, adjusting to the light of day.
”W-wha…is something the matter, mother? Why must you wake me?” His voice gravelly from sleep. You snatch the bottle from the crook of his elbow, setting it on his bedside.
”Well, the sun has been up for quite some time. But, no matter. Your father and I are overjoyed by your news! This is momentous, Daeron! We are somewhat displeased with hearing the word from the newest Hollowmere, but-“
“Wait- wait…wha-Hollowmere? Whatever do you mean?” He rubs the fatigue from his eyes as you watch panic envelop his sullen features. To conceal the amused smile on your lips, you turn your back to him, beginning to tidy his chambers the best you could manage.
“Oh, have you not read? She has written on your search for a wife! There are twenty ships, thirty caravans and fifteen carriages making their way to Summerhall as we speak, full of eligible young ladies. So many prospects you will get to choose from. The choice will be taxing, I’m sure. They are all so eager for your favour.”
His brows furrow, looking as though this was a nightmare he could not wake from. He put his palm so his perspiring forehead, trying desperately to come to his senses. You watch vexation, anger and worry cycle through his mind as he finds his bearings.
“I-I said no such thing. It is a lie, what she has written.” You grimace at his plea for mercy, seating yourself at the foot of his bed.
“Lady Hollowmere doesn’t write rumour, she writes truth. Her words are practically gospel. Perhaps your drunken stupor left you no memory of such a declaration. But this will be advantageous, Daeron. You are of age and need to take a wife. Find a lady to your liking before your father marries you to a stranger. You should have that privilege, to marry for love. And if none of them are to your liking, I will send them back as soon as you wish. But you must promise me you’ll try.”
His eyes soften, seeing through you like a veil. Daeron was your son now, despite the small number of years between you. You accepted that responsibility as you accepted his father’s cloak on your back.
If you could shun him from being promised to a woman he did not know, you‘d do everything in your power. Marriage is just as political as war and dispute. A profitable transaction of virtue and binding promise. An economic, fiscal, monetary exchange of vows. But if you could give Daeron a chance of finding a love match, you would be content knowing someone will live the future you could not.
“Thank you, mother. I will try, for you.” You nod, beaming at the drunkard who is willing to endure hundreds of blood thirsty ladies, for the sake of making his miserable step mother happy.
“I know your indulgence is an escape. I know you are frightened by what you see. But, there is a charming man beneath all these cups. Ladies will prefer him, rather than Daeron the Drunken.” You tutted, reaching for the port you set on his bedside.
As you confiscated the bottle, you made your way to the door, allowing him to prepare for the remainder of the day awaiting him. Considering it is almost lunch.
“I will send for a barber. And a bath. And someone to clean this… bachelor lodging.” You offer him a final fleeting smile before you withdraw yourself.
Outside his door, you silently celebrated with yourself. You had done the unthinkable. You had gotten Daeron the Drunken to entertain the prospect of marriage. With the intent of finding love. Perhaps you really were the prophet Lady Hollowmere was rumored to be.
***
With no small measure of dread, you beheld the hour where you must commence the third scheme, one you had long feared above the rest. You held your next course of action in deepest apprehension. You sat in your husband’s study, in solitude, a heavy stillness blanketing the room. It was beyond my comprehension how he managed to achieve anything in this study.
Agonizingly quiet, and tidied to a suffocating degree. The impeccable precision of the desk, shelves, trestle tables were all too neat to even touch. You knew your marriage would be annulled the moment you laid womanly fingers on any of his belongings. So you sat, hands fixed in your lap, glimpsing around the one room in Summerhall you had not yet seen.
Though you suppose he won't be back for some time. There is little harm in just observing, right? Perhaps you could even learn something about the man you call a husband. His most favored book? Favored hobby? His handwriting? The quill he uses? There was so much discovery so few paces away.
You abandon my restraint, rising from my seat. You gawk at every small trinket, every tome and every undusted surface. It was a captivating exhibition that had immersed you entirely. A glimpse into where he spends his hours, away from you.
“Ahem.” The feigned throat clearing from the door alerted you of his return. He did not seem pleased with your snooping, but he did not order you to leave. You suppose that is a good start.
“Your Grace, I-I was just…looking. It’s n-“
”I did not send for you.”
”I’m aware. I came by my own accord.”
He hums in reply, though his face conveys an emotion too complex to decipher. His existence was a sick riddle. One you would spend the rest of your days endeavoring to solve.
“Why?” His question came across as a demand, vexed as to why you meant to speak with your own husband.
“We have a certain eldest son’s future to discuss. I’m sure you’ve received word of Daeron’s search for a wife. I was meaning to inform you I’m hosting a ball, so that he may acquaint himself with eligible ladies.”
”My son does not swoon. He whores. He drinks. You will find no such luck in the matter.” You shrug at his candid words. He knew him better than you, sure. But that did not mean he could predict forthcoming events. Moody old bastard.
“As true as that may be, we do not know until we try. Someone may catch his eye. And I’m hopeful of it, so that we are not forced to marry him to a stranger. I mean…just look how content we are.” You chuckle to yourself, making light of my misery.
“We are plenty fucking content. Now go.” With a sigh of defeat, you begin your stride towards the door where he stands. You approach him with slow steps, the space between you growing smaller with each pace. With an arched brow he looked down upon you, assessing the mischief you wore on your face.
“I will host the gathering. You will be glad of it, my Lord. I swear it.” You extend your pinky finger to him, which only makes his brows pinch together in vexation. With sheepish hesitation, and apparent detest for such frivolous promise, he ensnares his pinky with your own. The action brought a pleased grin to your lips. It was the first time he had touched you since the wedding. Though your kiss was scarcely a kiss at all. Just a brief meeting of skin.
“Excellent. And do buy new ink, you are dipping your quill in mud.” He rolls his eyes as he opens the door to his study, ushering you out of it. With a brief and courtly smile, you withdrew yourself, waving daintily with your fingers.
***
The great hall gleamed like a reliquary of silver and red. Hundreds of beeswax candles burned in wrought-iron chandeliers overhead, their flames trembling against banners embroidered with red dragons. Long tables stretched the length of the chamber beneath black linen cloth, laden with roasted boar glazed in spiced honey. Silver goblets caught the firelight and scattered it like captive stars across the gathering.
Noble ladies shimmered in velvet and silk, jeweled sleeves brushing polished oak, while Lords laughed over brimming cups of wine dark garnets.
And beside you, your husband.
The title still felt strange upon your tongue. Husband. A man chosen by signatures and seals by alliances drawn upon parchment long before either of you had been consulted. Life between you remained stiff, despite your most charming nature. His defiance frustrated you, but it was nothing you allowed yourself to weep over.
Yet, that evening, something shifted. You felt it.
At first, you tentatively watched him out of pure curiosity. Voices swelled. Goblets clinked. The hall grew warm with merriment. And yet, amid all the splendor, you became strangely aware of the simple nearness of him. It was duty, yes. Though it felt more contained than that. Every brush of your sleeves, every time you clung to his arm tighter, startled him more than the fanfare of instruments.
You would often stand on your tip-toes to comment upon some amusing observation, often rooted in harmless cruelty. His acknowledgment of these remarks were low hums, only intended for your ears. Despite his efforts, you could sense his amusement in your jests.
Love, you once imagined, would arrive with thunderous certainty. A knight‘s triumph, a poet‘s declaration, a bolt from the clouds.
Instead, it came like snowfall upon an open field. Silent. Seeping. Gentle. Undetectable. Unnoticed by you until your world would transform.
The evening deepened and the candles began to burn lower. You found yourself hoping the feast would never end. Not for the revelry, nor the music nor the wine.
But because every time you glanced up at Maekar, you discovered another reason to remain.
The feast had been an overall success. Dazzling floral arrangements, a plethora of guests and a night entirely spent on the arm of your husband. You could sense the stiffness of his chest as you clung to him, greeting all who arrived. You were beaming, despite the circumstances. It felt real.
Being anchored to the man who vowed to love you, to protect you. Though he did not put much effort in either, it felt correct in a sense. Like jigsaw pieces finding one another. There were brief hitches of time where you‘d peer up at him, and watch his scowl relax into something more neutral. Not joy, or adoration, but tranquility. Your soothing presence ironed the wrinkles from his scowling face.
As for Daeron, he did not manage to meet a Lady worthy of his attention—to his standards, at least—and found himself swarmed with eager ladies all evening.
“Well, real attachment rarely forms over one feast. He‘ll find a lady to his liking as soon as he outgrows whores. And we will be patient, husband. We mustn't rush him into such matters. It‘s overwhelming for a boy his age.”
He gruffly hummed in acknowledgement. Not agreement, nor protest. Simply just, I can’t seem to disregard the noise coming from your mouth. You sat beneath the coverture of your bed, a silk white sleep shift affording you little warmth.
You reached over to extinguish the candles on your bedside, the wick hissing as your fingers pinched the flame. Your chambers were illuminated solely by the flickering light of the hearth. You restrained yourself from yammering, apprehensive you may drive him forth in dread.
It was most challenging to keep silent. For such a guarded, sullen man, you wished for nothing more than to berate him with your every whim. Your day, your progress on the harp, your sentiments on lemon tarts, your affinity for honeybees…
”What ever are you gawking at, woman?” His bitter tone impales the quiet, waking you from your daze. Unbeknownst to you, your eyes had not left his undressing form. His progress in the matter was small, still fully dressed, to a capacity. It was mildly surprising, given how long you had stared.
“Sorry, sorry. I shall give you privacy.” You rolled, turning your back to him. You suppose it is improper to see a man undress when you are not wholly wedded. Because you were not bedded, (not in the way that counts, anyway). With a sigh, you sink further into the mattress. The new position overwhelmed you with newfound ease, your weary frame a hair‘s length from sleep. You remained silent, your breaths deepening. It was enough to give the impression you were asleep. Especially to a man who could not see your face.
You feel the mattress dip beneath his weight as he climbs into bed. Your shared bed. The bed he had not slept in since your wedding night. You swallow your nerves, maintaining the farce of your own slumber. He groans, shuffling beneath the covertures.
You believe he had stilled, finally taken rest like you had. The following moments prove your estimation wrong, hearing him stir once more. The weight beside you grows closer, as he props himself on one elbow. In quiet vigil he drank you in. You gentle slope of your fluttering lids, the soft parting of your perfect lips.
To you, he was cold and hardened. It was his defense, a device of not letting you grow too fond or close. What in him was worth loving, he thought to himself. In his eyes, you were fair as the first blush of dawn upon the eastern hills. You moved with a grace that seemed borrowed from goddesses. Your countenance was as delicate yet striking as a rose newly awakened in a garden. Cheeks touched with the soft grace of youth. He was denying himself something he was addicted to, without even indulging in first.
He knew his feelings would surpass what he‘d allow, and felt it safer to let you live out your days away from him. But with wine on his breath and restraint growing thin, he couldn‘t help just gazing. When his stare grew in greed, he raised a finger, gently swiping a stray lock of hair from your face. His lips curled into a wounded smile, admiring you as you “slept“.
He was well aware your beauty was not your greatest adornment. If he was going to be forced to marry it would not be to a fool. You bore yourself with a noble kindness, a steadfast loyalty and a warmth that made hearth and hall alike feel blessed. You were his comfort and delight, but most of all his greatest peril. His most fearsome torment.
“Sōvegon ēdruta, ñuha ābrazȳrys.” (sleep well, my wife) You hear him croak as he settles into rest. It was a strangled sound, only meant for his ears. A hushed confession he harbored like secret. It wasn’t meant for you to hear, or understand. The words had stunned you as you laid, partially convinced you had dreamt it. Had he not seen the Valyrian text on your bedside?
Ive had a thought, and I just need to share it with someone- Maekar #1 biggest fan of his partner having bush 😩 like imagine his reaction when one day BOOM, bush has been removed, I just know he’d hate it
ɢᴏɴᴇ | ᴍᴀᴇᴋᴀʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ
─ summary: You do something new for your husband. He kinda hates it for a little but only for a little bit.
─ pairing: Maekar Targaryen x reader
─ content: 18+ MDNI | smut | p in v | no plot | fluff if you squint
─ a/n: I was giggling writing this. Thank you for your patience…we are slowly working through this inbox. 🖤
This week had been a slow-moving torture of missed connections. Maekar would stumble into your shared chambers long after the moon had reached its zenith, his face etched with the day's battles, only to find you deep in an exhausted sleep. When you woke, the space beside you was cold, his scent a fading ghost on the pillows. It was a chasm of silence and solitude, and you had grown tired of it. That morning, you had summoned Maekar's steward. "You will tell my husband," you instructed, your voice leaving no room for argument, "that his work ends today at the seventh hour. He will join me for dinner. He will not be late." The steward, a man who had seen the your husband’s frustrations at the constant near-misses, simply bowed. "Of course, my lady."
You spent the afternoon orchestrating the evening. The kitchens were a hive of activity, preparing everything Maekar favoured. You wanted to care for him, to wash the week's exhaustion from his bones with food and wine and quiet affection.
Dinner was a success. The tension in his shoulders finally unwound, and the lines around his pale violet eyes softened as he spoke of his day, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the table. He fed you from his own fork, his fingers lingering on your lips, a silent promise of what was to come. When you finally retired to your bedchamber, the air was thick with unspoken need. The week of abstinence had been a strain on you both; your life together was a passionate, physical one, and this dry spell had left an ache.
"You have missed your husband, I think," he teased, his voice a low growl as he pulled you into his arms. His silver-blond hair brushed against your cheek, and the faint, coarse scratch of his beard was a familiar, thrilling sensation against your skin.
You wound your arms around his neck, pressing your body against his. "And you, my lord," you murmured against his mouth, "have you missed your wife?" His answer was a kiss, deep and hungry. He backed you toward the bed, his hands roaming possessively over your curves, undressing you as he went, his touch igniting a fire low in your belly. You fell onto the soft furs, a tangle of limbs and growing urgency. His mouth moved from yours to your throat, nipping and sucking, and you arched against him, a soft moan escaping your lips.
"Maekar," you breathed, your fingers tangling in the hair at his nape. "I did something… for you."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his violet eyes dark with lust and curiosity. A slow smile spread across his lips. "Did you now?" he rumbled. "Show me."
You sat up and gripped the hem of your silky shift. In one fluid motion you pulled it over your head and cast it aside. The firelight kissed your skin, and you watched his face, your own breath held tight in your chest. His smile faltered. His eyes, which had been filled with a hungry heat, widened slightly. The look on his face was a flash of pure, unadulterated dismay.
"What is this?" He pushed himself up on one elbow, his gaze fixed on the juncture of your thighs. "Who did this to you?"
A knot of anxiety tightened in your stomach. "You… you do not like it?" you asked, your voice smaller than you intended.
The sound of your voice seemed to break him from his stupor. He saw the uncertainty in your eyes, the slight tremble in your lower lip, and his expression immediately softened. He reached out, his large hand cupping your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin. "No," he said quickly, then corrected himself. "I mean, yes. You are beautiful, perfection, as always."He sat up fully, his muscular torso bathed in firelight. "But I love the look of you, all of you."
You could not help the small pout that formed on your lips.
He saw your disappointment and leaned in, pressing a soft, apologetic kiss to your mouth. "You are spectacular," he insisted, his voice a low, earnest murmur against your lips. "But please, do not let that butcher touch you again."
A small, watery laugh escaped you at his dramatic choice of words. The tension in the room broke, replaced by something more complex, a mixture of your lingering disappointment and his overwhelming affection. He pulled you back down onto the furs, his mouth finding yours again. The kiss was different now, less frantic, more apologetic and tender. But the week of built-up need was a powerful force. His hands began to roam again, rediscovering your body, and the heat between you began to rebuild, slowly at first, then with a sudden, ferocious intensity. He rolled on top of you, and when he entered you it was with a groan of pure relief.
He began to move, his strokes deep and punishing, and as he took you, as he watched his thick, glistening cock disappear into your body, something shifted in him. He had been dismayed, yes, but now he was transfixed. Without the soft, neat curls he could see everything. He could see how the perfect, swollen folds of your cunt spread around his length, see how utterly soaked you were for him, your slickness coating him, shining in the firelight. The visual was filthy, intimate, and undeniably erotic. He could see every detail of your body's response to him, and it drove him wild with a possessive lust.
"Gods," he grunted, his rhythm growing faster, harder. He gripped your hips, pulling you onto him with each thrust, the sound of your bodies meeting echoing in the quiet chamber. "How long," he panted, his gaze locked on where you were joined, "until it grows back?"
"Four moons or so," you gasped, your hands clutching at his powerful shoulders, your body arching to meet his brutal pace.
A rough, breathless laugh escaped him. "Well, there is no point in waiting around." He drove into you, his hips snapping hard against yours. "We might as well make the most of this." The sheer, unexpected amusement in his voice, mixed with the power of his thrusts, sent you over the edge, and you cried out his name as your release tore through you. He followed you moments later with a hoarse shout, burying himself deep inside you and spending inside you, marking you as his.
As you lay tangled together, panting in the firelight, you could not help but laugh, a deep, satisfied sound. He was an impossible man.
