Didi 🌙

Fics, fics, and oh, more fics.

[aftersunsz]

OFF WITH HIS HEAD (ORMUND HIGHTOWER)

Summary: Ormund Hightower, a husband who will gladly take orders from his lady wife even if it means ending several lives

an: this is def not canon ormund because i know for a fact that man would crash out if a woman gave him an order, reader’s house in not specified

The candles had burned low by the time you finally spoke of King’s Landing. Ormund was seated beneath the blankets, his attention divided between your words and the far more pleasant task of pressing kisses along your neck.

You had allowed it for some time. After all, a woman could speak of war whilst her husband worshipped at her throat.

“Rhaenyra may have taken the city,” you said, “but that does not mean the city is hers.” You were straddling his waist as he continued to place kisses on your neck. Ormund’s lips lingered against your skin.

“No?” You could tell he was kind of listening.

“No.”

Ormund looked up at you. “And here I thought you meant to speak of something less grim tonight.”

“You married poorly, then.” You rolled your eyes.

“I married you.” He clarified. He went back to your neck. You felt his smile against your it.

You ignored him. “The Gold Cloaks are the matter.”

That earned his attention. Ormund lifted his head again. “Daemon’s men.”

“They served him before they served her. They know the streets of King’s Landing better than any lord’s army ever could. They know the gates, the alleys, the watch posts. They know where men may come and go unseen.”

Ormund’s expression grew thoughtful. “And you think they are Rhaenyra’s strength.”

“I know they are.” You spoke. You adjusted yourself on his lap. “I want them dead.” There was no hesitation in the words.

Ormund’s brows rose slightly. “All of them?”

“No,” His gaze sharpened. You continued.“Kill enough that the rest begin to fear for their own skins.”

Ormund was silent. You could see that he was considering it.

“Men will fight for a king,” you said, “and men will fight for coin. Some will even fight for love of a cause. But how many will stand beneath Rhaenyra’s banners when they believe the next dagger may have their name upon it?”

Ormund’s mouth curved faintly. “You would make cowards of them.”

You placed your hand on his cheek and forced him to look into your eyes. “Think on it. A few Gold Cloaks are found dead. Their fellows are told it was the work of the queen’s enemies. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it was not. It matters little,” Ormund watched you carefully. “Then another handful and another soon after until every man in that golden cloak wonders whether he shall live to see the next moon.” You smiled without warmth. “That is when they begin to leave.”

Ormund’s eyes narrowed. “You think they would abandon Rhaenyra?”

You shifted closer towards him. Your lips almost touched. “I think most men will abandon anyone if remaining loyal means dying,” you finally placed a kiss on his lips. “They need only believe that their brothers are being picked off one by one. They will look at the man beside them and wonder whether he is next. They will sleep poorly. They will distrust every shadow. They will begin asking what loyalty to Rhaenyra has bought them besides a place beneath the grave.”

“And when they flee?” Ormund asked.

“Rhaenyra loses the men she needs to keep the city.” You replied.

Ormund considered the thought. Your voice remained calm.

“I want them dead.” There was no shock in Ormund’s face. You watched him carefully. “You said you would do whatever I asked.”

“I said I would.” Ormund confirmed.

“Would you kill for me?”

Ormund’s gaze settled upon you. “For you?” His hand closed gently around yours. “I would kill for far less.” You stared at him. He lifted your hand and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. “You need not question that.”

“Then hear me plainly. I want the Gold Cloaks dead.”

His thumb passed over your knuckles. Ormund looked at you for a long moment. Then he kissed your hand once more before settling his hands on your waist again. “Consider it done, my love.”

You studied him. “You do not even mean to argue?”

“I have argued with you before and I have discovered that you are often right.”

“Often you say?”

Ormund gripped your waist. “Do not grow vain.”You gave him a withering look. “I shall see what can be done.”

You pressed a kiss to his lips once more. “You do not think me cruel, husband?”

Ormund looked almost offended. “Cruel? You are my wife.”

“That does not answer me.” You frowned when he didn’t give you a straight answer.

“It answers everything.” He kissed your knuckles again.

A faint smile touched your lips. Outside, Tumbleton slept beneath the shadow of war. Inside, you were already thinking of King’s Landing, of gold cloaks disappearing from its streets, of frightened men looking over their shoulders. Mainly of the Gold Cloaks deciding that the queen’s cause was not worth their lives.

And close to you, Ormund Hightower was already turning your thoughts into orders. For all the armies beneath his command, all the banners that answered his name, and all the men who looked to him for victory, Ormund had never been more obedient to anyone than he was to you.

[morriganstark]

“I want to see the child.”

The words came quietly, slipping through your lips before you could truly give thought into the statement. Though your voice was soft, it broke through the silence in the marital chamber that had only been filled by the crackle of fire eating at the wood in the hearth, the faint cries of the infant himself down the halls, and a scratch of a quill against parchment that stilled for a beat.

Daeron had wept every night since he arrived from the Red Keep.

Ormund sighed through his nose, pinching at the bridge of it for a brief moment to deliberately show his displeasure. His jaw clenched and unclenched, and his gaze lifted from the letter on the desk in front of him. You lay on the bed, hair done up for sleep, curled beneath thick furs and silks without him. It was difficult to be too mad at you, but for all your beauty, you were still a woman. Prone to letting your emotions drive you when they shouldn't.

“The young prince is fine. His nursemaids tend to him. Your time is better spent on your own sons.” It was a soft dismissal, one Ormund hoped you would accept. But he should have known better.

With a sigh, you pushed yourself up on the bed, green silks pooling about your waist. “Martyn is near two and Lyonel is four. Our boys do not require my constant care, husband. They do not cry for me in the night, do not need me to hold them every second as they once did,” you said quietly, watching as Ormund continued to write on his parchment. He seemed to ignore your soft words, but you continued. “Yet the child down the hall is the one who wails through the night, who cannot seem to find comfort. His nursemaids tend to him, yes, but he needs more than mere servants.”

You shifted the blankets off of you, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. Your toes met the cold stone floor first, and you straightened out the soft linen of your nightgown before slipping out of bed entirely. Ormund still ignored you, but you padded across the bedchamber to reach his desk. “Ormund,” his name was called sweetly, your hand reaching to curl around his shoulder. The fabric of his tunic was soft, the scent of lavender clinging faintly to his skin. Another wail was carried down the hall. “Do his cries not tug upon your heartstrings as they do mine?”

Ormund sighed through his nose, setting down his quill again. “You will find I lack the… delicate and emotional sensibilities of a woman, wife.”

You frowned at his words, and the way he continued to brush you off, but his hand found yours on his shoulder, warm and soft for a man like him. “You are a sweet woman,” Ormund said, lifting his head from his work to meet your gaze. “But sweetness can be a weakness. Daeron is only my ward, nothing more. He was not sent to Oldtown so that you may coddle him.”

“I won't coddle him.”

“You will.”

“Ormund-” your breath caught as Daeron continued to cry from his nursery. “If the nursemaids tend to his needs as they say you do, then they must be terrible. He has wept through every night since he arrived here off the ship. He's probably confused. And lonely. Would it be so treacherous of me to simply hold him, to see if I may bring him some semblance of comfort that a mother might bring?”

Ormund stiffened at that word. Mother. “You are not his mother.”

“I did not say that I was. I mean only to soothe him like one might.”

Ormund's jaw clenched visibly, his fingers curling tighter around your own. The thought of you consoling Daeron — though an infant he might be — was unsettling. The thought of his wife, soft and horribly naive, cradling a babe born of such tainted blood was sickening. But you were stubborn and clearly set on seeing to the infant yourself despite his efforts to distance you from him. He exhaled a slow breath, and conceded.

“Tomorrow you may go to him.”

The nursery was shrouded in soft sunlight that filtered in through the window. It was quiet save for the quiet murmurs of Lyonel and Martyn as the two brothers played with toy knights and wooden horses, a siege set out across the fur rug. It was peaceful, as your days often were when they were occupied by your sons, and the small weight swaddled in Hightower green in your arms felt like a great relief.

Since you first went to Daeron that morning, he had cried very little; only whimpering when he needed to be nursed or changed. He, too, found a quiet peace now — for the first time since arriving from King's Landing. He was small, almost pitiful, sent away at such a young age, but the babe seemed to find solace in your arms.

“You're quite sleepy now, hm, little dragon?” You hummed, gently rocking Daeron as he lay in your arms. Your fingers gently traced his rounded cheeks and button nose, gliding across his features still softened with baby-fat. He blinked slowly, wide eyes looking up at you. His hair lay in dark wisps against his head. His small lips were still parted, his skin smelling milk-sweet from his last feeding.

“You're coddling him.”

You had not noticed the door open, but Ormund stood frowning in the doorway. He glanced only briefly at Lyonel and Martyn, who seemed too preoccupied to care about their father's appearance, before his gaze settled on Daeron. The displeasure on his features was clear. The man had never been fond of Targaryens.

“I am not coddling him, I am holding him. And mayhaps coddling would not be such a bad thing. Children are meant to be spoiled.” A beat passed, filled with thought, and a soft smile graced your lips. "He looks like Alicent, doesn't he?"

Ormund stepped through the threshhold, coming to a stop by your side as you stood at the window. He leaned down to quickly kiss your temple. He did not comment on the looks of the babe. “You should not waste so much time on him or people will begin to believe you favor him over your own children.”

“I favor no one, Ormund. You speak as though my love is a finite thing,” you said softly, finally tearing your gaze away from Daeron once his eyes fluttered closed. You met Ormund's gaze, leaning subtly into his touch where he had kissed you. “It isn't. My love does not need to be split and shared, it is ever growing and changing. I have more than enough love in my heart for our boys and Daeron.”

Ormund's expression darkened slightly. He did not like the way you so freely spoke about the love you had for the boy who wasn't yours — such a thought was nearly unfathomable — but you had always been an emotional woman. Perhaps the gods had been too generous when bestowing such motherly instincts upon you. It was almost cruel how soft and ethereal you looked in the noon light, draped in fine silks with a child in your arms. But that child was not yours, and that made his stomach churn. “You are not his mother,” he said slowly, lifting a hand to cradle your cheek, “and you should do well to remember that. I have done you a great generosity by allowing you to get so close to him, but you shan't forget who you are to him.”

“I know.”

Despite what you may have said, and the acceptance you gave solely to appease your husband, it grew easy to forget that you were not Daeron's mother. He may not have grown within your womb, but blood did not define the bond between a mother and her child. The days turned into months, into weeks, into years. As Ormund's cruelty grew stronger, your love grew fiercer.

In the ways that mattered, Daeron was your son.

this is just a prelude to the longer daeron fic i'm working on (and will complete after the finale tonight). 1.2k+ words

tags ‎ꫂ᭪݁ @valarrsilverstreak @erotiicism @witch-of-letters @itachisank @silkaurum @emma-idk327 @yatta-exe @vlarrtrgryn @icebearcucumber @baelors-widow

[roxxmo]

hightower v. hightower | settlement matters

summary: your lawyer can talk to my lawyer. pairing: ormund hightower x ex-wife!reader content/warnings: social media au, modern au, custody matters, legal intimidation, parental conflict A/N: when you have a day finally to do anything you want and you spend it working on this series 🤲 y'all when inspiration hits you gotta take hold of it. also my job working in the email factory finally paid off for this chapter. MASTERLIST

FROM: Mara Mormont <[email protected]> TO: Aaron Cuy <[email protected]> DATE: 12 March 2026, 09:05 SUBJECT: Hightower Dissolution - Settlement Conference Mr. Cuy, Following up again from last week’s call. My client remains prepared to proceed with dissolution privately and cooperatively, and we would like to schedule an initial settlement conference within the next two weeks. We have provided a number of available days and still we have not received a date on which Mr. Hightower or his counsel is prepared to participate.  While I appreciate that Mr. Hightower has a busy schedule, my client filed her petition several weeks ago and there are practical matters arising from the parties’ separation that require immediate attention, including temporary parenting arrangements. Mrs. Hightower remains willing to address these issues privately. However, repeatedly postponing an initial conference does not serve either party and is creating unnecessary uncertainty for her and the children. Please provide your availability for a conference call (Zoom is fine) within the next five business days. If Mr. Hightower is unwilling to participate during that period, please confirm his position in writing so that we may advise our client accordingly. Best, Mara Mormont Counsel for Reader Hightower

FROM: Aaron Cuy <[email protected]> TO: Ormund Hightower <[email protected]> DATE: 12 March 2026, 10:13 SUBJECT: FWD: Hightower Dissolution - Settlement Conference FYI - Aaron Cuy

FROM: Ormund Hightower <[email protected]> TO: Aaron Cuy <[email protected]> DATE: 12 March 2026 10:14 SUBJECT: FWD: Hightower Dissolution - Settlement Conference Decline  Sent from my iPhone

FROM: Aaron Cuy <[email protected]> TO: Mara Mormont <[email protected]> DATE: 15 March 2026, 14:43 SUBJECT: RE: Hightower Dissolution - Settlement Conference Ms. Mormont, Thank you for the follow-up. Mr. Hightower does not accept that the marriage is beyond reconciliation and has instructed us not to take steps towards negotiating a final settlement while he continues to believe the parties’ separation can be resolved privately. Accordingly, we will not be scheduling a settlement conference. Should his position change, we will contact you. Regards, Aaron Cuy

FROM: Mara Mormont <[email protected]> TO: Aaron Cuy <[email protected]> DATE: 15 March 2026, 15:52 SUBJECT: RE: Hightower Dissolution - Settlement Conference Mr. Cuy, To be clear, Mrs. Hightower’s petition for the dissolution of their marriage isn’t reliant upon Mr. Hightower’s feelings. She has repeatedly stated that she does not consider the separation temporary and she does not intend to withdraw her petition.  If Mr. Hightower is declining to participate voluntarily in settlement discussion, we will proceed accordingly. In the meantime, both parties still require interim arrangements concerning the children and other matters that cannot reasonably be deferred on the basis of Mr. Hightower’s desire for reconciliation.  Please confirm whether Mr. Hightower will engage in those discussions. Regards, Mara Mormont

FROM: Aaron Cuy <[email protected]> TO: Ormund Hightower <[email protected]> DATE: 15 March 2026, 15:57 SUBJECT: FWD: Hightower Dissolution - Settlement Conference FYI - Aaron Cuy

FROM: Ormund Hightower <[email protected]> TO: Aaron Cuy <[email protected]> DATE: 15 March 2026, 16:01   SUBJECT: FWD: Hightower Dissolution - Settlement Conference No  Sent from my iPhone

FROM: Portia Beesbury <[email protected]> TO: Reader Hightower <[email protected]> DATE: 16 March 2026, 08:24 SUBJECT: Friday Good morning, Mr. Hightower has asked that I confirm dinner for Thursday evening. A car will collect you at 19:00 and the reservation is at 19:30. He sent a gown to the London penthouse that should be presently with alterations he has requested you wear.  The nanny will collect the children from the penthouse after Alerie’s riding lesson and the driver will take them back to Surrey for the weekend.  Best, Portia

FROM: Reader Hightower <[email protected]> TO: Portia Beesbury <[email protected]> CC: Mara Mormont <[email protected]> DATE: 16 March 2026, 10:21 SUBJECT: RE: Friday Portia,  Can you tell Ormund that I did not agree to dinner? And please remind him that if he wants to talk about the kids he needs to go through Aaron. I’m sorry you’re stuck in the middle of this and just doing your job but he needs to stop. Also, tell him Alerie and Edmund are not going back to Surrey.  - Reader

FROM: Portia Beesbury <[email protected]> TO: Reader Hightower <[email protected]> CC: Mara Mormont <[email protected]> DATE: 16 March 2026, 10:43 SUBJECT: RE: Friday Mrs. Hightower, I understand. I will pass this along to Mr. Hightower.  Best, Portia

FROM: Portia Beesbury <[email protected]> TO: Ormund Hightower <[email protected]> DATE: 16 March 2026, 10:44 SUBJECT: FWD: Friday Mr. Hightower, Reader has asked I let you know she will be declining your invitation to dinner for Friday and she is also planning on the children staying in London this weekend. Shall I cancel the reservation and the children’s driver? Best, Portia

FROM: Ormund Hightower <[email protected]> TO: Portia Beesbury <[email protected]> CC: Aaron Cuy <[email protected]> DATE: 16 March 2026, 10:56 SUBJECT: FWD: Friday Keep reservation and driver. Alerie and Edmund are coming home this weekend Sent from my iPhone

FROM: Mara Mormont <[email protected]> TO: Aaron Cuy <[email protected]> DATE: 20 March 2026, 19:12  SUBJECT: Parenting Schedule Mr. Cuy, It is my understanding that, despite Mrs. Hightower informing both Mr. Hightower and his office that Alerie and Edmund were to remain with her in London this weekend, the children were nevertheless transported to Surrey this afternoon. My client, their mother, did not consent to those plans. She was sufficiently concerned upon learning that the children had been removed from London contrary to her express instruction that she considered contacting the police. I advised her against taking that step while counsel attempted to resolve the matter directly.  Until the parties involved have reached an interim parenting agreement, neither should be changing arrangements concerning the children, especially after the other has objected. Mrs. Hightower is requesting that Alerie and Edmund be returned to London first thing tomorrow morning and that any further changes to their schedule be discussed through counsel in advance. Mr. Hightower's continued refusal to engage is now creating precisely the conflict we have repeatedly sought to avoid. Can we please work together to prevent this from going public? I think that is in the best interests of both of our clients. Please confirm by 20:00 tonight that the children will be returned tomorrow morning. Best, Mara Mormont

FROM: Aaron Cuy <[email protected]> TO: Mara Mormont <[email protected]> DATE: 20 March 2026, 19:59  SUBJECT: RE: Parenting Schedule Ms. Mormont, If Mrs. Hightower truly intends to seek a formal parenting arrangement through the dissolution proceedings, Mr. Hightower is prepared to pursue an order preserving the children’s primary residence in Surrey, together with their current schooling, household staff, security, and other care. I would also remind you that, should Mrs. Hightower elect to proceed with contested dissolution, Mr. Hightower intends to enforce the parties’ prenuptial agreement in full, which includes full custody terms, in case Mrs. Hightower has forgotten.  The children will remain in Surrey through Sunday evening, consistent with their usual schedule.  Regards, Aaron Cuy

FROM: Mara Mormont <[email protected]> TO: Reader Hightower <[email protected]> DATE: 20 March 2026, 20:02  SUBJECT: FWD: Parenting Schedule See below and please do not call Ormund again tonight. Just try and sleep tonight. We should speak tomorrow morning before you make any decisions regarding the children. Let’s walk through the prenup terms again before we decide how we want to move forward on the divorce. Hang in there, okay? Mara

YOU HAVE THREE (3) NEW VOICEMAILS.

20 March 2026, 17:45.

"Ormund. Call me back right now. I-I just got home and I--fuck, are you fucking serious? Where are they? I literally just told you they were staying in London for the weekend. This is kidnapping, and I-- Jesus Christ, are you serious? Call me right fucking now, or I swear to God..."

20 March 2026, 17:48.

"Sophie just texted me that Alerie and Edmund are already back in Surrey. I explicitly told you no. Why are you doing this to me? You need to bring them back, or get Sophie to bring them back, or...or I-I don't know. I'm getting in my car right now, and if you don't answer in the next five minutes, I'm showing up with the police."

20 March 2026, 17:53.

"Ormund, I never said you couldn't see them. I-I just wanted one weekend with them here and you-- you just can't keep doing whatever you want because you think...you think I'm going to give up. I'm not. They're my kids, too. Please...please just let them call me. Okay? Can you just give them the phone and have them call me? Please."

taglist

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[promotional-dvd]

You loved when Maekar was like this. The light of the rising sun filtered through the large window of your chambers and cast a sweet orange glow over the silent room where you slept. Well, where he slept. You woke not long ago, for once by your body’s own will and not by the screeching of one of your children, letting your eyes flutter open softly and your aching body bask in the comfort of your bed.

Maekars head laid on your chest, his quiet snores tickling the skin there and his muscular arms wrapped around your waist. It was one of the rare times he could be seen without a scowl. He looked so peaceful, you only wished he could be so while he was awake. You lift a finger and trail a featherlight touch down over his nose feeling the slight bump from where he had broken it as a boy and the raised scar tissue from wounds he sustained on the battlefield. His brow furrowed momentarily at the feeling but quickly relaxed again- not before tightening his hold on you. Your other hand stroked through his hair, the strands a mess with sleep, and twirled some around your fingers. Unconsciously, he snuggled closer, rubbing his bearded cheek against the fat of your breast.

Every second of moments like this were precious. Soon he would wake and put on the miserable frown once again, grunting and groaning as he went about his day- but here, only for your eyes to see, he was relaxed. He was your Maekar.

[storminganvils]

it will never be enough - part 3: the treachery

part 2

ormund masterlist

crossposted on ao3

summary: reader finds out her betrothed’s true feelings

word count: 1.2k

a/n: let the games beginnnnn

cw: manipulation, machinations, hightowers being eugenecists lol

Lmk if I missed any cws!

please do not repost my writing anywhere or feed it to any AI/LLMs, I do not authorize!

lace divider by @/strangergraphics, star line divider by @/strangergraphics-archive green heart/pearly divider by me

The betrothal was announced the next day when Ormund entered the lists. “Will my future bride bestow her favor upon me?” The cheers were heard all around as you tied a ribbon on his lance.

“He is not subtle about his admiration towards me, we have come to what I believe is a suitable agreement.” Corlys chuckled, smiling at you warmly as he and Rhaenys walked back with you and Jaena to your chambers, the day had been long. “He wishes for you to depart for Oldtown alongside him and the little prince in two days time.”

It was to be expected, returning to Driftmark would only delay the wedding more, your parents would return on dragonback to get your possessions ready, then take your father’s fastest ship to see you in a moon or so at Oldtown. The wedding would have to be planned and preparations would take some time, your being in Oldtown already would make it easier for you to get a lay of the land and accustomed to your new life in The Reach.

“So it will be done.” You nodded, kissing both of your parents as you retired to your temporary chambers.

Your mother followed after you, “Darling, I heard your betrothed has requested an audience with the lord Hand on the morrow… There is a tunnel that can take you to the Tower of the Hand, in case you wish to, you know, find out more. It never hurts to be prepared.”

It was both adorable and sinister when she had that glint in her eye: she wanted you to be as ready as possible, whatever may come, she would no longer be there for you everyday. There was little she could offer after the festivities for prince Daeron were over, however, she could offer this.

So, Rhaenys handed you a makeshift map of the tunnel that lead to the Tower of the Hand, mentioning she would cover for you for a couple of hours during the morning, Jaena would be your second in command for this quest.

“We are bound for Oldtown in two days time, Jaena.” You declared as you entered your chambers, starting to untie the laces on your dress. “However, I must do something on the morrow beforehand, I will require your help.”

“Of course, my lady, how can I assist?”

“I will slip away before the sun comes up. You must be here while I am gone, if anyone comes looking you must say I am feeling terribly, say my moon blood is killing me if you must.”

“I will be here, my lady.”

The knowledge that your mother would eventually find you if you were to get lost gave you the courage you needed to venture through Maegor’s tunnels on your own. Your candlestick was the only source of light for a long time, even if you could hear servants around you as you made your way through the walls of the Red Keep, you feared you might be late to the meeting you wanted to pry on.

It seemed as if it had been hours, and it probably was, but eventually you found yourself inside a perforated brick wall that hid you well enough, and recognized the lord Hand was already in the middle of a conversation with your betrothed.

“-to ward so that he is brought up as a Hightower, at least one of the four should be one of us, the Queen wishes it so. And our arrangement must continue as is, you cannot ever reply to my letters, not officially. Use the septons if you must retort.” Otto Hightower ordered.

Lord Ormund sat, listening. “A Hightower he shall be, even if he is bringing that dreadful beast with him.”

“You are returning to Oldtown with more than just a young prince to ward, Daeron is young enough to shape, but the Velaryon girl may yet prove troublesome.”

Your ears perked up at the mention of you.

“Even if she is half abomination, she is also the Sea Snake’s daughter, and him I respect. She is receptive and only wishes to be a good wife. That and the fact that she is of dark hair are the only reasons I agreed to the match in the first place. Better for her to marry me instead of someone she shares blood with.”

“Even if her hair is black, it does not take away the possibility of a silver haired babe, the seed is strong.” The Hand mentioned.

“I am not stupid, uncle, I don’t plan to bed her other than on the wedding night. And even then, my seed can only quicken if I spill inside her cunt, which I shall not. I was honest with her, she is aware of this.” Ormund explained.

“Is she aware of your hatred for half of what she is?” Otto challenged.

“It is not as if the poor girl can do anything about it yet, uncle. Once we are wed, she will atone for the sins and taint in her blood, just as Daeron shall. I will be their guiding hand. I will not contribute to the multiplication of Targaryens.”

“You seem so sure, nephew.”

“I am the Lord of Oldtown, everything I do is for Oldtown.”

You slipped back into your chambers unseen, Jaena’s smile faded as soon as you turned around, the look of outrage and betrayal was obvious.

“My lady?” She wondered, not knowing what to do.

The steps you took towards her were measured, way more than the thoughts going through your mind.

“He’s a fucking cunt.” You whispered once your face was close to hers.

“W-what?”

So you told her all the details. How you walked such a long distance within the walls of the keep and listened in on a conversation not meant for your ears. How your betrothed admitted that he was marrying you so that you wouldn’t marry another Targaryen, how he hated that part of you, how he wouldn’t give you any children just because of your Valyrian blood. And worst of all: how the imbecile thought so highly of himself that he planned to manipulate you into the perfect Hightower wife, and the young prince would suffer a similar fate of self-hatred.

“Can you not call it off?”

“It has been announced already, the king himself suggested the match in the first place and my father’s relationship with him is strained as it is. I must accept my fate now.” You said defeatedly.

Jaena shook her head. “We shall come up with a plan, if he is so horrible, you can always…” She looked around, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Poison him.”

You laughed loudly, Jaena had been your partner in crime for years now, she was your favorite lady in waiting and you never wished to part from her. Especially now.

“I’ve come up with a plan just now, Jaena. If he wishes to pull strings around me, control me... I will allow him to think that’s exactly what he’s doing.”

You got up, gesturing around, as if the words coming out of your mouth had a shape of their own and your plan now came together, “Once we are in Oldtown we will know more, but for now I must play the part. I shall be the blushing bride enamored with my future lord husband, longing for his approval.”

“This shall be fun.” Jaena said, grabbing your hands, nodding at you.

“I will not be trifled with. I saw his eyes, I saw the way he looked at me just two days ago. Eventually he will be eating out the palm of my hand.”

ormund masterlist:

@niceforcum22, @kelppsstuff, @aysamuka, @jazmeanb, @shamelessblazecrown, @papitas-con-sal, @itspbjellytime, @adashofpurple, @ladyclarklove, @lauriejayy

@sharkssiren, @arkadiaphilosopher, @ewanmitchellfanatic

comment here to join the ormund taglist! (a 💚 will do fine but you can also comment something like 'taglist please')

[storminganvils]

it will never be enough - part ?? the defeat

crossposted on ao3

ormund masterlist

summary: they hate each other and they fuck nasty

word count: 1.5k

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."

ormund taglist:

@niceforcum22, @kelppsstuff, @aysamuka, @jazmeanb, @shamelessblazecrown, @papitas-con-sal, @itspbjellytime, @adashofpurple, @ladyclarklove, @lauriejayy

@sharkssiren

[storminganvils]

it will never be enough - part 2

the decision

part 1: the secret meeting

crossposted on ao3

ormund masterlist

word count: 2.1k

summary: a decision is made

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.

“Good day, my lady.”

part 3 coming soon

ormund taglist: @niceforcum22, @kelppsstuff, @aysamuka, @jazmeanb, @shamelessblazecrown, @papitas-con-sal, @itspbjellytime, @adashofpurple

comment here to join the ormund taglist! (a 💚 will do fine but you can also comment something like 'taglist please')

[storminganvils]

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.

part 2: the decision

ormund taglist: @niceforcum22, @kelppsstuff, @aysamuka, @jazmeanb, @shamelessblazecrown, @papitas-con-sal, @itspbjellytime, @adashofpurple

comment here to join the ormund taglist! (a 💚 will do fine but you can also comment something like 'taglist please')

[lysiastar]

nsfw headcanons for ormund??? 🙏

ORMUND HIGHTOWER NSFW HEADCANONS

ormund hightower x reader

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

[silkaurum]

THE SACREDNESS OF PRAYER

pairing: ormund hightower x betrothed .ᐟ reader

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

[sallymaywritings]

Don’t play with the box

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?”

“Of course, My Love.”

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Part 2? Let me know ;)

[lovebugism]

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.

[ange1archive]

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.

[ildico-the-golden]

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.

[svkahug]

dreamless nights

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.

[omiiverse]

stillness, kept | aemond targaryen x (f) reader one shot

summary: sickness leaves you bedridden. aemond stays.

cw: aemond x wife!reader, pregnancy, illness, caretaking, protective behavior, domestic intimacy

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.

He stays.

That’s the part that matters.

[breakspearz]

— AND SAVE A PRAYER ('TIL THE MORNING AFTER);

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.

and bringing these up again because #MyTruth

anyways!

©BREAKSPEARZ — thank you for reading, let me know what you think! do not copy, translate, modify, repost, or claim as yours.