@fightmasters - Tumblr Blog

Jul 26

the seven sins - part i: wrath & pride.

summary: beneath a storm of rage, loneliness bares its wicked teeth. his war demands discipline. his faith demands restraint. his obsession demands a woman promised to another. the burden of control is heavy and the price to pay is high.

word count: 8.4k+

pairing: ormund hightower x reader; gwayne hightower x reader (if you squint)

content: 18+ (mdni), noble!reader, mutual manipulation, reader matches his freak, heavy sexual tension, religious themes of shame/purity/penance, misogyny, arranged political marriage, forbidden desire trope, violence, mentions of abuse, control, submission (more will likely be added).

a/n: this is the SLOWEST burn ever I'm so sorry. let me know what you think :)

The sun was at its highest point when the carriage came to a halt inside the main courtyard of the seat of House Hightower. The portcullis rolled down with a rumble, a retinue of armoured knights removing their helms, all bearing the sigil of your noble House.

The gravel beneath the horses' hooves was warm with the heat of late morning, the sky blue and cloudless. Thick vines of ivy climbed the walls of the Hightower, fragrant lavender encircling the decorative pool in the centre of the yard, fashioned after the shape of the seven pointed star.

On the steps leading to the colossal stone fortification stood Lord Ormund Hightower, surrounded by his household guard, servants, lesser lords, and the young crown prince himself. He stood, tapping his booted foot against the ground, hands clasped behind his back and a sword hanging at his hip. He watched - feigning patience - as a young woman was helped down from the carriage, climbing down the wooden stairs to greet him.

The bargain had been simple; a noble Hightower husband for you, a formidable army for him. A bride for a victory.

You had met your husband to be once, long before, back when old King Viserys still sat the throne. It was a simpler time when war had not yet split the realm in two, years before any formal betrothal had been agreed. His father's visit to your castle had been a matter of trade - your sire's lands were rich; a great House, known for its strength in arms, wealth and wits.

The Hand's son was older than you, though handsome and tall; auburn of hair and with an air of grace which you had only ever encountered in song and tale. Barely fifteen at the time, you and your companions blushed and giggled when he glanced your way. Every lady in the hall longed for his attention, and those who were not yet wed, dreamed that one day he might be theirs.

Alas, that honour would be yours, for when the old King died and conflict began to stir, alliances needed forging.

What better way to forge alliances than with marriage, after all?

"My lady, it is a pleasure to receive you in Oldtown. I hope your passage has not been unkind to you."

Lord Ormund grinned, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he descended the steps, the embodiment of highborn courtesy. He stepped forward and took your hand in his, bowing his head and placing a gentle kiss upon your knuckle. He smelled faintly of mint.

"The journey has been long, my lord. I thank you for your hospitality."

You willed your own lips to curve into a gracious smile, a mirror of his own sophistication. You curtsied low, respectful.

Lord Ormund held your gaze with a kind of calculating intensity. He was surveying you, you realised, contemplating just what kind of bride he had procured for his cousin, in exchange for the vast army travelling down the Roseroad. The Lord of Hightower had not met you at the time of brokering the alliance, and a part of him wished his insufferable cousin would be forced to marry some horrid, horse-faced wench. To his dismay, you were beautiful; the kind of beautiful men like Gwayne would start wars for.

"Your quarters have been prepared for you and maids have been chosen to see to your wishes. I do hope you feel at home here, my lady."

You had heard rumours, tales of Lord Ormund's violent temper, his devotion to the faith and his reverence for custom and propriety. Your loving father told you of his changeable nature, that he was a man whose disposition could shift quicker than a candle guttering in a draught. For all the warnings you had received about him, none truly captured how pleasing he was to gaze upon.

The warmth and affection of his demeanour were also at odds with the man's reputation. You understood then that appearances mattered to him greatly; he was every bit committed to presenting himself as a generous and hospitable lord.

Your face did not betray your suspicion. Instead, you placed a hand over your heart to show him just how grateful you were.

"That is very kind of you, Lord Ormund. My father always speaks very highly of you." A lie.

He offered a nod, satisfied with your praise, before continuing on with the necessary pleasantries.

You greeted everyone with a dazzling smile, addressing by name the lords and knights whom you recognised and making sure to curtsy especially low for the young Targaryen ward. You accepted the bread and salt offered to you as a symbol of hospitality, and commented on the fine taste of the wine.

You were acutely aware, as you took in your surroundings, of the servants keeping their heads down in quiet submission.

Even the young prince dared not to speak until permitted.

You realised, very quickly, that this was not a household filled with joy or laughter.

The only person smiling seemed to be you and the Lord of the Hightower himself.

"There is a matter to be discussed," he stated, when the pleasantries and introductions finally came to an end. "Sadly, I must be the bearer of some rather unpleasant news."

You looked towards your host. His lordly smile remained, though his brows furrowed to create an expression akin to sympathy. Not genuine sympathy, not truly. It was a type of sympathy laced with a vague undercurrent of condescension.

Behind you, your companions began to unload heavy gilded chests of your personal belongings. A horse snorted, filling the brief moment of silence between you.

"...A matter best discussed in private," he elaborated, prompted to speak when you yourself said nothing. His light tone of voice suggested the matter was of no great concern, but the attempt at appeasement made you weary.

"When will your noble father be joining us?"

Your own expression depicted the most subtle of frowns.

"My father shan't arrive until shortly before the wedding. He is taking personal charge of guarding the gifts being transported for the High Septon, in honour of the joining of our houses. As his army travels at his back, their pace is slow."

"A most pious and generous man, your father." Despite his smile, Lord Ormund did not seem pleased. The tension to his words suggested he was not all that fond your sire. "Let us speak of the matter later, once you have had some time to rest and refresh yourself."

Without waiting for your response, he turned his attention to his guard.

"Escort the Lady Y/N to my study in time for supper. I shall like to speak with her this evening."

He turned to leave, not bothering to ask for your opinion, the gravel crunching beneath his boots.

You had the audacity to stop him before he could reach the steps, his guards, household and guests already at his heels, as if under a spell - a spell of undying obedience.

"And my betrothed?"

Lord Ormund paused where he stood but did not deign answer your question. He released a breath, like he did not wish to trouble himself with this conversation any longer. He offered the kind of hospitality expected of him given the circumstance, but you could sense within him the underlying coldness, the annoyance at having to entertain you.

Behind his mask of pleasantries and smiles Lord Ormund saw you as nothing but a bargaining chip. Beautiful, but not worthy of his time. After all, the Gods were rarely so generous as to give a maiden both wits and beauty. The loveliness of your face alone told him all he needed to know.

And so he turned halfway to face you, breathing in sharply through his nose and schooling his expression to depict the image of a sweet-natured host.

"Oldtown is made brighter by your presence, Lady Y/N. I look forward to supping with you."

He inclined his head and climbed the steps, the young prince offering you an apologetic glance before following meekly behind.

You wondered, if only for a fleeting moment, whether ambition recognised its own reflection.

Your chambers were bright and opulent, located close to the top of the Hightower, just a floor below the Lord's private quarters. Heavy tapestries of religious scenes adorned the walls, an obscenely large seven pointed star looming over the four poster bed.

You had a private terrace overlooking the splendour of the Honeywine, with flowers and a place to relax in the afternoon sun. A cloak of Hightower green waited for you in the enormous carved wardrobe, a symbol of a future soon to come.

The bath had been drawn and you took your time in the hot soapy water, listening to the sound of servants carrying in your belongings, the new maids scurrying about to unpack your things.

As your muscles relaxed, you allowed yourself a moment to close your eyes and contemplate your situation.

You had heard enough stories, received enough warnings upon your betrothal to be cautious of Lord Hightower, to stay sharp and careful in his presence. Perhaps the most memorable of these warnings was your father's decision to wed you to Lord Ormund's cousin; the vehement objection when you asked, astonished, why he did not propose a match with the Lord of House Hightower himself. Certainly your lineage, wealth and reputation made you an excellent candidate to be his bride, and a marriage to him would have been even more advantageous to your family.

And yet, despite the logic of the argument, your noble father refused to entertain the idea. Disgusted, he stated that he would not sell his daughter to that cunning and conniving brute, that he would rather burn in the fire of the Seven Hells himself than have Lord Ormund be his son by law.

"Whomever is unfortunate enough to be Lord Hightower's next wife shall find herself not with a husband, but a master," your father had said.

The matter was thus decided. You would wed the kind and gentle Ser Gwayne, a match which, to your dismay, now felt rather disappointing by comparison.

After stepping out of the bath, you took care in choosing a gown for the evening. You sat on a cushioned stool as your new maid brushed your hair until it shone.

The girl was shy, and she tried hard to ensure perfection in her work. Her hands were deft, careful not to snag at your hair, and when she accidentally dropped the comb there was a moment when you could have sworn the girl held her breath, as if readying herself for chastisement.

"Tell me about Lord Ormund," you requested by means of breaking the unbearable silence, watching the girl's reflection in the polished looking glass. You were accustomed to your own maids back at your father's castle, a gaggle of women always happy, always chatty, giggling at jests you had shared between you over the years. The atmosphere at the Hightower felt morose, by contrast.

The girl stilled and did not answer at once. Instead, she hesitated, as if stunned to be asked a question at all.

"Lord Hightower is... he-" she paused, stammering. She took a shaky breath to steady herself. "The High Septon calls him a godly man." She nodded vigorously, pleased with herself for getting the words out.

You narrowed your eyes. The sudden quiver of the girl's hands told you there was more to Lord Ormund than just his piety.

"And what do you make of him?"

She swallowed audibly. "My lady, I- I don't think it is my place to pass judgement on his lordship." There was no denying the girl was afraid of what would befall her if she said the wrong thing. Rumours of Lord Ormund's wicked temper seemed to have truth to them, after all.

"Fine, what do the other servants make of him? I ask only as I am to marry his cousin and so become a part of this family."

On a quest for information, you decided to vocalise some of your own observations, hoping that this would give the girl some courage of her own.

"His pleasantries in the yard felt false. The only feeling I noted at the time of my arrival was how uncomfortable everyone appeared. I cannot imagine it was because of me."

The girl smiled ruefully, not taking her eyes away from the braid she was masterfully weaving.

"No, my lady. It wasn't you. Lord Ormund is... He is very particular about the way in which he governs. He can be good and kind, but also quick to anger. Things have not been easy for him recently."

She paused, as if debating whether she had said too much. Her teeth worried at her lip before she continued.

"I do not mean to be presumptuous, my lady, or cause any offence, but be weary of his lordship." Her voice dropped almost to a whisper, eyes quickly darting around the bedchamber. "Every person who resides within this tower quickly learns the merit of keeping their distance."

You remained silent, allowing the young maid's words to sink in. It was a long moment before you turned your head and looked at her over your shoulder, smiling with gratitude.

"That is sage advice." The warmth of your expression was reciprocated, the maid busying herself with pinning strands of braided hair and saying nothing more until the guards arrived.

By the time you found yourself outside Lord Ormund's study, the sun had set and torches were lit to illuminate each and every hallway. You waited patiently, readjusting the neckline of your gown as the guard announced your arrival.

A moment later you were stepping inside, curtsying in greeting, long skirts sweeping over the stone floor.

The space was large but warm, candlelight flickering in every corner, a fire roaring in the carved stone hearth. His study resembled a library, with shelves full of dusty books reaching for the vaulted ceiling, like sunflowers towards the sun. A subtle hint of incense drifted on a gentle breeze.

Lord Ormund sat behind his ornate desk, his attention seized by the heavy tome in front of him, another stack of books perched neatly by his side. He looked up when you entered.

"You look delightful, Lady Y/N. I trust you have been well looked after?"

He dismissed his guards with a simple nod. They departed, silent as ghosts in their polished armour. The heavy door closed quietly behind them, leaving you alone with the peculiar Lord of Oldtown.

He said nothing as he pushed himself up to stand and slowly crossed the room to where you stood. His steps were graceful, his movements precise and slow.

"I have, my lord. Your home is beautiful - I had some time to admire the tapestries in my chambers. I have never seen anything so intricate."

Your smile was bright, girlish.

He gestured for you to sit, placing a gentle hand on the small of your back and guiding you to the cushioned chair opposite his desk. Then, without hurry, he turned his attention to the golden pitcher waiting nearby, and poured wine into two polished goblets.

"We have the finest weavers here in Oldtown." He brought the wine over and offered you the cup. "I am fond of anyone who can appreciate the beauty of their art."

You knew this was flattery. Your father had warned you of the way this man could control and reshape feelings, spin such masterful webs of manipulation that one could not be sure of their own mind.

"I suppose," he mused, catching your eyes as he took a seat behind his desk. He released a breath, relaxing in the chair. His voice a was purr. "Beauty calls to beauty, does it not?"

Even with all the warnings, you could not help but redden.

Despite the weight of disquiet you felt at being alone with him, you had to admit there was something alluring about the man. He was unquestionably handsome, but it was the arrogance with which he carried himself that made it difficult to look away.

You took a small sip of wine to bide your time. The next time you spoke, your voice was like honey.

"Am I... Early to arrive? I did not mean to interrupt your reading, my lord, and I notice Ser Gwayne is not here."

You kept your demeanour calm, deciding to restrain any and all responses to his words.

Lord Ormund shook his head, the movement delicate, thoughtful. He knew that the best way to bend people to his will was with kindness; a compliment here, an expression of affection there, a gentle fatherly touch somewhere in between.

He studied you from a distance, trying to discern the effect of his words, whether you would respond as he intended. There was a pleasure, he found, in sowing a seed of control and watching it blossom.

It was a curious dance, one in which both partners knew they were being led. Both of you crafted every word with care, then studied the other's expression, searching for the smallest crack in composure that might reveal whose performance had proved the more convincing.

"You are right on time," he responded. "With so much unrest stirring in the realm, I'm afraid I have been spending an awful lot of time studying texts of battles and wars long past."

Your eyes travelled down to the book on his desk and you tilted your head to make sense of what you were seeing. The tome opened to a sketch of a familiar military formation.

"I personally find Grand Maester Gawen's work to be tedious at best."

You enjoyed the sudden shift in dynamic when you noticed his surprise.

Silent, he shut the tome and read the name of its author inscribed on the age-darkened leather of the cover. Grand Maester Gawen, indeed.

"A scholar of military history?" He quirked a brow, amused. There was something patronising in his tone.

If Lord Ormund truly intended to leave his mark upon the realm, surely he would one day recognise the value of a woman who hungered for power as fiercely as he did.

"My father would not take another wife after my mother's passing. It fell to me, his only child, to become a worthy heir. My education comprised not only the feminine arts but also strategy, laws, history and diplomacy."

A moment passed.

"Though I suppose," you continued, eager to recover the image of an obedient, docile bride, "with my betrothal to your cousin, these burdens will soon be eased." Your smile was sweet, coy.

"A lady of such gentle birth should not have to take on such responsibility." He chuckled softly. "Leave the burden of such dreary matters to us, the men."

He took a drink of his wine and set the goblet down on the desk.

"Speaking of dreary matters," he began. "I'm afraid my sweet cousin will not be supping with us this evening, or for many evenings yet to come."

You felt your fingers instinctively tightening around the wooden armrest of the chair.

"Has something befallen Ser Gwayne?"

You did not allow your emotions to surface. The union between your two Houses was necessary. Word of your father declaring for the Greens had undoubtedly already reached Princess Rhaenyra's ears.

"By all accounts, he is well. He has been summoned to King's Landing by his sister, the Dowager Queen."

Your brows knitted together.

"But we are to wed in a fortnight."

He looked to you silently, his own emotion difficult to discern. While his face was schooled into an expression of solemn apology, there was something more hiding beneath the surface. Impatience? Frustration?

Slowly, he pushed himself away from his desk, the chair screeching against the stone.

"My cousin, though well in body, has behaved in a manner not befitting a man sound of mind."

He spoke the words with a simmering calm, grazing his fingers over the polished surface of his desk as he closed the distance between you.

"I urged him to delay his departure, to await your arrival and seal this alliance before riding to the Capital. He disobeyed, departing in the middle of the night."

Lord Ormund reached into the pocket of his doublet and produced a folded parchment. "He left a note addressed to you. I took the liberty of reading it."

His displeasure was evident, as if touching the thing disgusted him.

Carefully, you unfolded the note, the flickers of candlelight dancing wildly across the page.

"My dear lady,

It is with an aching heart that I must leave Oldtown and ride to my sister's side. She calls for aid, fearing for the safety of her children and suspecting a coming attack on our capital. It is my duty to protect her.

I have made a promise to wed you, sweet lady, and I intend to keep my vow, though with some delay. My thoughts and dreams are consumed by you and I long to swear my devotion to you, the bells of the Starry Sept ringing out to herald the news that you are mine. I hope you will forgive me. I will return to you as soon as it is possible.

Your loving Gwayne."

You read the note twice over before finally looking to Lord Ormund with a cocked brow. His lips were pursed, the arrogant smile from earlier dimmed as he awaited your reaction. He understood very well the magnitude of the situation.

In truth, Lord Ormund raged when the news of his cousin's disobedience reached him.

He was in a meeting with his lords and councillors when the news arrived. It was the maester who informed him Ser Gwayne was gone - one of the maids had found his bed untouched in the morning, and when they checked, his horse was gone.

Lord Ormund's voice cracked like thunder, echoing against the vaulted ceiling of the council chamber. "He what?"

The maester bowed his head in shame, as if Ser Gwayne's decision had been his own fault. Before he could answer, the lord's fist came down upon the table with such force that the ink pot toppled, black liquid spilling across his letters like fresh blood.

"I gave him one order." Each word was louder than the last. "One - to wed and bed that wretch's whore daughter before leaving."

He swept an arm across the table, sending parchments, candles and quills crashing to the floor. The councillors shrank back instinctively. Even seasoned warriors lowered their eyes, careful not to become the focal point of their lord's rage.

Lord Ormund's face had gone crimson, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles quivered beneath his skin.

"Does he imagine," he roared, "that my commands are offered as kindly advice? That while I bear the burden of this war, he may indulge whatever foolish impulses seize him?"

His voice dropped, fingers drifting over the pommel of his sword and hesitating as if trying - desperately trying - to contain his rage, to recover his composure in front of his lords and councillors. Lord Ormund stood rigid at the head of the table, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. His hands trembled - not with fear, but with the effort of holding himself back.

For a long, terrible moment, no one dared breathe.

Seconds passed. He allowed the fury to crest and break like a wave, then gathered himself with startling ease, returning to the matter at hand with the cold precision of a man who had never lost control at all.

"I do hope that your father and I can come to some agreement. Perhaps he will agree to delay the wedding. Until we have a decision, you are most welcome here, my lady."

The sentence was spoken with affection intended to comfort you and ease your displeasure. But although his voice was kind, you could practically smell his anger hiding beneath the curtain of restraint. You understood, then, what the maid had meant with her warning.

After a long moment, you finally spoke.

"And what if Ser Gwayne shall perish in battle before we are wed?"

Your voice remained calm.

"My father was promised a Hightower husband, to wed me before any true fighting begins, to rule our lands by my side when the war is done, to father children unto me. He requires Ser Gwayne to keep his end of the bargain, not die before the promise is fulfilled."

His false sincerity, the sympathy appeared once more.

"I understand your torment, my lady. Your gentle heart must ache with grief."

"Do not dare patronise me, my lord."

You did not wait before continuing.

"You are mistaken. It is not grief that I feel, only anger towards my betrothed for placing us in this situation."

Your composure slipped before his very eyes, your words sharp and dignified.

He realised, as if slapped, that perhaps the best course of action was not flattery and sweet promises. His plan had been to comfort you, to offer soothing words and keep you happy... pliable. He was quickly realising, however, that the woman he was speaking to was not naive enough to fall for such.

"I apologise if I have cause offence," he said, slowly, unsure of where he stood. Lord Ormund was not a man used to apologising, and the words felt strange on his tongue. His brows furrowed as he attempted to collect himself, to make sense of the dynamic between you.

The two of you, strangely, found commonality in your mirrored frustration.

"You have every right to feel spurned by him," he said, this time honestly. "The Seven were kind to make his father mine own's younger brother. I fear that had the mantle of lordship fallen to Gwayne's shoulders, we'd all be doomed by his undying yearning for the glory of knighthood."

You ran a hand over your face, exasperated.

"Does he actually believe one man can make a difference in King's Landing? Is he truly so blind as to not understand the repercussions of his choice?"

Unbelievably, you laughed, the sound expelled upon a breath of resignation. You took a large drink of your wine, emptying the cup.

"There is nothing to be done until my father arrives," you continued. "The future of this alliance is for him to decide."

As your nursemaid frequently told you, once the cow has been milked, there is no squirting the cream back up her udder.

A moment of tense silence lingered in the air.

"You know your father well. Tell me... is he like to exercise patience and keep faith?"

"I cannot imagine he will be pleased." You took a deep breath. "He is a proud man, and does not take to slights easily. Honour may demand he put an end to the betrothal and in consequence, our alliance."

Lord Hightower said nothing, just tilted his head to the side, a silent invitation for you to continue.

"Though he is fond of Ser Gwayne and may be willing to forgive the folly. He does so want me wed to a man of his... valiance." The word sounded bitter, Lord Ormund realised.

"And how do you feel about marrying my cousin?" Would you, a woman spurned, still agree to the match?

You did not balk at the question.

"It does not matter how I feel, only that I will do my duty."

Not for the first time since your arrival, Lord Ormund seemed taken aback by your response. Not by the fact that you would be dutiful, but by the sheer indifference with which you acted at the prospect of marriage.

"My cousin is very gallant. Despite his faults, he is the truest knight I have ever known. Many a maiden would lead themselves to damnation for the mere chance of his affection, and all you have to say is that you will do your duty?"

"Yes, my lord."

He laughed, genuinely entertained by your lack of interest. It seemed his sweet cousin would not find in you the wife he imagined. You would not swoon over his poetry, nor weep when he rode off into battle. To you, as to Lord Ormund, marriage seemed a political affair.

He would not admit it, not until he visited the Sept, that the idea filled him with a strange sort of glee.

He reached over to grab the pitcher from his desk.

"You are harder to impress than most women, are you not?"

Lord Ormund was not sure if his delight with you was the result of the Arbor Gold, or a true pleasure in your company.

You peered up at him from beneath long lashes, your arm extended in his direction as he filled your empty cup. You held his gaze, unflinching, when you answered.

"Have you known many women, Lord Ormund?"

He narrowed his eyes, stilling his arm for the briefest of moments before resuming the pouring. He hovered over you, your head of a height with his navel. You did not look away.

"Careful now, sweet lady," he warned, but the playful glint remained, his voice low like a lover's. "Remember that this marriage requires mine own consent, as well as your father's. Without my permission, it will not come to pass."

You had the audacity to roll your eyes at him.

Lord Ormund could not recall a time someone had been so utterly disrespectful in his presence. He realised that had you been someone else, had you done this in front of his fellow lords, he would have had you thrown into a dungeon and whipped.

Alone in his study, however, he found himself inclined to be more forgiving, even enjoying the provocation.

"You will not deny it." Your voice was self-assured, almost mocking.

"I won't?" He raised a dark brow in challenge, setting the pitcher back on the desk. Lord Ormund leaned against the polished edge, picking up his own goblet and taking a generous drink.

His eyes remained locked on your face. In the soft light of his study, your hair shone like a jewel, the subtle embroidery on the sleeves of your gown glimmering when you moved your arms.

"Ten thousand men for your army is not something you would be willing to give up so easily. You need me, as now my House needs you. Without me wed and bearing the Hightower sigil on my breast, your family's cause is lost."

"Smart girl," he praised, and the words made a feeling, unnamed and untamed, twitch somewhere deep within you.

He continued. "Yet you understand that my cousin's welfare is also my responsibility. He is not so young, though he can be naive as if he were. He has met you once, many years ago, and yet he is yearning to be your husband and protector."

"And here lies the issue."

He took another drink.

"You do not believe a husband should guard his wife, shield her honour?"

"I do," you said, impatience showing. "My lack of enthusiasm lies in this naivety you speak of. I have been raised surrounded by strong men; men who do not delude themselves about the realities of this world. I fear your cousin, while certainly chivalrous, does not have what it takes to keep me safe, especially during a time as perilous as this. Unseemly things may yet have to be done before the war is done, to protect your family and mine, and keep the rightful heir upon the throne."

Lord Ormund was well and truly impressed by your critical mind, the sharpness of your wits.

"I find myself becoming quite fond of you, Lady Y/N." The statement felt like a caress. "I see your father truly has taken great care in your education."

"And so you understand that while I will do my duty, my feelings about the situation are not those of a joyous, infatuated bride? Your cousin's gallantry might have satisfied me when we first met all those years ago, but I had hoped he would be more wise by now. Nevertheless, I will do what I must."

Lord Ormund found a twisted sort of pleasure in hearing your true opinion of Ser Gwayne. The Gods knew how much he despised his cousin, and to hear you say he was inadequate felt like a graze of cold silk on a stifling summer night.

"A shame," he said, but did not seem disappointed. The word was a theatrical sigh. "My cousin does adore you so."

"Your cousin adores the idea of me," you countered, expelling a laugh which held a somewhat bitter edge. "A gentle bred lady with a pretty face, a famous castle to inherit, and a formidable army at her back. He does not know me, and I fear that he would not love me if he did."

Lord Ormund's curiosity was continuing to grow. A confrontation he initially dreaded was quickly turning into one of the most riveting conversations he had had in a long time.

"And why is that?"

"Because, my lord, marrying him is a duty, given to me by my noble father. I will honour him, care for him, be faithful to him and maybe even love him in due time, but I will not pretend to swoon over a man who does not excite me."

"Well said, my lady." He lifted his goblet as if in toast. "I admire your courage in accepting the burden of your responsibility. I know a great number of highborn ladies who would rage and fight against a match they were not satisfied with."

Somewhere along the way, you had shed the act and now found yourself speaking true. For all the warnings you had received about the dangers of such behaviour, Lord Ormund did not seem displeased. In fact, it seemed the two of you found an unexpected mutual understanding.

"My father decreed a Hightower husband I shall have, and so it shall be."

Lord Ormund narrowed his eyes, his tongue darting out to wet his full lips. It was a long moment before he spoke again.

"So it shall," he agreed.

The words were followed by a gentle tap on the door, signalling the arrival of servants, and with them supper. They scurried about, setting the table for two, aromatic dishes soon replacing the gentle scent of incense in the air.

As they worked, a silence descended between you, but you caught him watching, as if evaluating. The stillness felt devious, somehow, like the conversation that transpired was your secret, never to be shared with anyone else.

He filled your cup once more. When the servants left, neither you nor him made any attempt to move towards the table. You stayed exactly where you were, acknowledging that despite the pause, the conversation was not yet finished.

It was him who spoke first.

"You are right when you say your marriage is of great importance to me. Your father has been clear that without it, I shall not have his men. And yet we find ourselves in this predicament." He looked thoughtful, a man considering all options and possible problems. "What would happen, say, if King's Landing fell on the morrow and Ser Gwayne met some unfortunate end? Or if your noble father did not consent to delay? I wonder, my lady, does it matter which Hightower is to be your husband?"

When he looked at you again, it was with a measure of curiosity that had not been there before, and you knew the game had subtly tilted in your favour.

You allowed yourself a moment to deliberate upon the question. As you did so, you aimlessly wandered over to the hearth and extended your hands over the fire, allowing it to warm you in the chill of night.

"I fear neither my father, nor I will be satisfied with a more distant relative. And as you have no brothers, my lord, Ser Gwayne appears to be the only candidate." You dared not suggest him as a potential match.

You had placed the idea before him gently, knowing that the most fruitful schemes were those men believed they had discovered themselves.

"No, it would have to be someone worthy of you." He paused, thinking. His next words were delivered on the same breath as his gentle laughter. "Though having met you, my lady, I worry that you might be wasted even on my noble cousin."

Despite the calculations behind your every move, your reaction was unfeigned. The praise felt good, and your traitorous body responded with a sudden awareness of an emptiness, a sense of hollow, there, at the apex of your thighs. It was a reaction of flesh, nothing more. And as you attempted to maintain your dignity, you told yourself that it was just the wine, that it was just a flicker of appetite soon to pass.

"You flatter me, my lord." Your voice dropped to a whisper. You felt your cheeks burn, not quite sure if it was the effect of the fire or his words.

Faking excitement for a man was something you refused to stoop to.

You never thought about what you'd do when the attraction was true.

"Your lady wife is very lucky to have a husband as thoughtful as you."

You knew very well there was no Lady Hightower. The inclination to flirt came so naturally, you did not even think about the possible repercussions of such boldness. When the craving was real, it seemed, acting upon it felt as easy as breathing.

He smirked.

"You are very kind, but I have been a widower for some time."

You recognised the moment his gaze lingered a fraction too long, as though he had begun to see not merely the woman before him, but the future you had quietly invited him to imagine. His next move was carefully measured, but it was a different sort of caution now - the caution of a man entertaining an idea he had never expected to consider.

He set his cup down and stood to his full, towering height.

"Oh?" You feigned surprise, watching with a wanton sense of excitement as he closed the distance between you. With a few long strides, he stopped when only two or three feet separated you. "I'm sorry for your loss, Lord Ormund. She must have been quite the woman to be worthy of you."

He placed a hand on the stone mantle, the other reaching over to catch the belled sleeve of your gown between thumb and forefinger. He looked thoughtful.

"In truth," he began, grazing his thumb over the embroidered lavender flowers decorating the flowing fabric. He smiled to himself, not meeting your gaze. "It was a political marriage, as yours will be. It seems that rarely in such circumstances do we marry people who are worthy of us. We must make do with the fate we are dealt."

Your heart skipped a beat. He was so close you could taste him - the cleanliness and the flowers, a mirror to the ones embroidered on your dress. You could feel the heat radiating from him, your mouth watering at the delicious proximity.

"Those are wise words," you whispered, trying your hardest to maintain your composure.

Lord Ormund's eyes held a glimmer that told you he was enjoying this, enjoying the easy, intimate atmosphere between you. He seemed relaxed, and if he noticed how flustered you were by his closeness, he made no mention of it.

"I'm curious..." You cleared your throat, trying to swallow down your desire. You understood your position, your commitment to his cousin. Your station demanded you guard your virtue. Even so you knew that if he wished for you to drop to your knees, you would have done so without question; you would have given him your mouth to use as he pleased and done so eagerly.

"...Is my betrothed like to develop this kind of wisdom one day?"

He dropped your sleeve and instead reached up - tenderly, affectionately - to tuck a rogue strand of hair behind your ear. Your skin seemed to sizzle beneath his touch, but Lord Ormund paid it no mind. He was lost in his own reverie, examining your face, the softness of your hair, the smoothness of your neck.

He hummed, as if to signal his own deliberation. "Is wisdom something you wish for in a husband?"

You exhaled a shaky breath, unmoving as his fingers slid from your ear, down your neck and slowly towards your collarbones. He touched the pendant - a seven pointed star - hanging from the delicate chain atop your chest.

"Wisdom, strength... A man with the power to shape his own destiny, and the generosity to let his wife share in that ascent. Those are the qualities I shall find pleasing in a husband, I think." Your words were slow, intentional, but your heart felt like it was going to stop. "Though as your lordship said, marriages of convenience are oft devoid of the things we long for."

He let the pendant drop into place and withdrew his hand. His gaze met yours, the connection intense, the flames of the fire reflected in the blue of his eyes.

The most unusual smile graced his features, an expression you couldn't quite read.

"Indeed," he sighed, watching you with reverence. Unbeknownst to you, he indulged himself in the subtle change of your scent. "Though not always. From time to time, the Gods choose to smile down upon us and grant us our desires."

He took a small step back, turning the attention of his hands to straightening the sleeves of his doublet. To any onlooker the gesture would have seemed insignificant, nonchalant, but Lord Ormund was familiar with the limits of his own restraint.

Immediately, you missed the closeness, the thrill of his frame towering over you.

You did not think through your next words before they left your parted lips.

"And what do you desire? Were you to wed again, what would please you in your lady wife?"

He did not answer. The fervour of his gaze made you wonder if you had been too bold, crossed the line.

"Forgive me, my lord. I should not have asked such a question."

But Lord Hightower was not offended, nor was he aghast at your bravery in asking him such an intimate question. He knew enough courtly games to recognise the possibility of a performance, yet he found himself dangerously willing to believe.

"It's quite alright," he reassured, voice low, barely above a murmur.

He never really thought about what he wanted. His past marriage was not a place for want. And so he took a moment to compose an answer. His words were little more than a whisper, a secret shared upon a breath.

"I suppose I desire what most men in my position do - a lady of gentle birth and beauty, a woman who is devoted to me not because she is forced to by laws of men but because she yearns for me so completely she could never want another."

He couldn't help himself. He touched your face again, large hand splaying across your cheek.

You felt exposed under his gaze, wondering what would happen if you were to reach across and drag your hands down his chest, how the supple leather of his doublet would feel beneath your skin.

His own touch lingered, a lover's caress. You felt your eyes flutter closed, leaning into his touch.

"My late wife was a pious woman," he whispered, too spellbound by you nuzzling your face into his hand to truly consider the words leaving his mouth. "In my foolish youth I made the mistake of assuming that was the most important thing; that all other qualities I valued would flow out of the fact she was committed to the Seven."

His thumb grazed the apple of your cheek.

"Faith is still important to me, though I now realise too much of it will keep a man lonely and his bed cold."

He chuckled quietly, as if amused by his own misfortune. The sadness of the sound pulled you out of the daydream.

In that moment, you felt it, deep within you, the true melancholy of the man before you. You had ripped the curtain back and saw exactly what hid behind.

You did not expect the vulnerability of his confession, and from the clench of his jaw when your eyes finally focused on his face, neither had he.

Lord Ormund cleared his throat, as if realising after a moment of weakness what he had shared with you. The Lord of Oldtown suddenly felt the bitter grasp of shame. Without thinking, he moved to withdraw his hand.

Your instincts were quicker, your fingers wrapping around his wrist and stilling his retreat. With some force, you willed his palm to rest upon the exposed skin of your chest, right on top the seven pointed star, your heart beating wildly just beneath his touch.

You held his wrist, a tight squeeze to show that you did not pity, did not judge. To show that you were simply there, standing with him and seeing his pain, his loneliness.

You offered yourself, your ambition and devotion, as if on a platter.

It was a long moment before you reached out with your other hand and placed it gently upon his jaw. The Lord of the Hightower did not move away.

He succumbed to your touch, relaxing his palm against your chest and feeling something unfamiliar stirring in his chest. Your heart thrummed beneath his fingertips like a hummingbird, your chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. He was consumed by the sensation.

The Lord of Oldtown was not a stranger to physical affection. After all, it was not uncommon for him to show his love by placing his hands on young Daeron's shoulders. What he was not accustomed to was being on the receiving end of such tenderness, to having someone show that adoration to him. To not flinch from his affection.

He released a sharp breath, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, a weight he hadn't realised he'd been carrying. His eyes squeezed shut, the muscle in his jaw twitching, as if the feeling was so intense, so overwhelming he could not contain it within himself.

It was a long moment before he looked at you again.

You were closer now, and Lord Ormund could not imagine that the look of gentle affection in your expression could be feigned.

You breathed in deeply before you spoke, the words so quiet he knew they were meant only for him.

"Let us pray, my lord, that my husband to be finds his wisdom, and that your future wife, whomever she may be, loves you so fiercely you never have to feel lonely again."

For several moments after you spoke, Lord Ormund remained perfectly still.

The words were gentle. That was what unsettled him most.

Had you been cruel, he might have found comfort in anger. Anger was familiar to him; it was something he understood. It gave direction, purpose, something upon which he could set his mind and strike until the feeling passed.

But there was no cruelty in your expression. No triumph. No satisfaction at having uncovered a weakness in the Lord of Oldtown. There was only kindness. And kindness, he realised with a sudden and uncomfortable clarity, was far more dangerous.

He had expected many things from you since your arrival in the city; obedience, nervousness, the carefully rehearsed courtesy of a noble lady attempting to please the man whose household she had entered. And in truth, he had seen all of those things.

He had seen the graceful curtsy in the courtyard, the measured smile offered to his household, the careful words spoken to his guards and guests. He had watched you perform the role expected of you with the same precision with which he performed his own.

He had mistaken that restraint for simplicity.

His gaze remained fixed upon you, his expression unreadable, though something in his face had shifted. The confident ease he had carried throughout the evening - the composure of a man accustomed to command - seemed to falter for the briefest moment.

Then, as though remembering himself, he slowly withdrew from your touch. The loss of comfort was immediate, and he hated that he noticed.

You watched him carefully.

"My lord?" Your voice was quiet, uncertain.

He looked away, retreating towards his desk as if the distance would make this encounter any easier.

"You should return to your chambers."

The change was so sudden that you almost wondered if you had offended him.

Only moments before, he had stood before you with a tenderness you had not thought him capable of. Now, he had returned behind that familiar wall of courtesy and restraint, his features once again composed into the expression of the Lord of Oldtown.

"Have I displeased you?"

The question made his jaw tighten. He gripped the back of his chair with both hands, knuckles turning white. He leaned forward as if trying desperately to contain himself.

"No."

The answer came too quickly.

You stared at him, your face shifting to depict the most real expression of concern.

Lord Ormund was a man who rarely struggled to make his meaning known. His commands were simple. His expectations were clear. Yet now, for perhaps the first time, he seemed unable to explain himself.

"My lord, I fear I have spoken too freely."

He shook his head.

"You have spoken honestly. There is no fault in that." The words were softer. The silence that followed was heavy.

The fire continued to crackle behind you, filing the room with the only sound neither of you seemed willing to make.

Finally, Lord Ormund forced himself to look at you.

"You are promised to my cousin."

The reminder was spoken as much to himself, as it was to you.

"You are a guest beneath my roof. I am your host, and I am bound by duty to protect your honour."

There was no accusation in his voice, only restraint; a man reminding himself of the things he already knew.

You lowered your gaze, accepting his words with the dignity expected of your station.

"Of course, my lord."

And somehow, that acceptance unsettled him more than if you had argued. He had spent his entire life surrounded by people who yielded to him because they feared him. He knew how to handle resistance. He knew how to overcome defiance.

He did not know what do to with someone who simply understood.

You offered him a final curtsy.

"Goodnight, Lord Ormund."

Your slippered feet made no sound as you moved towards the door, and when he was finally alone, the silence within his study deafening, Lord Ormund screwed his eyes shut, tilted his head to the heavens, and begged the Father for forgiveness.

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