Jess: Me at Eloise Bridgerton type "feminist" characters in tv and film
If you can't tell, I'm girly as hell and any good feminist should NEVER look down on women who tend to vibe with feminine attributes.
It doesn't make them less than and shoe horning in "feminists" in period dramas who do nothing but rant, act holier than thou and look down on the more "girlier" characters is a complete disservice to women and girls who watch this and feel like they should rid themselves of femininity altogether in order to be taken seriously by others (case in point, Season 6-8 Sansa Stark)
PAIRING — Lord Ormund Hightower x fem!Reader // Princess Daenyra Targaryen (OC)
SUMMARY — You need to prove your worth as the new Lady of Oldtown but you cannot escape constant comparisons to your sister Rhaenyra. You seem to fail wherever she thrives. However, an opportunity occurs for you to help fix your husband's mistake.
AUTHOR’S NOTE — As usual, I want to thank everyone leaving kind comments on Tumblr and on AO3. 💚 I honestly cannot wait for Reader to meet Daeron but I think it will have to wait until Part VI. 🤣 In the show he was sent to Oldtown at the age of five months but I think it is way too early. However I also don't want to wait until he is twelve like in the books.
WARNINGS — sexism, hints of Targaryen madness, infertility issues mentioned, Reader makes a use of her dragon (💀)
WORD COUNT — 5,660
ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.
THE SECOND DAUGHTER (IV)
Not long after your wedding, Ser Otto returned to Oldtown. It was around the time when Rhaenyra was supposed to get married but you tried to pay no attention to that. She had not visited yours, therefore you refused to grant her even one warm thought regarding her own matrimony.
Your husband had known about Ser Otto returning before from the letters. However, he chose to inform you by the breakfast table on the day of his uncle’s arrival.
“Why did you keep it a secret?” You asked.
“Do not accuse me of keeping secrets. It has no importance to you,” Ormund shrugged.
“Do not dictate to me what has importance to me and what does not,” you stood up loudly, causing him to look up at you with a hint of surprise but mostly irritation.
“What is the meaning of this behaviour?” He asked as if he was asking a misbehaving child.
You breathed heavily.
It was not that you hated Ser Otto. No, not at all. But the reason you did not want him around was the same you had dismissed all your maids from King’s Landing for. You did not want to be around people who remembered the old version of you.
“You would never understand,” you muttered before leaving him frustrated.
You changed into dragonriding clothes and hurried to Vyrmora. Her pit was nearly finished and she was already sleeping inside the huge building in the outskirts of the city. You were sometimes taking a carriage to get to her but today you chose to mount a horse. The guards did not expect it and they had to rush behind you to be able to watch over you properly.
The people of Oldtown were turning their heads after you. They wouldn’t believe that the woman wearing brown leather pants with an angry expression on her face was their new lady. They wouldn’t believe it if it wasn’t for the long braid of silver hair that could not be mistaken with anyone else.
You jumped off of the horse in front of the pit and walked inside. Vyrmora roared out of happiness as you approached to pet her.
You took her for a ride and saw from the above the carriage on the road surrounded with guards. It surely had to be Ser Otto’s. To tease him, you lowered yourself on the dragon right above the carriage and then you flew away as you chuckled.
Vyrmora hunted for wild animals in the forest before you two returned to the pit. She landed and you slid down as you patted her. Then you spotted Ser Otto himself waiting for you as you furrowed your brow.
“Princess Daenyra,” he greeted you with a bow of his head.
“Ser Otto,” you nodded and approached him while taking off your gloves. “So good to see you again,” you faked a smile. “Have you seen my Lord Husband already?”
“No, I asked to be taken here immediately. I wanted to see how you were doing, my Princess,” he explained and clasped his hands behind his back.
“I am doing well, Ser. Why are you here? My Lord Husband tells me it is not a short visit but rather a permanent situation,” you glanced at him as you two slowly walked out of the pit into the bright sun and loud noise of the streets.
“Your father, The King, he… He decided my service was no longer useful to him,” Ser Otto admitted.
“What do you mean?” Your eyes widened. “You are his best friend.”
“Perhaps not anymore. We had a… disagreement,” Ser Otto looked deep into your violet eyes. Then he looked down and pointed at your chest. “What is this? A dragon on top of the watchtower?”
“My own coat of arms,” you explained. “A gift from my generous Lord Husband,” you added. “A few units of soldiers wear it. So do my guards,” you pointed at the men waiting for you nearby. “Part of the ships wield it, too. Everything with this symbol belongs to me and is mine only by right,” you lifted your chin.
Ser Otto smiled gently.
“It pleases me to see you so satisfied. To see you admired the way you deserve to be,” he assured you but his words took the smile off of your face.
“There is something I must ask of you, Ser Otto,” you sighed. “Forget the woman you once knew in King’s Landing. I do not wish to know her. She died alongside her mother.”
Ser Otto nodded and bowed his head again. You nodded at him although you knew it would be difficult to forget about the past.
“So,” you took him by his elbow as you led him back to his carriage, “I will go back to The Hightower with you and you will tell me all about the quarrel with my father,” you ordered.
“It is a delicate matter,” Ser Otto waited for you to sit inside the carriage before he joined you and sat across. “It is about your sister, Princess Rhaenyra.”
“Rhaenyra… She did not come for my wedding,” you told him. “Do you know why?”
“I-I do not know… Perhaps she was busy with… other matters,” Otto blushed slightly. “The matters that were the source of my disagreement.”
“What did she do?” You chuckled, leaning back comfortably as the carriage moved towards The Hightower.
“My daughter, The Queen, discovered something shameful and when I brought the matter to the King, he took Rhaenyra’s side. Of course, as a father, I understand him, however–”
“What did she do?” You repeated the question.
“She was seen in a brothel with Prince Daemon and she supposedly spent a night with him,” Ser Otto lowered his voice. You winced. “That is why the matter of her wedding was so rushed after the… incident.”
“They always seemed to be into one another,” you pointed out. “Uncle Daemon… He always liked Rahenyra more. He would bounce her on his knee and tell her amusing stories. He admired her for her wit and spirit. All I could ever count on were the gifts from his journeys, which he would pass to me with a bored expression,” you admitted. “She acted carelessly with him, though.”
“Princess Rhaenyra denied it,” Ser Otto pointed out to play it safe.
“Of course she did, but she is guilty. I know my sister,” you nodded with a smirk, straightening your back.
You suddenly felt so superior and so proud.
Your dragon was bigger, you ruled the city alongside your husband and you were a proper Lady Wife who had her first kiss on her wedding day.
Your mother would have been proud of you.
“How are my other siblings?” You asked Ser Otto to change the subject.
“Aegon misses you,” he answered and your heart clenched inside your chest.
“I miss him, too. Ormund says I might fly to King’s Landing and visit my sweet brothers and sister Helaena but only after I give him an heir,” you said. “Before that, it could be seen as me escaping or rebelling against my duty.”
“Is he a good husband to you, Princess?” Ser Otto asked suddenly. There was a hint of worry in his voice, which surprised you because back in the day he had been the one to praise his nephew in front of you.
“He is… a bit different than I expected. But I know how to handle him… I think,” you said.
The carriage stopped and the doors of it opened. You left it with the help of one of the guards and the first thing you saw was your surprised husband who was waiting there by his cousin’s side to greet his uncle.
You laughed at his face as Ser Otto left the carriage behind you.
“Ser Otto visited me first. He came to the pit,” you explained as you stood by Ormund’s side.
“You stink of dragon shit,” your husband gave you a scolding gaze.
“That is not the way to address the Princess,” Otto furrowed his brow. “Good to see you, however,” he nodded at Ormund and then turned around to greet his son.
“Go take a bath,” Ormund mumbled out at you through gritted teeth.
“I was about to,” you shrugged your arms and went inside The Hightower to hurry into your chambers.
More weeks passed and the news reached Oldtown about your sister Rhaenyra expecting her first child with Laenor already. The news made you feel uncomfortable as Ser Otto announced it by the dinner table one evening.
You did not have to turn your head to know that Ormund was glancing at you with that scolding look of his.
Perhaps you inherited your mother’s cursed womb. Each month you were bleeding as the maester was shaking his head. You knew that your main duty was to give your husband an heir and now your newly found confidence was slowly fading away. You were beginning to feel useless.
“From what we know, the child might be Daemon’s,” Ormund said as Otto watched your reaction.
He often was watching your reactions as if you would suddenly start a war over something his family did or said.
“The child is not born yet. Many things might happen,” you forced a smile. “My mother bore many yet only Rhaenyra and I remain. And one of her sons took her to her early grave.”
The subject was not raised anymore during the dinner.
You went to your chambers after and your maids gave you a bath before walking you to your Lord Husband’s chambers. You would spend most of your days inside your rooms but each night you were sleeping in his bed.
When you entered, he was sitting by the fireplace after his own bath, a green robe wrapped around his body as he was reading a book.
You carefully studied his expression but he did not seem to be angry, only focused on the text.
“My Lord,” you stood behind him and he looked up at you. “There is a matter I want to bring.”
“What is it, Daenyra?” Ormund reached out for your hand and squeezed it.
“Today I met with the women who oversee the almshouses near the Starry Sept,” you told him and he looked at you, expectantly. “They asked for neither gold nor favors. Only grain. There are more mouths than they can feed and they fear they cannot care for the children any longer,” you explained.
“And what am I supposed to do with it?” Ormund asked. You knew the question was not dictated by his lack of care but he wanted to test your wit and intuition.
“I know House Hightower cannot solve every hardship in Oldtown, but I thought... if we released a modest portion of our stores now, we might spare those children from hunger,” you proposed. squeezing his fingers tighter. “It would cost us little and I believe it would earn people’s love and trust.”
“We cannot be seen giving away too much. If you give these people a finger, they will soon reach for the whole hand and arm up to your elbow,” Ormund told you his point of view.
“Please… I want these people to love me. I need my… grand gesture,” you whispered.
“Is feeding orphans the path you have chosen for yourself?” Ormund chuckled. “If you want it to be, then go on. But I thought you would want to be remembered as one of a kind, unusually fierce, dragon Princess. Every Lady gets emotional enough hearing a story about starving orphans to feed the children but I expected more from you.”
You took a sharp breath in and nodded as you let go of his hand.
“Thank you, Lord Husband,” you only said, refusing to answer his teasing. He had given his permission and that was all you cared for.
Later that night you could not sleep, overthinking Rhaenyra’s pregnancy. The news made you even more bitter than you had expected. You tossed and turned in the grip of Ormund’s strong arm, as much as it allowed you to. He liked to keep you close as if you were going to run away from him in the middle of the night, saddle your dragon and fly far away from Oldtown.
You wanted to leave the bed but you could not, his arm around you held you tightly and firmly. You looked at his face and you cracked a small smile. He looked peaceful when he was asleep. Nearly adorable.
“Ormund,” you whispered. “Lord Husband,” you added.
His eyelids fluttered as he looked down at you, confused.
“I want to leave,” you moved away from him slightly. He retreated his hand sleepily but he gave you a questioning look. “I need to use the bathroom.”
He nodded and turned around. You froze for a moment and only when you heard his slight snoring some time later, you dared to actually leave the bed as you grabbed a candlestick to leave his chambers entirely.
The guards furrowed their brows at you but they said nothing because they saw you disappearing in Ormund’s study. You had no intention of running away. You simply needed a distraction from your thoughts about Rhaenyra.
You put the candlestick down on your husband’s desk as you started to look for the list of all harvest storages in Oldtown. You sighed and sat on the chair as you opened one drawer after another, rummaging through them but making sure to carefully put everything back in place. You knew Ormund loved to have everything clean and organised.
As you searched, you found an old notebook hidden deep inside one of the drawers. You knew that the list you were searching for surely was not there but your curiosity was stronger than you, therefore you opened it.
The notebook was empty but it had letters hidden between the empty yellow pages. Some of the letters belonged to Ormund’s late father and you could not understand the context behind them. Some letters were from the time Ormund already ruled over Oldtown. They mostly contained information about his secret deals with merchants, septons and other Houses. Some of those letters revealed unwritten contracts that were far from being honourable, yet all of them secured Oldtown and you were not outraged by them.
That was until you found the last letter.
To My Nephew,
By patience, prudence, and no small measure of careful counsel, I have persuaded His Grace to send his younger daughter to Oldtown, there to be joined with you in marriage. You know as well as I that the strength of House Hightower is not built by swords alone, but by the bonds we forge. This union shall bind the blood of the dragon to the beacon of Oldtown, and in so doing, secure our place beside the Iron Throne for generations yet unborn.
Princess Daenyra has long dwelt in the shadow cast by her elder sister. Most see only a forgotten daughter; I see untapped worth. There is ambition within her, though she hides it even from herself. Tend to it wisely.
Show her the reverence she believes is her due. Grant her the respect she so desperately craves. Place in her hands enough authority to satisfy the hunger she dare not name aloud. Do this, and you shall not gain merely a wife… You shall fashion a steadfast ally, loyal first to you, and through you, to our House.
The realm whispers of her as little more than her sister's lesser reflection. Let fools keep their whispers. In Oldtown she may rise beyond them, becoming a Lady worthy of our name. And should fortune's wheel ever turn, as it so often does in the affairs of kings, a woman of royal blood, indebted to House Hightower, may prove a prize beyond measure.
Know this above all – her heart is burdened with envy. She watches Princess Rhaenyra receive every smile their father has to offer. Rhaenyra is named heir. Rhaenyra commands a dragon. Rhaenyra enjoys freedoms no younger daughter could hope to claim. Yet Daenyra has walked the straighter path, obeyed where her sister defied, endured where her sister indulged herself… and still finds herself overlooked.
Such wounds do not fade. They deepen.
A wise man does not seek to heal such wounds entirely. He merely ensures that gratitude for his kindness outweighs resentment toward the world.
I trust I need not instruct you further.
Your Uncle,
Ser Otto Hightower
Hand of King Viserys of House Targaryen, First of His Name
Your hands were trembling by the time you finished the letter. Of course you were aware that Ser Otto had married you off to his nephew to strengthen the Hightower position. Of course you knew that you were a pawn in his game. Of course you could sense that Lord Ormund had not been happy with this union. Of course, of course, of course…
But you wanted to truly believe that the admiration he was slowly showing, the grand gesture of granting you your own coat of arms, the gift of a pit for your dragon, all the honours he expected the people of Oldtown to treat you with… You were truly naive and stupid enough to believe that you were respected in this city because you were seen as worthy of such.
Apparently it was all part of the game to make you loyal to the Hightowers.
And the worst thing was that you already were, because – fake or not – Oldtown was all you had. You couldn’t see yourself coming back to King’s Landing. You wouldn’t be treated there with so much respect and you would not hold as much power.
Therefore, you decided to not act on the letter just yet. You took it with yourself however and hid it between the pages of your book about Old Valyria.
Long weeks passed and they turned into moons. Some days you weren’t thinking about the letter at all, too busy with daily tasks to remember. On some days Lord Ormund was treating you with kindness that seemed to be believable.
But not today.
The day started with the blood-soaked sheets he woke up to. You could see how frustrated he was when the maids hurried to wash you and take the stained white linen off of the mattress.
You pretended to remain unbothered but your heart sank. You truly hoped your monthly blood would not come.
When you finally entered the dining hall for breakfast, looking exhausted and wincing out of pain, you were greeted with stiff smiles.
“What is it?” You asked, taking your seat next to Ormund. “I am sorry I did not go to the sept this morning. I will go there after breakfast,” you explained, thinking this was the reason for his further irritation.
“Princess Rhaenyra bore a son,” Ser Otto announced and you dropped the fork you were holding. The clinking sound filled the room. “His name is Jacaerys Velaryon, Prince of Dragonstone,” he added.
“It is a shame my sister is not writing to me,” you mumbled out. “I would rather find out about the matters regarding my family first.”
Your comment was ignored.
“The Prince has pale skin but a head full of dark hair,” Ser Otto continued. “Therefore, we can be sure it is not a son of Prince Daemon.”
“It is not a son of Laenor Velaryon either,” your husband added.
“Who then?” You asked.
“The rumours claim that Princess Rhaenyra’s new sworn guard – Ser Harwin Strong – is closer to her than decency would allow,” Ser Gwayne informed you.
You furrowed your brows as you looked down at your plate full of food still untouched. Your period cramps got worse suddenly and your vision got blurry as you hissed out of pain.
“Is everything alright, Princess?” Ser Otto asked, worryingly.
“My Lady Wife is being plagued with… female ailments,” Ormund cleared his throat and his uncle nodded.
“My sister…” You took a deep breath in and looked up to meet the Hightower gazes. “My sister bore a bastard and named him an heir to the throne?” You asked, your jaw clenching. “The very iron throne of our ancestors that Aegon the Conqueror made from the melted swords of his enemies… She wants to put a bastard of some Strong knight on that throne?!” You asked, standing up abruptly. “Why her?” You asked, clenching your fists. “It is I… It is I who has always fulfilled her duty. It is I, Ser Otto, you know it is I. Yet my father chose a daughter with no sense of duty to ascend to the throne. Why?!”
Everyone looked away awkwardly. Everyone except for Ormund.
“Daenyra, sit down. Do not make a scene,” he whispered and pulled your sleeve.
And so you sat back down, without a word. You sniffled your tears of anger and swallowed thickly before starting to eat as if nothing had happened. Your husband watched you for a moment.
“Do you want something sweet after breakfast?” He asked. All of the sudden he softened up towards you for some reason.
“No,” you shook your head. “Thank you.”
“After the prayers then,” he nodded and patted your thigh under the table.
You could not focus on the prayers, though. You had to fight the urge to ride to the pit, saddle Vyrmora and fly to King’s Landing to raise hell.
As you looked at the images of The Seven, you wondered how could they be so cruel to favour your sister when you were the one who had always been dutiful and yet you could not even give your husband an heir.
When you came back to The Hightower, you spotted the change in the air. The servants seemed to be in a nervous hurry with their heads held low.
“What happened?” You asked Ser Gwayne who was hanging around, looking nervous as well.
“My cousin, he… He received some unpleasant news. We usually try to stay away when he’s like… this,” he explained and you furrowed your brows.
“When he’s like what?” You asked, already rushing to your husband’s study.
Ser Gwayne tried to stop you but you ignored him. Your maids did not follow you as they hid behind the knight.
The closer you were to the doors, the louder it was getting. Screams of obscenities and violent rage filled your ears but you were too angry yourself at everything else to fear anyone or anything. The guards looked at you questioningly.
“Move,” you barked at them and they stepped away as you opened the doors leading to Ormund’s study.
Oh he was furious. Indeed he was. His chair was in the middle of the floor, broken. He was kicking the desk and yelling like a madman. Even his perfectly placed curls upon his forehead were now ruffled. And then he took out his sword, ready to destroy the poor desk even further.
“Fucking cunts!” He yelled and you blinked a few times out of shock.
“Ormund,” you said, firmly. He froze at the sound of your voice and looked directly at you with fury in those deep blue eyes. “What in the seven hells are you doing?”
“Stay away, woman,” he snapped at you.
But on that day you were not in the mood to be obedient.
“Watch your tone, Lord Husband,” you answered, sharply. “And hide that sword before you hurt yourself.”
Ormund angrily sliced the desk and kicked it one more time before walking away to fix his curls and then his vest.
“What happened?” You asked, glancing at the letter laying on the desk.
Ormund exhaled slowly, his eyes sparkling with anger found yours.
“Our ships were taken at sea. Not by a storm and not by honest men. Pirates have them now. Three galleys full of Essosi goods,” he explained. “All the cargo I recklessly gathered into one sailing, hoping to quickly bring all the gold I had spent for our wedding back to our vaults.”
You held your breath at the news. Now you understood where his anger was coming from.
“They think me desperate enough to pay twice the value to have the ships returned. If I do not, they will gut the crews, burn the ships, and claim the cargo as their own,” Ormund added with a sarcastic smile. “If I don’t act, I will lose a great deal of gold and the people of Oldtown will never forgive me for abandoning my men. If I act, I will lose even more gold but I will save the people and I still might be able to sell the cargo in the future. If I can trust the pirates, that is. And we both know I can not. Whatever I choose, I am doomed,” he admitted, lowering his voice.
You realised he only considered two options – to pay them or to ignore them. But there was a third way.
“I shall go,” you announced, straightening your back.
Ormund laughed at that.
“Do not jest, Princess,” he snorted.
“I shall go,” you repeated. “I shall mount my dragon and you will have your ships, your men and your cargo back by the morrow. I will teach the pirates a lesson not to ever mess with our galleys.”
“You… You cannot do that,” Ormund shook his head as he approached you to hold you by your arms.
“Why not?” You raised an eyebrow at him.
“You are a… woman. And today more than ever, burdened with your… indisposition,” Ormund lowered his voice even further. “Daenyra, do not be foolish.”
You moved away and walked out of his study, already hurrying towards your chambers to put on your dragonriding costume.
“Daenyra,” Ormund followed you and watched you dress with his arms crossed as he leaned on the wall. He found it amusing as if he did not believe you would actually fly there. “Your dragon was never in a battle and neither were you.”
“It will not be a battle,” you said.
“They have weapons big enough to hurt your beast or you,” Ormund pointed out. “You do not even know where they are.”
“In the Stepstones. Where else?” You asked and then you froze, realising something else.
Your uncle, Prince Daemon, was a self-proclaimed King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea. You wondered if the attack on the Hightower ships was not his doing. Or at least pursued with his permission.
Once your costume was on, you gathered your hair to braid them yourself but your fingers worked fast and carelessly, therefore the braid was loose and messy. You did not mind that, though.
“You are being serious,” Ormund whispered as his smirk dropped. “Daenyra, you are mad.”
Some Targaryens were born mad, everyone knew that. It was most likely the price they were paying for the sins of their ancestors that had been dealing with black magic in Old Valyria.
All your life you had been overlooked enough for no one to see the glimpses.
You breathed heavily as you looked at your husband. In this moment, he seemed to be little in your eyes. You approached the bookshelf and retreated the letter you had found a few moons earlier.
“Perhaps my womb is as broken as my mother’s. I struggle to conceive,” you admitted as you threw the letter at him. He grabbed it, confused. “But it is about time I prove my usefulness to this city in a different way. I am more than my womb. I am a weapon you wanted and so be it,” you clenched your jaw and walked past him to hurry downstairs to mount a horse that would take you to Vyrmora.
Ormund realised what letter you had found and his face went a shade paler.
When you arrived it was evening already. Vyrmora circled above the ships a few times before landing in the shallow water nearby. The people gathered on the decks of Hightower ships cheered as the pirates already loaded their scorpions as they aimed them at Vyrmora. Her mother, Meraxes, had died in Dorne because of this weapon. Your dragon roared at the sight but you shushed her.
“I came to negotiate,” you announced loud enough for the people below to hear you.
The pirates on the deck of the biggest ship stepped away and they revealed their leader. It was an old but dangerously looking man with his face covered in scars.
“And who are you?” He asked.
“I am Princess Daenyra Targaryen, Lady Hightower, Beacon of the South, Defenderess, Voice and Lady of Oldtown, Defendress of the Citadel, Lady of The Hightower and the Port,” you introduced yourself, claiming some of your husband’s titles as your own. “And who are you?”
“Harren Saltclaw,” he said. “Just Harren Saltclaw,” he added with a smirk. “You forgot one of your titles, Princess.”
“Did I?”
“The Realm’s Disappointment,” he laughed and so did the rest of his men. Vyrmora hissed.
“Let go of the ships or I will burn you,” you interrupted their laughter.
“Are those your terms?” He asked. “I thought negotiating meant a compromise.”
“What can you offer?” You inquired.
“I will let the ships go and your men will live. But I will keep the cargo,” he grinned at you, revealing some of his golden teeth that sparkled in the sun.
“If you load your ships with my cargo, your ships will sink, you greedy bastard,” you laughed at him.
“That is true. You will carry it on your dragon’s back to our hideout,” he explained and you gritted your teeth.
“Why do you even negotiate? I can burn you,” you reminded him.
“I know you will not. You are not your uncle,” the man laughed.
You smirked as you got an idea.
Vyrmora was the third biggest dragon in the world out of all the tamed ones. Only Vhagar and Vermithor were bigger than her. Caraxes could not compare.
She was impatient and you could sense it. Your bond with her was not yet that strong, you had only spent a few moons together. But she was a part of you now. And you were her first rider.
When she stomped, she created a wave big enough to shake the ships.
“You are right, Just Harren Saltclaw,” you nodded at him. “I will not burn you,” you admitted. “But I will crush you.”
As you said that, Vyrmora took two big steps that were enough to destroy most of the pirate’s fleet. Their ships broke and began to sink as those who were not crushed under her feet, jumped into the cold water. The Hightower men began to shoot them with arrows from their ships.
You felt nothing.
From up there men were nothing but ants.
Carefully, using her tail, Vyrmora cleared the way for the Hightower ships as she got rid of the wood from the pirate ships.
“They underestimated us because we are both women and both inexperienced,” you whispered to your dragon. “But it is only the beginning, my sweet girl.”
She screeched and roared as the Hightowers cheered while their ships moved once again. For a few more hours you patrolled the sea below you but once they reached the safer part of the waters, you flew back home.
You were back in Oldtown in the morning. Vyrmora allowed you to slide down off of her back into the courtyard of The Hightower before she departed to rest in her pit.
Your hair was now completely loose and dirty but so was your skin and costume. You smelled of sweat and the dragon while the rags put between your legs were all soaked with blood now. But you came back home as a victor.
Ormund rushed to the courtyard followed by Ser Otto and the guards. He froze at the sight of you, his face a mix of shock, disgust and admiration.
“The ships are free,” you told him. “On their way back home.”
“And the pirates?” Ser Otto asked.
“Gone,” you coughed slightly. “They’re gone,” you added and watched Ser Otto exchange a look with Ormund.
“Did you burn them?” Your husband asked.
“I did not have to. It would be a waste of fire,” you smirked. “I crashed them.”
Long silence occurred.
“Come inside,” Ormund approached you, his nose wincing slightly but this time he did not save himself with a handkerchief. You knew how much it had to cost him not to gag at the smell of you at this moment. “You must be tired and hungry,” he put his arm around you.
“And I need a bath,” you teased him.
“And you need a bath indeed,” he cracked a smile.
As he led you inside and to your chambers, he stood still for a moment before letting you go.
“About the letter…” he started after taking a deep breath.
“Forget it,” you interrupted him and he raised his eyebrows.
“I cannot,” he insisted. “You must know I received it before I met you.”
“Are you implying that you care for me genuinely?” You chuckled.
He opened his mouth but said nothing. Perhaps the confession would not leave his mouth so easily.
“I take it as a yes, my Lord,” you patted his cheek with your dirty hand, staining him with mud and dust.
The doors opened as your shocked maids took you inside to undress you and give you a bath.
“Oh Princess, we were all worried sick!” One of them gasped at you.
“Were you? Truly?” You asked.
“Of course! We love you so much, Princess,” she nodded and the rest agreed.
“Princess, my brother-in-law is on one of the ships you saved. I will forever be grateful. Without him, my sister and her children would starve,” another maid bowed her head low in front of you.
Summary: After a failed attempt to escape her fate, the princess spends her brief betrothal hiding from the man she is destined to marry. On their wedding night, however, she is forced to confront not the knight from her nightmares, but the man behind them.
"Princess?"
The voice seemed to reach you from very far away.
You blinked slowly, your gaze remaining fixed upon the deep red wine swirling lazily inside your goblet as though the answer to every question you had ever asked might somehow be waiting beneath its surface. The music filling the Great Hall blurred into little more than distant noise, the laughter of lords and ladies melting together until the celebration sounded less like a wedding feast and more like waves breaking endlessly against the shore.
How much had you slept this past week?
You tried to remember. An hour the first night. Perhaps two the next.
You had drifted into exhausted naps whenever your ladies managed to force you into bed, only to wake moments later with your heart racing and smoke still clinging to your lungs from dreams that felt altogether too real.
Ten hours across the entire week, perhaps.
It hardly mattered as you were tired enough that the world no longer felt entirely solid. Ever since your betrothal, the dreams had ceased showing you the man himself. No longer did you wake with the image of emerald cloaks or a familiar smile lingering in your thoughts.
Instead, every night unfolded into the same dreadful vision of a kingdom devouring itself. The dragons screamed as they tore one another from the sky and fire swallowed castles whole. The banners of great houses burned until only ash remained and somewhere within the smoke stood your family. One by one, they disappeared, no matter how desperately you ran toward them, your feet never seemed to move.
And always you woke before discovering who had survived.
"Princess."
You startled violently at the gentle nudge against your arm, blinking several times before the Great Hall finally returned to focus.
"...The princess," Gwayne was saying smoothly to the elderly lord and lady standing before the two of you, "...has had very little rest these past several days. Wedding preparations have rather exhausted her. She was terribly eager for today."
You nearly laughed, the only wedding preparation you had been a part of was making sure there was enough wine. You bit the inside of your cheek as the old couple smiled knowingly.
"Entirely understandable," the lady replied warmly. "Every bride grows overwhelmed eventually."
You stared politely for a heartbeat, trying desperately to remember who they were. They were from the Riverlands, you were almost certain. Or perhaps the Reach. You could not remember their names.
"...We merely wished to offer our congratulations," the lord continued. "It is good to see House Targaryen and House Hightower joined in friendship once again."
"How fortunate," you murmured before you could stop yourself, "To become a bridge built for everyone else's benefit."
Silence.
The couple exchanged an uncomfortable glance and beside you, Gwayne cleared his throat with practiced ease, "What my wife means," he said gently, "is that we both hope our families enjoy many years of peace together."
The couple accepted the explanation with relieved smiles before offering another round of blessings and finally drifting back into the sea of nobles filling the hall.
Before your thoughts had the chance to drift away again, Gwayne was already steering you elsewhere with a light hand against the small of your back, politely intercepting another lord who looked eager to offer his congratulations.
You hardly noticed where he was leading you. Your mind had wandered back to dragons. To fire. To ash carried across a blackened sky.
Every night the dreams revealed another piece of a future you could not understand, each one ending before you reached the answer you sought, and every morning you awoke feeling as though you had lived through another lifetime. Somewhere within those visions, something terrible was waiting for your family.
You simply did not know when.
"I cannot decide," Gwayne said after watching you in silence for several moments, his voice carrying the faintest trace of amusement, "whether I ought to be impressed or thoroughly insulted that this is the first conversation we have managed to have since you attempted to climb over the walls of the Red Keep."
That was entirely true. After your failed attempt of fleeing, you had become almost impossible to find on the single week of your betrothal. If he visited the training yard, you wandered the libraries. If someone whispered that Ser Gwayne had been seen crossing the eastern galleries, you slipped into forgotten stairwells known only to servants and children who had spent their lives turning the Red Keep into a playground. You lingered in the dragonpit until dusk, disappeared into abandoned towers, climbed onto rooftops where no lady ought ever to be, and more than once your ladies had distracted curious knights long enough for you to escape through hidden passages behind the old tapestries.
You had convinced yourself it was easier that way. If you never truly knew him, perhaps the dreams would hurt less when they came to pass.
You studied him for a moment before answering with complete seriousness, "You should probably feel insulted."
His mouth twitched, "I suspected as much."
"And your sister certainly is."
You inclined your head toward the royal table where Alicent sat beside your father, regal as ever, though her gaze found the two of you often enough that it was impossible not to notice. Even from across the hall, there remained something watchful in the way she looked at you, as though she expected you to vanish before the evening was through.
Gwayne followed your gaze before smiling with quiet resignation, "She worries."
A dry laugh escaped you before you could stop it. You doubted worry had ever been the proper word.
You knew perfectly well why Alicent had approved of the match. Marriage carried you to Oldtown, away from King's Landing, away from the court, away from the endless disappearances that had become almost expected of Viserys's younger daughter. It solved a problem politely enough that no one could accuse anyone of cruelty.
You kept that thought to yourself and instead chose to stand quietly next to him which in itself, was an odd sort of torment.
There were moments when you forgot you had only met him once before, because your dreams had stolen that unfamiliarity from you years ago. You knew the sound of his voice before he ever spoke, the easy smile that softened his features, the slight crease between his brows whenever he found himself thinking too hard. Every part of him felt strangely familiar.
Yet he looked at you with the curiosity reserved for complete strangers.
What you were not aware of is how desperately he wanted to change that. While you ran from him, he had questioned dragonkeepers, stable boys, guardsmen, maids, cooks, even elderly servants who had watched you grow from infancy, and every one of them had answered him with the same amused smile.
"The princess does that. She'll turn up eventually."
He had begun to wonder whether you intended to appear at your own wedding.
"You are tired." The observation was spoken so softly that it almost disappeared beneath the music.
"It has been a long day."
"It has been a long week."
You offered no reply and Gwayne watched you another moment before quietly rising to his feet.
Without explanation, he crossed the hall toward the royal table.
You followed him with tired eyes, watching as he bent to speak privately with your father. Viserys listened with surprising attentiveness before a warm smile spread slowly across his face, one accompanied by a gentle nod of approval. Beside him, Alicent looked between the two men with obvious skepticism, one elegant brow arching before she sighed in quiet resignation and inclined her head as well.
Only then did Gwayne return.
He extended his hand toward you, "Let us retire."
You looked at him in confusion, "The feast is not over, there are still hours before midnight," then quietly you added, "...and the bedding ceremony."
"There will not be one."
For the first time that evening, genuine surprise crossed your face.
The hall continued behind you in laughter and celebration, entirely unaware as your husband led you quietly toward the great doors, leaving the music behind without so much as a backward glance.
-
The silence that greeted your chambers felt almost startling after the endless noise of the feast. Servants slipped inside only long enough to light fresh candles before disappearing as quietly as shadows, leaving the room bathed in warm golden light and blessed stillness.
Almost mechanically, you reached for the jeweled pins woven into your hair, removing them one after another until the intricate braids loosened and silver-white strands spilled heavily over your shoulders. Rings followed. Bracelets. A necklace that had begun to feel unbearably heavy hours ago.
You became aware, little by little, that Gwayne was no longer speaking and the realization surprised you.
Ever since the gardens, he had seemed determined to draw you into conversation whenever circumstance allowed, asking gentle questions you never truly answered, smiling whenever your stubbornness surfaced. Now, he simply let the quiet exist.
He busied himself with small, unnecessary tasks instead, stirring the fire back to life before pouring a modest measure of wine into a silver goblet. When he approached, he offered it without ceremony.
"So you may sleep."
You looked at the goblet, then at him. For the first time since your father had announced the betrothal, uncertainty settled over a different question entirely.
Had you been wrong about him?
Not about the dreams, but about the man standing before you. He had canceled the bedding ceremony without asking anything in return. He had noticed your exhaustion when no one else had cared to. He had remembered the wine not because of gossip, but because he had seen you struggle.
It was a kindness you have not felt from anybody in a long time.
"But, we're meant to...consummate the marriage." The words felt strangely hollow as they left your mouth.
He looked almost bewildered, "You are in no condition for anything except sleep."
"But everyone—"
"I am unconcerned with everyone," his voice softened, "I am only concerned with you."
Something inside your chest tightened unexpectedly. He gestured toward the bed, "You should rest, I'll remain by the fire."
You searched his face for some trace of obligation, some hidden expectation that would reveal this gentleness to be little more than courtesy and found none.
Truthfully, you had no desire to sleep. Not because you lacked the exhaustion, but because you knew what awaited you the moment you surrendered to unconsciousness. Yet the words refused to leave your lips. You found yourself unable to confess such a childish fear aloud, especially to a man you had known for scarcely a fortnight and married only hours before. So, swallowing both your pride and your apprehension, you drank the wine without another word.
When the last drop was gone, you set the silver cup aside and crossed slowly toward the bed, every step carrying the strange feeling that you were walking willingly toward the very thing you feared most. Before climbing beneath the covers, you glanced back over your shoulder.
Gwayne was already watching you.
When your eyes met, he offered the faintest of smiles before inclining his head toward the bed as though gently reminding you that it was all right to rest. Then, true to his word, he turned back toward the fire, giving you the privacy.
-
You did not know how long sleep had held you. It could have been minutes or hours. Time rarely existed within your dreams.
One moment you had been wrapped beneath warm blankets while Gwayne sat closely to the fire, and the next you stood beneath a sky stained black with smoke while dragons screamed somewhere beyond walls you could not see. Syndor's cries cut through the chaos with heartbreaking familiarity, each desperate roar carrying the unmistakable panic of a creature searching for the only person who had ever been able to calm him.
You tried to reach him, but something unseen held you in place while his cries grew louder and louder until they became almost unbearable.
Then, you woke with a violent gasp that burned your lungs.
Your eyes had not yet opened, but your hands were already searching frantically through the darkness, clutching at sheets and blankets as though expecting rough chains instead of soft linen beneath your fingertips.
"Syndor..."
The name escaped you before you had fully returned to yourself.
"My dragon..."
The room remained swallowed in darkness, interrupted only by the faint orange glow of dying embers in the hearth. For one terrifying heartbeat, the dream still felt real. Then came the quiet scrape of a chair against stone.
"Princess."
Gwayne's voice was low enough that it scarcely disturbed the silence, yet it carried through the room with a steadiness that slowly began pulling you back to the present.
He was already crossing the room, then stopped almost immediately when he took a look at you.
You had retreated as far back against the carved headboard as the bed would allow, the blankets gathered tightly against your chest while your breathing came in short, uneven bursts. Your wide violet eyes remained fixed somewhere beyond him, still trapped halfway between nightmare and waking.
Very carefully, he lowered himself onto the edge of the mattress, "It was only a dream," he said quietly.
Before he had even finished speaking, you shook your head, "No."
"Syndor needs me. He's..." You swallowed hard, struggling against the lingering panic. "...he was calling for me."
"He is safe," The reassurance came without hesitation, "You are in your chambers."
You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing the heels of your hands against them as though that alone might banish the images still clinging stubbornly to your mind.
"He is asleep in the Dragonpit," Gwayne continued gently. "Nothing has happened to him."
Neither of you spoke after that and the silence settled over the room like a blanket of its own, broken only by the crackling fire and the gradual slowing of your breath until each inhale no longer felt as though it fought against your ribs.
Only when he was certain the worst of the terror had passed did he speak again, "Are you alright?"
You answered with the smallest nod.
"Would you like to try sleeping again?"
"No." The word came too quickly and sharply.
He rested his forearms loosely against his knees, studying the fire for a long moment before asking, almost conversationally, "What do you usually do when you wake from them?"
You followed his gaze toward the embers, "Anything," your shoulders lifted in a tired shrug and your fingers tightened around the blankets, "I walk, or read."
"And when I was younger..." a wistful smile touched your lips before fading just as quickly, "...I used to sneak into my sister's chambers."
He looked back at you, "Rhaenyra?"
You nodded, "We never spoke about the dreams, we would simply talk until the sun came up."
The confession lingered quietly between you and Gwayne found himself smiling. He could picture it with surprising ease, a much younger princess padding barefoot through dark corridors with tangled silver hair, crawling beneath her elder sister's blankets simply because sleep had become too frightening to face alone.
The image was unexpectedly endearing.
Then he noticed something else. Every time he shifted, however slightly, you shifted too. It was subtle, the smallest instinctive retreat. Enough that the space between you never truly disappeared and his smile faded. He searched his memory for something, anything, that might explain it.
Had he spoken too harshly in the gardens? Had he frightened you that evening without realizing it? Or was it simply the marriage itself?
The thought settled heavily inside him.
After a long silence, he drew a quiet breath, "May I ask you something?"
You looked up cautiously before giving the faintest nod. He hesitated, not because he doubted the question, but because he feared the answer. "When I found you in the gardens..." his voice remained gentle, "...you looked at me as though you already knew who I was."
"And just now when I came to you..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "You looked almost frightened of me."
He searched your face, hoping to find an explanation there before he asked the question aloud, "Have I done something to deserve that?"
For a long moment you simply stared at him as your fingers twisted together beneath the blankets.
"I suppose you have not."
Not yet, the little voice in your head told you.
You stopped, struggling to shape feelings that had lived inside you since childhood into words another person might understand. The admission came little more than a whisper, "It is just that...the first time I dreamt of you, I was only a child."
His brows lifted in quiet surprise.
"I didn't know your name, I don't even think I knew what Oldtown was. I only know it was you because you were a knight wearing green."
The corner of his mouth lifted before he could stop it.
"So it is strange," you continued before he could tease you, "Meeting you, I mean."
You looked at him then, "It feels as though I have known you for years. As though, the night in the gardens was not our first meeting."
Gwayne felt something tighten unexpectedly in his chest. The thought was strangely beautiful. Somewhere, years before either of you had known the other's name, a lonely little princess had dreamed of a knight in green armor. And somehow, she had remembered him.
"I confess," he said after a moment, his voice carrying that same quiet warmth that had followed you throughout the evening, "I feel I have been placed at a considerable disadvantage."
You looked at him, your brows drawing together in sleepy confusion.
"You have known my face since you were a child," he continued, a faint smile lingering at the corner of his mouth. "You have spent years deciding what sort of man I am."
"And you?" you asked softly.
"I have scarcely had a week."
Despite everything, despite the lingering ache in your chest and the remnants of terror still clinging stubbornly to your mind, a quiet laugh escaped you before you could stop it, "I suppose that is rather unfair."
"I should think so," he replied. "I have had hardly enough time to convince my own wife that I am tolerable company."
"You have done..." You hesitated, lowering your eyes to your hands. "...better than I expected."
The admission surprised the both of you.
You had not meant to say it aloud. And for the first time, you allowed yourself to truly look at him, not at the knight who appeared in fragments of prophecy, nor at the stranger fate had insisted you marry, but simply at the man seated beside your bed in the middle of the night with sleep still clinging to his own eyes because he had risen the moment he heard you cry out.
He had asked nothing of you. Not obedience, affection, not even an explanation. Only whether you were well. The realization settled quietly somewhere deep inside your chest.
It made everything infinitely more difficult, because the man before you looked nothing like the one your dreams warned you about.
The silence between you was no longer uncomfortable. Outside the windows the castle had surrendered entirely to the night, the laughter from the feast long since faded until all that remained was the gentle crackling of the fire and the distant rush of wind against the towers.
Eventually Gwayne inclined his head toward the bed, "You should try to sleep again."
The answer came almost before he had finished speaking, "I cannot. The dreams will only return."
He considered your words for a long moment before speaking again, "Then they shall wake me as well. I'll remain here."
"You needn't. You have already done more than enough."
"I don't believe I have." His answer was gentle, but there was an unmistakable certainty beneath it. "If you wake frightened, then I shall wake with you."
He said it so simply that, for a moment, you wondered if he understood what he was promising. "You do not know what you are agreeing to."
"No," he admitted honestly, "But I know you should not have to face them alone."
Your throat tightened. You had spent so many years convincing yourself that the dreams belonged to you alone, that they were yours to endure and yours to hide, that hearing someone speak so matter-of-factly about sharing even the smallest part of that burden felt almost foreign. Slowly, almost reluctantly, you shifted beneath the blankets.
It was not an invitation so much as the smallest surrender and Gwayne seemed to understand the difference.
Silently he extinguished the last candle until only the embers in the hearth painted the room in shades of amber, then crossed quietly to the opposite side of the bed. He lay down carefully atop the covers, leaving enough space between the two of you that propriety remained untouched, his hands folded loosely across his chest as though he feared even the slightest movement might disturb you.
"Good night, Princess."
"Good night, Gwayne"
The distance made you smile despite yourself, then you closed your eyes once more. This time, sleep did not feel quite so terrifying even when you knew, with the same dreadful certainty that had followed you since childhood, that the dreams were waiting just beyond consciousness.
You had not told him everything. You had not told him about the dreams where you reached for him and he never reached back. The ones where you awoke every time with the unbearable certainty that, somehow, someday, he would become the source of a grief too great to imagine.
The thought lingered for only a moment before your gaze drifted toward the man lying quietly beside you. His breathing had already begun to deepen, though you suspected he was not truly asleep, listening instead for the slightest sign that another nightmare had found you.
The ache in your chest remained and yet, you chose not to dwell upon the future your dreams insisted awaited you.
That could wait until morning, tonight, you allowed yourself to remember the kinder dreams instead, the ones where a lonely little girl had found comfort in the company of a nameless knight dressed in green, long before she knew the sorrow the future promised.
And with those memories held close, you surrendered once more to sleep, choosing to believe in the dreams that had taught you how to love him before the ones that warned you how you might lose him.
Notes: I have the craziest urge to write an extremely angsty part three but I have grown attached to reader and do not want to make her suffer even more💔
summary: When your elder sister falls ill, someone must replace her in her marriage to the heir to the Iron Throne.
warning: pre-akotsk, fluff, marriage of convenience, insecurities about being the little sister, no description of the reader, as usual and no use of y/n.
wc: 2,8k
read it on ao3!
note: english is not my first language, so if there are any mistakes, please let me know!
a/n: it's awful how this has turned out, but i couldn't end the month without writing something about baelor because i'm a widow who misses her husband (and also, today is the release date for the final episode of akotsk, im gonna cry). please disregard the lack of plausibility and how poorly i have written it. enjoy!!!
Your sister once told you that drinking was a way to celebrate what was worthwhile.
Perhaps that was why the wine tasted sour on your tongue.
It must have been just your imagination, because when you turned to look at your brother, he was pouring himself another glass of Arbor Red.
Apparently, he, like the others, was enjoying the melody of the lutes, the empty conversations about the price of wheat and, above all, the only excuse needed to empty the coffers of alcohol.
The union between the Dondarrions and the Targaryens.
The banners of their house looked down mockingly from the walls of the Great Hall, where they lay alongside the crimson three-headed royal dragon.
You had been staring blankly all night, noticing everything and nothing at the same time, counting how many colours were repeated in the guests' dresses, but without noticing their faces. Always looking straight ahead and not to your sides, as if you were part of the decor.
You had been sitting for hours, your hands resting on your lap, your back very straight, as your septa had taught you since you could remember, and a fake smile that had started to hurt in the first half of the second hour.
You knew that torture would have been a dream come true for another woman, and you weren't going to argue with that: in a just world, she should have been sitting where you were at that moment.
Jena should be there.
The thought came to you, as always, involuntarily and not maliciously, in fact, quite the opposite, with the same calmness with which one states that the stars will come out every night or that the sky is the colour of the sea.
Jena was the eldest.
Jena was beautiful.
Jena was the one who had spent years learning how to move in Court, imagining that the dark walls of Blackhaven were red, and curtsying at the perfect angle to denote presence and not weakness.
Jena was the one who had spent months embroidering sheets with the initials B & J, which now lay in the trunk hidden under your bed in the castle, as useless as you felt at that moment.
And Jena had also been the one who had coughed blood into a white handkerchief.
The maester had spoken to your father in a low voice, his eyes fixed on the floor, and he had looked at you in the only way you can be looked at when you are the next option in a decision that could not be refused.
Three weeks later, you were on your way to the capital in a dress that had not been made to measure.
They had adjusted it, of course they had, and the problem was that your chest was a little larger than Jena's and the neckline was tight enough to warn you not to breathe too deeply.
You wondered if anyone had noticed.
You wondered if he had noticed.
You wondered if at any point Baelor had thought you were the spare wife.
The answer came quickly and bitterly, before you could avoid it:
Of course he had.
How could he not have thought of it? He was the heir and prince of Dragonstone, he was meticulous, attentive, the kind of person who didn't miss a single detail, such as whether a dress was too tight or the sheets had the wrong initials on them.
In any case, you wouldn't have known, because you hadn't looked at him once during dinner.
The only time you had dared to exchange glances was at the ceremony that very morning.
He hadn't looked at you with pity, which had surprised you. Instead, those heterochromatic eyes conveyed something more difficult to explain, something that resembled curiosity and not quite disappointment.
Perhaps that was why you didn't hate him, something that might have made things easier.
Hate could have given you something to cling to, a legitimate reason not to look at him during the entire banquet.
But no, you didn't feel anything you could explicitly name.
Just a constant discomfort, like wearing a garment that wasn't yours and yet you were forced to never take off.
After that, you hadn't dared to look at him.
Not because you were afraid of his figure, like most brides on their wedding day, but because you feared that if he looked at you for too long, he would find the mistake.
It was the loud laughter of some lord that brought you out of your reverie, and your next decision was almost a survival strategy.
You stood up and walked towards your brother, excusing yourself to powder your nose. He, immersed in celebrating your wedding, simply nodded, giving it little importance, as he poured himself another glass of wine.
You left the Great Hall with your head bowed and the need to breathe some air that was not contaminated by incense, thinking that no one had seen you.
But Baelor had.
He had watched you bow to everyone and no one at the same time and slip away with quick steps among the people in the hall, almost wanting to be more of a ghost than the centre of the ceremony.
From the moment you entered the Great Sept of Baelor, he had noticed how your smile did not reach your eyes, or that your back was too stiff.
As if being there were a constant test you were being subjected to.
And just when he thought you would finally relax, far from the seven-pointed stars and the vertigo of being watched for longer than is comfortable, you didn't look at him.
You had spent the entire dinner ignoring his presence, your mind elsewhere, while he was reduced to talking to his father or his brothers, scattered among the different chairs at the table.
He didn't want to force you, because after observing you for just half a second, he knew that, in the task of taking on your new life in the capital, silence was more helpful than endless speeches.
Until he saw you get up.
At that very moment, he knew you would not return.
He got up as well, and before any Kingsguard could approach him to ask questions, he dissuaded them with a slight movement of his ringed hand.
He followed you, not with that hint of possessiveness or need for control that men had with their wives, as if they were gifts bestowed upon them, but with the uneasiness of a person who knows when someone is uncomfortable in a place.
The air in the gardens was obscenely cold compared to the Great Hall.
He found you in one of the inner gardens, sitting on a polished marble bench surrounded by rose bushes, your back hunched and your gaze lost, with no need to focus on any particular point.
Baelor walked over to you and, for the first time that day, realised that the purple dress with black detailing did not fit you properly.
You had loosened the violet ties that had previously been intertwined across your back, forming patterns on the back of your violet bodice, whose print formed purple diamonds. Now, those ribbons fell like a continuation of your transparent purple veil.
Similarly, you had slightly lowered the top of your sleeves. Now your shoulders were caressed by the cold night air and not by the voluminous sleeve, gathered in cuts, revealing the lighter, almost white inner fabric.
He smiled slightly, not mockingly, but genuinely, because he knew that this was the first true image he had seen of you since you met.
Your fingertips were touching the petals of one of the roses when Baelor cleared his throat.
"How should I feel knowing that my lady wife prefers the company of roses to that of her husband?" Baelor spoke, not in an accusatory tone, but softly, calmly.
You spun around as soon as you heard a sound different from what the garden had accustomed you to in ten minutes. You paled as soon as you saw your husband, dressed in black and red, the colours you had learned to loathe that day.
Quickly, you stood up with urgency, almost tripping over the purple fabric of your own dress. Then you pulled your sleeves up as best you could.
"My prince," you curtsied too clumsily, too ostentatiously. Baelor had to stifle a small laugh at that exaggerated gesture, which he knew had not been practised.
"Do not call me prince, my wife, for I ceased to be one a few hours ago… Call me Baelor or 'husband' if you please, of course," he took a few more steps closer. "Now tell me, what is so interesting here in the gardens that you are not at the banquet?"
"Forgive me… Husband." The word sounded foreign on your lips, as if instead of speaking your common language, you were speaking dothraki. "I needed some air, I was feeling a bit overwhelmed…" Your hands clenched into fists and you could feel your palms were completely sweaty. "I'm not saying I was having a bad time, I just needed some air because I can't breathe properly, well, it's not that I can't, it's just that…" You took a deep breath when you realised you were saying more than you should. You blushed when you felt Baelor's gaze on you. Finally, you spoke again: "The dress is my sister's."
Baelor nodded slowly as he approached the rose bushes that now surrounded you both. He looked at the same one you had touched a few seconds ago, whose crimson petals seemed to drink in the little light that reached them from the moon.
"Sometimes it is necessary to take a breath of fresh air, my wife, do not feel guilty about it," replied the prince as he touched some of the petals. "Celebrations like these are often crowded and noisy."
You looked at him.
Under the soft light coming from nature, Baelor looked more like a god than a human, there, prostrate in the middle of the gardens while doing something as ordinary as touching a rose.
That made you even more nervous.
You sighed heavily and wiped the sweat from your hands on your dress.
"Yes, well, it's just that… My sister has always been better than me at these things, you know…" You watched as she took out her dagger and cut the same flower. You swallowed. "She has always known how to move in these courtly circles."
Baelor said nothing, simply turning back towards you. He was slowly cutting away the thorns that decorated the rose stem. The blade of the dagger glinted despite the lack of light.
After a few seconds, during which the only sound was the distant murmur of a fountain in the gardens and the soft music of crickets, Baelor spoke:
"Why do you talk about your sister? I've been here for a few minutes and your only two interventions have been about her. His voice was soft. The pink in your cheeks intensified. "As I understand it, you are my wife, not her."
That comment made you pale again.
Your mouth went dry instantly and you felt as if you were swallowing sand. You clutched the fabric of your dress.
"But, my prince, everyone knows that…"
"You are my wife."
That statement took your breath away. Baelor held out his hand to you, and in it was the rose, bare, with no thorns to cause injury.
You took it and immediately felt his fingers brush against yours.
Once, when you and Jena were sewing in her bedroom, she told you excitedly, after the letters they had exchanged, that Baelor was not like the other Targaryens.
That he seemed to have warm hands.
That when he promised something, he did not tremble.
You nodded then, paying more attention to not pricking your fingers with the needle than to the saccharine words of two future spouses.
At that moment, you realised your sister was right.
For the first time all night, you looked him in the eyes. They were different colours: one blue and one brown, but both conveyed a warmth you never expected to find.
His eyes did not waver at that moment.
"I don't care what happened to bring you here with me today," he continued, "what I do know is that you were the one who was with me in the Sept of Baelor and the one I have sworn to love and accompany for life."
Your heart stopped and you feared you would not be able to hold his gaze much longer.
"Why do you say that? You know that I…" You lost your voice before you could finish. It wasn't the kind of response your sept had taught you in the weeks leading up to the wedding, but it was the only one you had.
Baelor did not seem surprised.
"Because against all odds, you are the one who is here, and you are the one I want by my side," he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "I do not like to think that my lady wife is uncomfortable under the roof of my own castle."
Baelor looked at you one last time before circling around and positioning himself behind you. You felt relieved not to see those eyes again, which seemed to make every fibre of your body tremble, but soon you felt his fingers on the skin of your shoulder.
He hesitated for a moment before touching you, and as soon as you felt it, for no reason you could explain, you did not pull away.
He was caressing the part of your shoulders that was reddened by the pressure of the fabric of the dress against your skin. His calloused fingertips moved slowly and, above all, gently across your irritated skin, simply tracing the reddish river that had formed in that area.
You felt yourself breathing heavily and played with the rose in your hand.
"I'm not uncomfortable, my prince—"
"Husband," he corrected again. His touch felt like fire in the cold night air. "And if you're not, tell me, why have you been staring ahead all night as if waiting for someone to give you permission to exist at your own wedding?"
You swallowed again.
"People see me as a mistake."
For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. You closed your eyes and felt as if your head was spinning. You tightened your grip on the stem slightly.
Baelor, however, did not stop what he was doing, but simply continued to caress your shoulders, serenely.
"Do you care more about what people think or what your husband thinks?"
You remained silent.
Baelor smiled; that silence had been the clearest answer he had ever heard in his life. He moved close enough that you could feel his chest against your back and his breath on your ear. You shivered.
"The Court is too dangerous a place to depend on what others say, my wife." His words were a whisper and felt like a caress. "Trust the opinions of those who will stay with you. I will protect you."
The air caught in your lungs, and before you forgot how to breathe, Baelor had already moved away from you. His hands were no longer on your shoulders; instead, they now lay on the violet ties of your dress.
He began to tie them carefully.
"I… I don't know how to do this," you admitted, almost in a whisper, as if saying it more to yourself than to Baelor. "I don't know how to behave at large banquets, I don't know how to talk about grain with the lords."
"You'll learn," he said, as if it were as simple as counting, "or if you don't, I'll find another solution."
You took another deep breath. You felt as if, as Baelor tied the knots, you were running out of breath.
"The sheets in the trousseau don't have our initials on them," you said, sounding like a confession, the kind of small, specific detail you mention when you don't know what else to say, although for you, it really was an important detail to point out.
"Have some new sheets embroidered."
"That simple?" you asked, surprised.
Baelor intertwined the last part of the purple ribbons and tightened them. Then he placed the violet veil that fell from your amethyst tiara.
"That simple," he confirmed. This time, he returned to your side and extended his arm for you to take, an action that was courteous but completely sincere. "Now, come back there with me and keep me company. The evening is rather boring if I talk to the same people as always."
For the first time, that brought a smile to your face.
You looked at him again, and this time you noticed how his nose was slightly crooked, probably after breaking it in one of the hundreds of tournaments he had won. That, along with his words, made him seem more human.
Suddenly, you were no longer nervous.
You took his arm.
"The wine is terrible."
Baelor smiled.
"Appalling."
And as you began walking back towards the banquet, you realised you could now breathe easily, even though the dress was tightening around your chest again.
getting lost in boston is fun because I turned around on a street corner three times and some guy yelled "hey stupid! the bus is that way!" very helpful interaction and accurate insult, 10/10 no notes
one time I walked around a building a couple times looking for a bathroom and this guy went "this bitch thinks she's on a merrygoround, where the fuck are you tryna go? bathroom? one floor down to the right behind the door that says bathroom."
My very first time in Boston. I was absolutely miserable, trying to drag my giant suitcase up a lengthy set of stairs in the pouring rain. This guy who had already reached the top looked back at me with the most pure expression of disgust I’ve ever seen in anyone’s eyes, marched back down the stairs, grabbed my suitcase, carried it to the top, left it there for me, and walked away without ever saying a word. I think about him often.
For the people in the notes going "why is Boston like this": a) the insults are a way to show you have no ulterior motives when helping someone (and don't need to be thanked or repaid), and b) Boston was settled by the Irish
also the Italians. mixing Irish and Italian sociocultural attitudes had the effect of multiplying the Sass Levels by the power of infinity, in the sense that you get all of the clever dry wit of the Irish and all of the bitchy gossipy condensation of the Italians rolled into one very stereotypically overly-friendly American package.
also worth noting that who you are to them doesn’t matter. they’ll talk to strangers like that and will also talk to their best friends like that. they’re just Like That.
Summary: As your mother negotiates for your safe return, Ormnud is not a man inclined to give up what he now considers his. 6.6k words
Warnings: Reader is Rhaenyra's and Harwin's daughter and described to have dark hair, forced marriage, kidnapping, power imbalance, restraints, Stockholm syndrome, blood and violence, forced vomiting, emotional abuse and manipulation, sleep deprivation, someone save Daeron)
Note: requested by anon: if you have time, could you write a dark Ormund x Targ reader where he takes her as a war prize and makes her his wife? Thank youu<333
He's so evil, I love it
Requests are always open!
Seastar was young. Still small enough to ride upon your shoulder, no bigger than a large cat. The heat of her body was comforting as you shivered against the relentless pounding of rain.
Your egg had not hatched in the cradle at birth, but you were lucky to nurse a clutch of eggs- the first to hatch being your beloved Seastar. She was small and of no use in war- much to your disappointment. You insisted to your mother that just because your dragon was not of use, you still could be.
But it fell upon deft ears as the tension of war grew tighter. She became uncertain of your safety on Dragonstone- you insisted you were safest with her and Daemon.
“I love you too dearly to keep you here, if something were to happen- I cannot lose my sweet girl.” Rhaenyra had cupped your face, somberly. The weight of war had sunken her features. The loss of Lucerys was still fresh. “My only girl- my blessing from the gods. With everything as of late, we think it best you leave.”
Your eyes passed over to Daemon, who stood stoic behind your mother. You were not his; you shared the same dark curls as Jace and Lucerys. The first child that blessed Rhaenyra and Harwin; truly the apple of your mother’s eye.
“You’ll join Aegon and Viserys in Pentos.” Her thumb traced over your cheek comfortingly. You knew this wasn’t punishment; you knew it pained your mother to send her children away. You looked to Daemon; you knew it pained him too, even if he wished not to show it. He took you under his wing and raised you as his own.
They both loved you; you just wished they wouldn’t send you away.
You argued until your throat ran sore. Their minds were made up; even Jace demanded you go. So here you were, trudging through the unexpected storm. Your escorts were few to keep attention minimal. The goal was to move you as quietly as possible; tension was drawing thin now, and there was no room for misstep.
The ship was waiting, just a few yards ahead. The docks were empty, save for a stray man lingering near the boarding.
Seastar whistled and whined as you approached- perhaps an omen you missed in hindsight.
Because when you approached to greet the head of the ship, he lunged for you.
Seastar flew, hovered above you as you fought against the man. The troop of men escorting you drew their swords quickly, ready to act until the sound of more men stopped them cold.
How the Hightower’s got word of your passage was unknown. But in a blink of an eye, it felt as if all your knights had been slain. Dozens of Hightower soldiers circled. You struggled against the hold of the shipkeeper- Seastar swooping in with a puff of smoke and fire.
The man falls; fire takes his body slowly, and Seastar finds her place back onto your shoulders. You turn- Hightower men everywhere. You look to the ship- empty and not going anywhere anytime soon. You look to the murky waters and consider jumping, but the soldiers part and draw your attention.
The man, you could only assume to be Ormund Hightower, rode through the kicked-up smoke and dust. He did not hurry, for he did not need to. Every path around you was blocked, and every person who may have helped you was dead. Your dragon was too young to carry you to safety and too inexperienced to truly fight them off.
Ormund drew his rein a short distance away. His eyes scanned the area and landed on the burning man behind you- a slight smile curved his lips. “Your guards are dead. No one is coming.”
“Go to hell!” You snapped, your fingers so tight around the dagger they grew white.
His expression didn’t change. “You have nowhere left to go.” He dismounted and began a slow pace towards you. “Come quietly, and you will not be harmed.” He stopped a few short steps from you. “Bend the knee and come to me.”
You look past him, to the sea of armoured men waiting for your next move. Seastar gave a weak cry. Ormund followed your gaze.
“No one is coming for you. Not your mother or your brother. Now come.”
You back away; Ormund doesn’t follow. He watches you look around again, weighing your lack of options. You run down the docks and towards the sea. The water is bitter against your body as you leap in- a last escape attempt. Futile, you know, as you swim against the lapping waves. Seastar overhead, you hear the pained cry of an arrow cutting through her lower body. She wavers and struggles; you look up, crying out in Valyrian for her to fly away.
She struggles and doesn’t seem to want to listen to you, but as his men draw closer to the water edge and more arrows break the air, you give one last desperate demand that she leave- return home to Dragonstone so that your mother may sense something wrong.
Seastar goes, and you hope she may make it. The burning pain of an arrow catching your shoulder stops your attempts to swim away. His men have come; you expect more arrows to strike you down, but the searing pain of the one in your shoulder is enough to send your vision blurry.
You wake with a stinging headache and a dull, burning sensation in your shoulder. You suck in a sudden breath, the air stale and dry. You look around, eyes heavy, and for a moment you could not recognize where you were. Dark stone walls, no windows, lying on a dirty floor of hay and blankets torn to rags.
You crawl to the wall, bracing yourself against it as you slowly rise. The room tilts around you, your head screaming at you to lie back down and sleep. Slowly, the pieces came back to you. The dock, the slain guards, seastar- you slowly made your way to the heavy oak door. You leaned against it, struggling to stand yourself upright. You paw at the handle, but it is locked and heavy. You look for a window- there are none. There’s a small hatch on the door, small enough to slip your hand though it opened. You ran your fingers over it; it only opened from the outside.
You wait in that room for hours. You’re unsure if it is morning or night, or how many days have passed since your capture.
Finally, that heavy door opens with a shrill creak.
Two guards enter first, parting the way for him.
Ormund enters. Clothes pressed neat, hair well groomed, his skin unmarked with a single stain. Unmarked with what he had done at the docks. He strode in, another following him. A younger boy, your nose crinkles. An image of Alicent, Dearon, you believed his name to be.
You force yourself to stand on wobbly legs to meet them. Ormund’s gaze flicked to the bandages around your shoulder, then to your dress- filthy and torn now. He looked to your face and waited for the door to close behind him.
“You were unconscious for nearly a day.” He commented, fake concern laced in his words.
“Leave,” you bit out.
“No.” He replied simply, sternly. “Bend your knee to me.”
A bitter, dry laugh escaped you. It almost hurt to laugh; your upper body was sore. “You think I will bend to you?” You ask, “You think you are in any position to ask me- Princess of the realm, daughter to the rightful heir of the Iron Throne-”
It was Ormund’s turn to laugh now. He cut you off, taking a few steps toward you. “Rhaenyra has no right to the throne; she is no queen. She is a sniveling woman who mistook her dragon to be strength within herself.” His mouth curled with contempt as he spoke of her. “A bitch with a dragon- it is laughable. No true claim. No right. No strength worth naming. She was never meant for the throne.”
Your nails dig into your palms as he speaks of her. “Viserys named her heir- Aegon is unfit to rule, Aemond nowhere to be found- it is my mother’s right to take King’s Landing and sit the throne as my Grandfather intended!”
“There are more befit to rule.” He dismisses swiftly. “You are in no position to argue with me; bend your knee before me. I have no interest in harming you, but do not force my hand.”
“I will never submit to you.”
Ormund looks to the guards, then to Daeron and back to you. Surely he wasn’t stupid enough to think you would bend your knee to your mother’s enemies?
“Then you will not eat.”
“You think that frightens me?”
“You will not drink, either. You will not sleep in comfort. You will receive no wine, no milk of the poppy, no relief for your shoulder beyond what is necessary to keep the wound from killing you.”
“You would let me suffer?”
“Yes.” His answer came without hesitation. “You will bend the knee,” he continued. “You will know hunger, thirst, pain, exhaustion- all of the harsh realities of war I’m sure your bitch mother has kept from you. You will learn to understand that I am the only comfort you will know, and that it is best to be kind to me.”
“And if I still refuse you?”
“There is no hurry.”
Daeron, who had stood silent the whole time, looked to you with uncertain eyes. You had never met him; you were familiar with Aegon and Aemond from childhood; you had once played in the gardens with Helana- snickered with Aegon and your brothers when they made a fool of Aemond. Daeron looked so different to them.
You were pale from the blood loss and hunger settling in your stomach. Your pride remained, of course; you had no intention of abandoning it so easily, but exhaustion was beginning to crack through.
At last, Daeron spoke. “Must she be treated so harshly?” Ormund turned his head at the quiet question, and Daeron hesitated to continue. “She is a prisoner. Is that not enough? Her mother’s choices are not hers.”
“You sound like a boy.” Ormund spat coolly, “I have taught you better, have I not? This is war,” Ormund continued. “Do not forget it simply because she is a woman or that she bats frightened eyes at you.”
“She is still a princess-”
“She is Rhaenyra’s daughter and nothing more.” Ormund beckons Daeron closer. “Look at her; she is a bastard just like her brother.” Daeron remains tightlipped, unsure of what to say now. Ormund is closer, almost in his face as he explains. “You think her mother’s crimes end with her? You think a dragon’s blood makes her innocent of the danger she represents? She is a living banner for a dead claim.”
Daeron glanced toward you. “She did not choose any of this.”
“Mercy is a luxury for peacetime. We are not at peace. We are surrounded by enemies, and every weakness we show will be used against us. You will learn,” he said coldly. “Or this war will teach you.”
Ormund means what he says. You are left alone for what feels like an eternity. The walls feel as if they may close around you; the stale air makes breathing undesirable. Eventually, the guards return and grant you a sliver of bread and a sip of water. It does nothing but stir the hunger in you.
They return and pull you to your feet- draw your arms above your head and bind your wrists harshly with rope. You're left as quickly as they came, arms tied above your head, hanging limp from the ceiling. Your feet cannot fully rest on the floor, just your toes pressed against the bitter stone, splintered with hay and dirt.
Your arms grow sore slowly. An ache travels down them into your shoulders. You crane your body and thrash at first, but as the days pass, you realise there was no give in your restraints. Your wrists were bound so tight you fear they would fall off. Gruff rope cuts into your skin; eventually, with every thrash, you feel blood leak from them, roll down your arms slowly.
How long had you been here? How long had you been tied up? Sleep did not come to comfort you; now and again you would doze off for a few moments, but the jolt of your restraints or hunger pains would stir you again. Food and water came sporadically, long stretches of time in between. You had never felt hunger quite like this before- you stomach growled and felt as if it would eat itself. Your limbs fell weak; you dreamed of the sweet reality of just being able to lie down.
One day the door opens, and Daeron slips inside quickly. You barely lifted your head to look at him. He lingers at the door for a moment, unsure in his movements as he slowly approaches you. “How long have I been here?” You ask weakly.
“Two weeks.”
A tear brims in your eye. “That can't be.”
“I’ve brought you something.” He comes to you fully now, and your eyes find the cloth in his hands. He unwraps it quickly: a small portion of bread and cheese; your mouth pools with saliva. “Slowly,” he whispers, holding the bread to your lips. You take a small bit, eyes falling closed at the soft warmth of it.
“Do you have water?” You ask, and he takes the small cup and puts it to your lips.
“Slowly,” he reminded again. Your eyes close; you feel as if you could shed a tear.
“Thank you,” you whisper, and Daeron presses a rag to your cheek to carefully dry the tears slipping from your eyes. His face read of only discomfort, not an ounce of satisfaction upon seeing you like this.
“You need not thank me.” He sighed, “I am sorry for what has been done to you.”
You look up to study his face. Auburn hair, kind eyes, soft features. “You’re Daeron.” He nodded. “I never had the pleasure of meeting you.”
“No,” he said quietly. “You did not.”
“My half-uncle.” You laughed, but the word seemed to trouble him. He looked around the room, as if waiting for someone to burst in and put an end to his kindness.
“You cannot continue like this.” He pressed another sliver of bread to you. “You must bend-”
“No.” Your words came out strong, harsher than you had intended.
“He will not stop this until you do. Bend the knee, put an end to this.”
“Has my mother written?” You ask, “I know she will come for me.”
“He is not going to show mercy because you endure it. You are starving yourself to prove that you cannot be broken, but he will only keep waiting.”
“Why are you here? Why are you daring to ask me to bend?”
“Because I do not want to see you suffer.”
Your face twisted with anger. “Then stop him!”
“I am sorry,” he spoke lowly. “I cannot- I’m sorry.”
Daeron left with a promise that he would come back again. You tell him that if he only means to sway your allegiance to your family, that he should not return.
You’re left alone in the dark once more.
You think of home. Of Dragonstone. The salty winds of the sea coating your skin, the distant grumble of dragons. Your mother’s voice calling for you. Your eyes fall closed, and you try to picture her, your mother. The only true parent you had known. Laenor was absent until the day he died, and you knew as your brothers did that deep down he was not your father. Harwin- the distant memories you held of him in your youth. You wonder in the darkness what life would’ve been with him there to guide you alongside Rhaenyra.
Would you be stronger in this moment? As hunger gnawed your bones so hard you fear they may snap.
“As long as I live,” Rhaenyra had once told you, “no harm will befall you.”
She had said it with such certainty. Her hand cradling your head as she pet your hair to lull you to sleep. You believed her, your little hands clinging to her skirts.
“You will always be a part of me.”
“Perhaps not near me.”
“Perhaps not always safe at my side.”
“But always a part of me.”
Your body fell lax against your restraints. You bent forward; finally, the stronghold of tears behind your eyes began to break. Slowly, as you thought of your mother. Her soft words and gentle hand upon you. How her voice would grow strong when she spoke of you and your siblings' claim, how soon she would rise to rule and everything would be well. You thought of Jaceerys; you had always been very close with him. Fiercely loyal and protective of one another.
Joffrey, Aegon, and Viserys- still so young, you had not seen them in so long you struggled to envision their faces. Baela and Rhaena, how you missed them so.
And Lucerys- you cried harder; they had already taken him from your mother, and now they planned to take you.
“You harbor the blood of the dragon.” Daemon’s voice found you next, pensive and cool. You loved him as if he were your father, the only true one you had come to know.
“Dragons do not beg the world to be kind.” He had sat before you, taken your chin in his hand and held your stare after you had lamented your worries of what would happen. King Viserys dead, Aegon crowned, your mother’s premature labour and Luke- you had gone to him in swells of tears- your mother gone, grieving her son.
“You are strong. Stronger than you yet know.”
As the war drew closer, his words had grown darker.
“There may come a time when you suffer. You must do things you never thought you could. War makes monsters of men. Sometimes survival demands that you become something harder than you wished to be.”
You hated the way he spoke of suffering, as if it was inevitable.
“You are fierce,” he had said. “Do not let anyone take that from you.”
Alone and cold in this room; weeping as a child. You tried to remember his words- you had the blood of the dragon; you could weather this.
Not long passed between Daeron's visit and Ormund’s next appearance. It was the same day you assumed, because Ormund strode in with Daeron hot on his heels. You picked your head up to meet them. “How was my bread?” He asked simply, his expression neutral, though his tone left shivers down your spine.
“She was starving-”
“I know.”
“And you left her tied up like this- how is anyone supposed to survive-”
“You decided that my orders did not apply to you?” He turns to Daeron, then back to you. “I will lecture you another time, Daeron; we are here to deal with her first and foremost.”
“I didn’t ask him-”
“But you allowed him to feed you? You should have refused; you’ve taken my food without permission, without respect.” Ormund looked to Daeron again. “You pity her? You think I am cruel? This is war, Daeron- why do you pity her? Because she is a ‘princess’? Because she is pretty and knows how to flash such mournful looks to you? Because she is far reached family?”
“All I think is that this has gone too far,” Daeron responded quietly.
“Then you think yourself wiser than I am?”
“No.”
“Yet you disobey me.” A single cold look from Ormund hushed Daeron; you had even felt a pool of dread for the boy. Ormund stepped closer to you- his nose wrinkled. “You have bread in your stomach. My bread.”
You did not know what to say; you could only look to him helplessly. “Whatever kindness my cousin thought to offer you, you will not keep it.”
She stared at him, face twisting in confusion as he leaned closer to you. Your hand twitches to strike him, but you are still suspended. “You will bring it back up.”
The command in Ormund’s voice was quiet, unnervingly so. “No,” you croak out.
“You will not keep the comfort of bread in your stomach.” He turned to Daeron again, beckoning him closer. “You fed her.” He states simply. “Without my permission.”
“She was starving…”
“You will help correct your mistake.” Daeron went still, and you looked between the men.
“No.” You rasp again. Your stomach still churned with hunger; the bread had hardly satiated you. You could not bring yourself to throw it up now, even if you wanted to.
“You wanted to show her mercy. You wanted to ease her suffering. Very well. Now you must do what you can to undo it.”
Daeron opened his mouth to argue, but couldn’t bring the words up. He looked between his cousin and you. “She is already weak-”
“Then you should have thought of that before you fed her.”
“This is not right.”
Ormund’s eyes hardened. “You disobeyed me.”
“Please-”
The word was not for Ormund, but for Daeron as he stepped closer to you. “You wanted to help her, help her now. I am sure your hand will be softer than a guard's.”
“I’m sorry,” Daeron whispers to you, and again you tell him to stay away.
“Do not!”
Daeron reaches to grab your face, but cannot bring himself to touch you. “I cannot- please, Ormund.”
“You can; you have done this to her, now undo it.”
Daeron’s hand pinches your cheeks; you are too weak to shake him off. His hold on you remained as soft as it could be; it made it worse, you thought. His hands trembled as they met your lips. With ease, your jaw parts and his fingers slide uncertainty down your throat.
His face turned away, unable to watch your face twist. Heat rose to it; tears immediately flooded your eyes as you gagged. You catch a glimpse of Ormund before your vision blurs and blackens. He stands still behind his cousin, silent and composed.
“Understand, Daeron, that this is a small cost of mercy.”
You vomit, harshly. Daeron makes an uncontrolled noise from his throat, teetering between a sob and a pained cry. It spills to the floor; it burns your throat, and you heave several times after it. When he is sure everything is out of your stomach, Daeron steps back with a tremble. You hang your head; drool slides down your chin.
Your stomach turns painfully.
The floor is cleaned swiftly; Ormund cannot stand the stench. You remain tied, throat dry and stinging. Dry tears and saliva dry against your skin; you can still smell it on your breath. It is unbearable. You do not sleep; the guards have taken to waking you every time you threaten to doze off. You have given up trying to count the days or deciphering whether it was sun or moon. You only have the opening and closing of that squealing door.
Ormund visits you again, this time alone. Clean, composed, and perfect as always. He closed the door; not even the guards entered with him.
“Do you understand?” He asks after a long, heavy silence.
“Why you starve me? Why you keep me awake? Why you tie me to walls?” You do not raise your head to look at him anymore. Your voice is frail and monotone. “Why you forced Daeron's hand down my throat?”
Ormund approached. “You were given food that you were not meant to keep. I am sorry that my ward brought that upon you, but you had to understand that nothing comes to you without my permission.”
“You are cruel,” you cry, “Crueler than any man I’ve ever heard of!”
“I am patient,” he replies simply. “You think I do these things because I enjoy your suffering.”
“You do.”
“I enjoy obedience- there is a difference.” You said nothing, only tried to stop the tears leaking from your eyes. “The savagery of your blood knows nothing of obedience. That is why war has fallen upon our houses. You could end all this with obedience; it is that easy. Yet you still fight me.”
“I always will.” You croak. For a second, his eyes sharpened on you. He takes slow, deliberate steps around you. His eyes take in your twisted shoulder, your tattered dress, the oil and sweat that slickens your hair.
“Your mother has made efforts to find you.” He finally speaks up again from behind. Your face changes before you can stop it; you almost jump at the words.
“Where is she?”
“She has sent men. She has sent ravens. She has searched where she believes you might be.” Hope flickered bright in your eyes, and he smiled. “But her efforts have lacked something.”
“What?”
“Urgency. She has not come herself.” Ormund continued, “It is a shame, is it not? To see the bitch queen fight so fiercely for a crown, yet so little for her own daughter.”
“She is looking for me,” you insist, and he only hums lowly. “She will come.”
“If she meant to come, she would already be here. You must understand,” he said. “Your mother will not save you.”
You shake your head. “You lie.”
“Lots has happened in your weeks here.” He states, “Your brother- for example- has fallen. What was that bastard Prince’s name again?”
“Jace.” You pick your head up once again. “Jace cannot be- you lie! All you do is lie!”
“That is what occupies her mind; I am sure you are long forgotten as she and Daemon prepare to ride for King's Landing- I hear that with her new dragon riders, she has already sought new blood to replace you.”
“No- she searches for me- you lie!”
“Then where is she now? Why has she not stormed Oldtown to take you back? With her Dragon, Plenty- why has Daemon not torn through our walls himself to get his daughter back? Oh, is it because you are not his?”
You struggle and flail against your binding; you lunge for him, and he doesn’t move an inch. “Bend the knee.” He orders; you do not answer; you can only cry and fight to get to him.
“She is coming for me- they all are.” Your tone declines steadily. As if you were doubting your own words, your head spins and aches.
“I do not doubt that your mother loves you, but love did not protect you. She sent you to sea with only a few measly guards? Not even a dragon to aid your departure. Love did not stop me from taking you.” Ormund, for the first time, reaches to touch you. You watch as he does so stiffly, dreading almost caressing the filth on your cheek. But he does so; his fingers scrape over your skin. The first touch you had felt in weeks; you shiver at the feeling. “You would rather suffer for a woman who could not keep you safe than accept your place here?”
“I do not know anymore.” You whisper, voice hitching.
“You need not hate her; I am not so unreasonable. Keep your love, but you must kneel to me. Say that she was wrong, that her claim must end. That you will no longer stand for Rhaenyra Targaryen so that I may do what is necessary to aid you.”
“Okay.” You whisper, defeated.
That one simple word changes everything. Ormund has you cut down, and your body crashes onto the floor hard. Your legs are too worn to hold you up at the moment. Your arms shake as you sit up. You slowly shift until you are on your aching knees. You’ve lost a considerable amount of weight, but still it aches to press into your legs for support. Your hands tremble and clutch your skirts.
You struggled to look at him. He was untouched by the grime of the cell. Dark hair nearly arranged, clean-shaven, clothing pressed perfectly to his body. Rich greens and blacks edged with gold, fine clothing you had once pranced around in without a thought. Now sit before him, tatters, stained and blackened with dirt.
Broad-shouldered and imposing. His back was straight. His chin was lifted. His hands rested calmly at his sides, as though he had been waiting for this moment with absolute certainty that it would come today.
Ormund’s gaze moved over you slowly. “Look at me.”
“Look at me.” He repeated when you struggled to do so. His face portrayed nothing but pride. He had wanted this. Had been waiting so patiently for it. He had starved you for it. Bound you, broke your strength, taken away everything. You truly had nothing else to give him, but this.
“You have suffered, and you endured it. Strong,” he said quietly. “Just as you were taught to be.” Then he said, “You should have done this sooner.”
You lowered your eyes in shame; he only reveled in the victory.
Ormund waited another night before bringing you from the cell. You slept on the floor, truly slept this time. You were woken to guards lifting you harshly, dragging you from the small cell. The light burns your eyes. You flinch and weakly raise a hand to cover them. The air almost stings as you suck in a great breath; relief washes over your body.
You’re taken to a washroom, left alone until several servants come hurrying in. They undress you and warm a bath. They wash you; it is embarrassing as they scrub at your skin with force. Untangle your knotted and dirty hair. They empty the steaming bath water several times until it runs clear and your skin is devoid of any dirt. They urge you into the bath once more, water steaming around you as you sink into the warmth. Your head lulls back; you could almost sleep if there weren’t dozens of women tending to you.
Petals tickle your skin, floating with other aromatics in the water. They clean under your nails and remove your bandages. Your wound is long healed, though not cleanly. There will forever be a scar impaling your shoulder. It’s gnarly; you can’t stand to look at it as they gently clean and wrap it once more for the time being.
When they finish washing you, you are ushered out and dressed quickly. A loose nightgown, long flowing sleeves, and a robe slipped over it. The softness leaves goosebumps on your skin; you draw it tighter to your body and follow them to the next room.
A bedroom. You are sat on the bed, and a small plate of food is brought. Bread and broth, small portions. You know that is the best for you right now, but you cannot help but to imagine gorging it all down- then more and more, until your belly finally stops its screaming. They fed you, painfully slowly. You eat in silence, still yet to utter a single word.
They leave eventually; your belly holds the broth and bread uneasily, and you know it will be a long time before your body reaccustoms to the food. The door is locked from the outside; you’re left alone once again. The windows are barred, but light still filters in. The bed is soft under you, softer than you could ever dream of. You sink into the mattress absentmindedly. Your heavy eyes struggle to keep open, and without a second breath, you fall into a deep, long sleep.
You woke alone, to a dim room. The hearth lit in the corner; soft crackles of firewood pricked your ears and roused you from your heavy slumber. You were nestled under a thick blanket of fur, your body heavy against the bed. Your motions were slow as you rolled over to your side. You pushed yourself up slowly to look around and took another few moments to muster the will to move again.
Your knees wobbled, muscles stiff and still heading sleep's delicious call. You inched towards the door, pressing a hand to it and trying the handle- locked, of course. You stumbled to the wall beside the fire, head still fuzzy as your knees gave out and you slid to the floor.
You weren't sure how long you remained there, hunched over and soaking in the fire’s heat. You hardly noticed the door swing open and footsteps coming to your side. Strong hands met you, pulling you up with ease and leading you back to the bed. You fell onto it weakly and looked up to meet Ormund’s blue eyes.
“You’ve woken, finally; you’ve been sleeping for days.” He almost laughed as if he weren’t the reason for the state you were in. “Slowly.” He spoke softly as you sat up once again.
Your throat was dry. “How long?”
“Nearly a week,” he answered, getting up to pour you a glass of water. He handed it to you with a smile. “You fell ill; fever took you your second night here.”
You stared at him, in a daze. He pressed a cool hand to your forehead. “Thankfully, you slept through most of it.”
You tried to move again, but exhaustion dragged at your limbs. Ormund rose immediately, stopping you from getting up. “Do not-”
“I can sit up!” you argued weakly.
“You can barely keep your eyes open.” His voice was gentle, the act of a kind Lord returning. It is only an act; he was a master of deceit and flowery words, you remind yourself. He brings the water close to your face; you turn away quickly. Instead he lets you take it in your hands, trembling so fiercely you can barely lift it. He takes it back and supports it as you drink.
You hated that you needed his help. “Slowly,” he murmured. His voice was too soft, too intimate as he spoke so close to you. You drank, the sting of discomfort once again rising in your belly.
“Why are you acting like this?”
He said nothing.
“You lock me in a cell. Starve me. Torture me.” Your voice was weak, but the words were not. “And now you wash me and put me in a bed.”
“You needed care.”
A bitter laugh escaped you. “You are the reason I needed it.”
“I had no intention of letting you die.”
“How comforting.”
“I mean it.” He pauses. “You have suffered enough.”
“Have I?”
“You have suffered enough to understand.”
You looked to the locked door, then to the barred windows. “What happens now? I have bent my knee to you.”
He stood, setting the cup aside. He paced the room a moment before answering. “You will rest and recover. Then I suppose it will be time you learn what your life will be from now on.”
You were too weak to fight him anymore. Too weak to shout. Anger possessed too much strength right now. A terrible thought popped into your mind: perhaps it was no longer worth it to fight at every moment.
Perhaps the door would always be locked.
And Ormund would always be there.
Your head spun as you thought of it all. Ormund broke you from it, offering more water.
You closed your eyes, head rushed with pain. Slowly you nod, and he gives it to you.
It would seem that he has you right where he desires. Weak and frail, unable to do for yourself. Depending on him, and only him, for water, then food, then warmth- it kept going.
He visits you periodically over the next few days. Slowly you regain enough strength to stand and do for yourself, but still he swoops in at every moment of frailty to offer assistance. It is cruel- you know- what he has done to you. But each visit gets easier to get through, to bite your tongue and swallow your pride.
Ormund intends to marry you.
Deep-rooted possession seeps from his pores as he looks to you. Political triumph shines in his eyes. What a twisted path fate had set you on. A bastard princess meant to flee wartime across the narrow sea- only to fall right into his hands.
His war prize, he mused.
Not riches, land, or title.
Just you. Rhaenyra’s beloved daughter.
The daughter of the woman Ormund despises. A living piece of the enemy’s bloodline, taken before you could flee. You will be his wife, paraded around publicly to the realm. Once he was certain you could behave, he could bring you into the light of his household. Dress you in his colors- as a Lady Hightower.
And every time you stood beside him, everyone would understand; Rhaenyra’s daughter had been taken. You had been made to kneel. You belonged to him now and forever.
“Do you understand what you are to me?”
“You were meant to flee across the sea. Instead, you were led right into my hands. Isn’t it well that I was the one to intercept you?”
Your family would never truly reclaim you. The thought of them does not frighten Ormund, for they would not dare risk your safety. Let them come with men and Dragons; he would merely press the cool blade of his sword to your neck and threaten to cut it open before them all.
“Let your mother send every ship she has. Let your father gather his armies.” Ormund's voice chilled to your bone. His body heavy upon yours, his hands possessive and smoothing over your skin as he pleases. “The moment they advance, I will put a blade to your throat.”
You are forced to indulge him, to hold him back as he wishes. To run fingers through his hair and press feather-light kisses to his skin.
“And then,” he would muse, voice husky with excitement as he thought of the pleasure of taking you from them. “If they take another step, I will cut until the blade reaches your bone.”
They would not risk losing Rhaynyra’s only daughter. They would not let their so-called queen lose yet another child to war.
He muses on what he would do to you if they tested him, but deep down he wishes the day never comes. He wants you to himself, like this, forever.
He does not want you sent to a convent, exchanged for political gain, or married elsewhere. He does not want you returned to your mother. He wants to be the one who possesses the daughter of the woman he hates so deeply.
He was the man who took you.
The marriage comes swift, once you grow accustomed to his stern politeness and trust to feed from his hand. Once the swells of anger he takes out on the objects around him fall deft on your ears and you no longer look to him with contempt- but with tired agreement. You were his wife now. A prisoner can be exchanged for more. A stolen child reclaimed. A captive princess rescued.
But his wife? Bound to him in the eyes of the gods? Never.
Besides, this was better than what your mother could ever give you. He believed it wholeheartedly. You will not fade in the background of war. You will remain safe, no one daring to touch a hair upon your head. He will dress you in the finest green gowns. Comfort, status reborn, protection.
The war was over. For him atleast. He has taken the only prize he could truly want, and has no intention of giving it back.
yall would rather believe apps like wayfair r trafficking children and women through dresser listings instead of paying attention to sex tourism or capitalism incentivizing the wealthy to exploit women in lower social classes, i get conspiracy can be “fun” but i promise u most of the sexual abuse and trafficking happening in the world is directly from ppl with power buying their way out of consequences and not people selling overly priced bed frames, saying this as a trafficking victim u look stupid as fuck parroting that stuff
I’ve been seething about this again because of the Vinted listings. Like cool so you know nothing about how trafficking actually works and seemly have no desire to learn because actual trafficking is often pretty mundane shit. It’s “massage parlour” workers having their passports taken off them, it’s young homeless teens being exploited just so they have a place to sleep, it’s drug addicts feeling forced to sleep with their dealers. And when it comes to children it’s often the same situations. Hell I could argue family vlogging and child social media stars are probably the closest thing you’ll see to openly public trafficking. You are helping no one by fuelling a complete fabrication of what trafficking is or looks like. You’re just a performative dick.
Summary: What an evening winding down with your husband Lord Ormund would be like.
Tags: Sort of toxic dynamics because it's ormund, bathing, tenderness, smut, unsafe pinv, slight fingering, scent kink, undressing, mention of getting pregnant at the end, possible spelling/grammar mistakes, might be buns but I'm too tired to proofread and find out so...
Word Count: ~2.5K
The tepid waters simmered around you as you floated in the bath waters, letting the scented oils sink into your skin while you dragged the lavender scented soap across your damp skin. The aroma of the bath oils was pleasant but potent, though you knew that was what was necessary to please your husband. If someone were to tell you two years ago that you would spend more time in the bath than carrying out your courtly duties you would have mocked them sharply, yet here you are today. Your routine was simple: you would make sure to bathe twice a day minimum, three times if you went out riding. Your first bath would be in the morning with your lord husband, he would work the oils into your hair and have you wash him in return before you would towel off, dress for the day and part ways, often being swept into a deep and hard kiss before you do so. Your second and final bath is taken alone, once your duties are done for the day, you would return back to the bedchambers, the bath already drawn at Ormund’s request and scented oils he’d chosen waiting. You’d accepted a long time ago that Ormund had to have an extreme degree of control over everything in his orbit. The early days of your marriage were tempestuous as you learned to navigate his temper and moods, though now you find yourself much better equipped to understand and deal with his feelings.
Your train of thought is interrupted by the opening of the heavy chamber doors, from the small alcove the bathtub is built into you cannot see who has entered though there was only one person that enters the bedchamber at this time everyday. A jolt goes through you at the realisation you are behind the wordless schedule you have and you try to quell your panic. Sure enough the heavy footfalls make their way into where you are and your husband rounds the corner. You feel yourself sit up straighter, apology forming on your lips.
“My lord I must apologise, I had lost track of time in the bath and neglected to greet you.”
He does not answer, only stares at you wordlessly, you watch his hand clench and unclench as he rationalises his temper, all you can do is wait. After a second his hand reaches out, suspended and waiting above.
“Come then wife, let us not delay any further.”
You rise steadily, taking the extended hand with your own so Ormund could pull you to your feet. His grip on your hand was tight, possessive as he was with most things, and sharp with barely controlled tension from the day. His other hand came up so he could hold both and he guided you out of the bath. Once both feet were planted on the ground and the remaining water from the bath was dripping onto the warm tile he took a step back, releasing you so he could appraise you with his stare. His eyes raked over you and you fought a shiver despite the heated chambers. It must have been that he mistook the tremble for chill as he reached for the drying cloth that lay warming by the fire. The deep trench of confusion furrowed between your brows.
“What are you doing-”
He only cuts you off with a shushing sound, shaking his head and bringing the towel to rub across the damp skin of your collarbones and shoulders. The light fabric of it drags against you as he works diligently to dry you off. After he’s worked it over your breasts and arms he drags the towel lower, dropping down onto his knees, mindful of the puddle forming around your feet. His lips attach to your hipbone, gently sucking a mark into the tender flesh there while his hands continue pulling the cloth down the length of your thighs to your ankles. After a minute rests his forehead against the supple skin of your stomach, bringing his hands and the towel around to drag down your back and the curve of your ass as he breathed in the sweet scent of your clean skin. Your breathing is ragged by the time he stands and you find yourself stuck in place, watching as he returns the now wet towel to where it previously hung in front of the fire. He takes a moment longer than you’d expect, his shoulders tense, though with a different type of coiled energy than before. From where he was silhouetted by the roaring flames he looks almost holy, whether as your salvation or ruin though you could tell.
You think he is going to turn back to you for a moment, touch you and breathe in your flesh tenderly as he did before. In the end though he does not, instead turning and walking into the main bedchamber, leaving you alone, naked and desperate, nipples hardened due to the light breeze that weaseled its way into the room. All you are left with is an airy command tossed your way as he goes.
“It is time we retire wife, come.” You snap out of your stupor and turn to where your nightgown is hanging behind the changing screen, moving to ready yourself for sleep until you are interrupted once again by the distant voice in the bedchamber. “Do not redress yourself, you have no need for your nightgown yet.” You can hear him moving about in the space and as you step timidly round the corner and out of the alcove you see him removing his doublet, exposing the deep neckline of his tunic underneath. Instinct took over before rationality and you rushed over to stand before him so you could unlace his tunic as you did most nights. Your fingers came to clasp over his larger ones so you could halt his movements, looking deep into his eyes in an attempt to silently convey your desire to undress him and treat him with the same tenderness he had previously given you after you stepped out the tub. He conceded a moment later, dropping his hands to your hips and tilting his chin upward so he could watch you work the laces undone. The moment was only paused by your tugging of the fabric over his head. The air around your little bubble felt heavy, almost suffocatingly so in an atmosphere that only Ormund could create with his extreme intensity.
Once the tunic is done you move to his breeches, pulling at the laces there and refusing to meet his eyes. A warm hand traces up your spine, coming so it may tangle in the still damp strands of your hair, he twirls them around one finger, playing with them as a cat may play with the mouse it intends to devour. By nature you find yourself leaning closer to him, dragged into his orbit by the very gods themselves and leaning your head against the smooth corded muscle of his shoulder. He smells woodsy like the soap he uses though with a deep undertone of musk most likely from the day. Whilst continuing to focus on your task, though your body feels heavy and intoxicated by the closeness of him you feel his own nose press into your scalp and you have to bite back a smirk at the subtle groan that vibrates under your cheek when he smells the new scent in your hair, a soap you had found at the market the other day that was everything Ormund loved; silky and ethereal, with hints of lavender and honey. His grip in your hair tugs on the strand lightly, the jolt of pain making you gasp against him and the hand still at your hip, splays wide and grips possessively. When you at last get the last laces of his breeches undone you can at last push the fabric back off of him and press your palms flat upon his hipbones, bathing in the closeness of the moment and waiting for his next move.
His hand that held your hair smoothed across the line of your jaw, the rough pads of his fingers pulling your chin up to look him in the eye. For only a second he studied you, looking through your soul and into your intentions. The moment was not long enough for you to read him before he was pulling you closer and slotting his lips over yours, kissing you deeply and forcing his tongue into your mouth. The force of his passion forced your head back while his hand at your lower back kept you close, molding you into a devoted arch for him. He bent down, tilting you further back to mouth at your neck, breathing you in as he left marks of a deep purple shade along your most delicate flesh. You gasped at the electric tingle his ministrations sent through you and thoughtlessly dragged your hands upward to grip into his meaty shoulders. His own free hand rubbed up and down your sides, warming you against the drafty chill of the chambers. He began to walk you slowly back a few paces, continuing his assault on your upper chest until the bare backs of your thighs hit something wooden, the bed.
At the sudden halt he stopped, once again bringing his forehead to rest on your tender shoulder as he spoke low and ragged.
“Get on the bed.”
You nodded in understanding, feeling exposed in your bareness but finding the low simmering heat of desire under your skin too overpowering for you to worry about your dignity. You shuffled, back to rest against the pillows, watching as Ormund pushed down his breeches and undergarments fully, exposing his painfully hard cock to the air. Your knees parted but you resisted the urge to bring your fingers down to play with yourself, knowing it was something Ormund would frown upon. Your breath caught when he finally knelt on the bed, the hand that wasn’t leisurely stroking himself, dragging along your thigh, nails scratching as it goes until he can finally push apart your folds and massage your clit with a calculated level of pressure. Your head fell back against the cushions and a high whine clawed up your throat. The sound seemed to fuel your lord husband as he pulled his fingers from between your thighs and wrapped them around himself, lubricating himself with your desire as he angled himself to line up with your needy entrance. You pulled him closer as he dragged himself through your folds with one hand braced at the back of his neck and your legs around his hips. You enclosed your lips around his and let out a loud gasp into his mouth, one that he stole with equal fervor to you as he finally pushed himself deep inside you. Your walls clenched tightly around him, choking him so hard he had to tear his face away from yours and rest himself in the crook of your neck, breathing you in while he adjusted to the feeling.
After a moment he began to move.
The first few thrusts were painful, pushing through the slight ache that came from not having opportunity to lay with each other over the past week. However as he adjusted his angle just slightly, pulling your hips up into his hold so they were more flush against his, you let a loud surprised moan escape as pleasure surged through you without warning. Ormund, spurred on by this, aimed at the angle again, harder, hitting a deep spongey part of you that had you crying out to the seven themselves. Vaguely you registered him breathing in the scent of you where it was most potent at your neck, dragging the arch of his nose along the column of it with his eyes closed and face scrunched up in pleasure. You could hear low grunts and groans due to his closeness and you couldn't help but tilt your head towards it to hear better, your own lips dragging across his hairline. As he continued to bully the head of his cock into that spot inside you, your hands came up underneath his arms to dig into your back for purchase, dragging down and surely leaving scratches you’d tend to carefully come morning.
“Ormund-”
“I know, it’s okay, just feel it”
A tear slipped down your cheek as you nodded, his sweat damp curls caressing the side of your head comfortingly. Your release began to build and your hands wrapped around him, grasping for purchase in any way they could. You tugged on his brown curls, pulling him up with a groan to kiss you again as you got close to your end. Your free hand dug crescent shapes into his side and his own hands had enclosed a bruising grip around the meat of your hips.
“I think I’m-”
Ormund shut up your whines with his mouth again, nodding enthusiastically to signal his own approaching end and picking up his pace. Unable to fall over the edge just yet you grasped one of the hands at your hip and pushed it to your clit. Ormund got the message and chuckled slightly, delighted by your desperation for him and rubbing tight and fast circles into the small nub. You let out an unwomanly squeal as your orgasm rushes through you, drawing your lord husband as close as you can while you ride the waves of pleasure. You distantly feel him spill inside of you, collapsing down onto you while you both come down from your respective highs.
Your eyes feel heavy and you let yourself sink into the cushions, content to watch as Ormund gathered his wits and rises, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips before walking bare to the alcove to retrieve a wet rag and your nightgown. You admire his lithe form as he does, wordlessly letting him wipe you down and pull the garment over your head so you can lace it up while he pulls on his own sleepwear. You crawl under the covers exhausted, accepting the extended arm and laying your head down upon his firm chest. His arm wraps around you and you feel his fingers drag slowly along your spine. It’s after a moment of silence he speaks again, his tone level and calm as if discussing matters of court.
“Perhaps this time it shall take and we will be able to give Daeron a younger cousin to care for hmm.”
You feel heat bloom through you at his implication despite all you had just done and you wrap your arms tighter around his middle, nuzzling further against him and kissing the exposed skin on his chest, your soft hum of agreement warm against his flesh.
“I do hope so.”
A/N: my sort of return, i'm not going to make any promises about anything because idk how inspired I'll be to write atm. I've been feeling a bit like i've lost my spark so i'm trying to just power through and find the enjoyment in writing again.
Please no part two requests and if any comments are left keeping it respectful and kind is all i ask for!
