About Me: I'm Zee (she/her), trying to fight the writers block dragon! I hope you enjoy my work :)
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Recent Posts: maekar x wife!reader angst req, DIL!B insecure drabble, ormund x targtower!reader, jealousy - DIL!reader, DIL!B smutty drabble, ormund hightower x wife!reader, another maekar x reader req, spoilt DIL!M moment, maekar x reader req, baelor x reader req, remember my name - tom wambsgans, young FILs with DIL!reader, baelor's moustache - DIL!reader, president!baelor drabble 3, sex therapist!baelor, a change in him - baelor, tmm!scene, personality change - DIL!M, president!baelor drabble 2, hot day w/ DILs, president!baelor drabble, too busy - DIL!reader, secret wedding - DIL!reader, swapping DILs - pt & w&p, president baelor p4
The Dream (Maekar Targaryen x Wife!reader, Maekarlings x Mum!reader)
Request
A/N: Got this awesome request a while ago but I put on some sad music and finally got to it today. I should be sleeping right now but I hit flow state y’all. Edit: I made myself cry with this one…
Summary: Daeron has been uneasy from the moment you told your children you were with child once more. He cannot explain it, only that he sees things and that they make him uneasy. You and Maekar do your best to comfort him, but as the child begins to arrive, the sorts of things the boy sees begin to come to pass.
Word count: ~3.7k
Tags: 18+/MDNI, AFAB reader, ANGST, pregnancy, birthing miscomplications (descriptions of blood), major character death, no happy ending, just pure plain angst and fear and death :(, never proofread, (please let me know if I missed any)
Disclaimer: I do not own any ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not claim to own any of the ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so. Your media consumption is your own responsibility.
Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)
Daeron shoved some hair out of his face as he sat nervously at your bedside. He chewed on his lip, tapped his little foot, but his anxious eyes never strayed from you. You were tired, he could see it painted around your eyes and mouth, the way you groaned if you shifted and how your breaths were often heavier than not. He could see it in the way you attempted to smile but could never reach it fully, the way your eyes fluttered every once in a while and you threatened to fall back into sleep. He could even see it in the way you caressed your own belly, round and protruding from under the sheets, ready to release the babe at any moment.
“I can almost see the thoughts running around in your head like little people, my little owl,” you called to him, smiling a bit brighter than before when he glanced up to your face. You held out your hand to him and he abandoned the stool he had been sitting on to slip in beside you on the bed, tucking his legs under the sheet and turning to snuggle heavily into you. He wrapped his arm over you, in the lower space between your belly and chest, and then pressed his face to your neck, sighing long and low. He was practically trembling in your arms and you frowned as you began caressing his back, soft little motions of your fingertips up and down the lenght of his spine.
“What is it, my little owl?” You asked quietly, tilting your head to press a kiss to the top of his head. You loved his bronzey curls, soft and so different to your Aerion and Aemon’s pale white hair, to your little Daella’s hair so perfectly matching your own. He did not say anything at first, just lay there and breathed you in before slowly lifting his head up and asking,
“Why do you call me a little owl?” He looked sad asking it, pouting, but you just huffed a tired laugh and reached out to press your index finger to his nose. Your boy was ten namedays old now, and he was smarter by the minute.
“Owls are creatures of the night, you know. They stay up all the evening long, live their lives in the evening, and they fly silently, barely noticeable, but they are intelligent, known to be wise. You are like my own little owl,” at this you smiled and caressed his soft face, his forehead and plump cheeks, tickling him under the chin. “When you were a babe, you would stay up all night, even when you were not crying, you would simply stay awake and blink up at the ceiling. Even now, though you attempt to pretend otherwise, I know you are awake most nights. And though you are quiet, my little one, I know how clever and how wise you are, right up here,” you tapped his forehead again.
Daeron nodded then sat up and leaned against your belly, resting his head there on top of his folded hands. He blinked slowly at you, then began tracing the embroidery on the bedsheets, circling flowers and leaves. You could sense his worry, could sense that he wished to speak but did not know how, so you simply reached out and continued to caress his hair as you spoke.
“It is the same way Aerion is my little dragon. He is fierce, he has the temper of one. He used to scream and cry like a dragon roars. He would go so red I once thought perhaps he would breathe fire.” At this Daeron huffed a small giggle, pressing his face to your stomach to hide it.
“And Aemon is my little fawn, because though he is timid, he loves being around his family. And Daella is a little mouse, because she is still very small, and sometimes when she scrunches her nose it reminds me of a mouse,” you giggled at yourself, at the nicknames you came up with for your children, random but fun. Daeron nodded, as if it was all very serious and important.
“What will the new babe be?” He asked then, his voice going quieter, more grave, and you hummed in thought.
“Hm, our Aegon,” you pondered aloud, and then you furrowed your brows and looked down at Daeron. “I am not sure yet. What do you think he will be, little owl?”
Daeron too hummed in thought, still tracing the patterns on the sheets. He did not answer for a while.
“I think,” he began mumbling, “he will be like a dragon too. But not in the way Aerion is.” He frowned a little, pinching and releasing the fabric now instead of simply tracing it. “I think he will be like those large old dragons, like Balerion and Vhagar. Regal and majestic, not- not angry.”
You smiled at that, pinching his cheek and humming in delight.
“That makes me very happy,” you told him softly.
Daeron did not say anything for a little while, just lay against you and listened to you hum, but then he opened his mouth once more and mumbled, “I have been having dreams again.” You paused, going very still, and looked down at him. You shifted, sitting up a little, then returned your attention fully to your son. You caressed his head once more, nodding at him to go on. “They scare me.” You could feel his lips moving against your stomach with the way he pressed himself down to you, and your heart panged in your chest. “I cannot understand what they are trying to tell me. I just…” he murmured something you could not understand this time, but you prompted him to repeat it with a little ‘hm?’ of your own. “I hear the babe crying. It is screaming and crying and cannot be soothed. And… And I hear you. I can hear you screaming. I see you in the bed,” and he began to cry, soft little whimpers, tears rushing to his eyes as his breaths began to shake. “I can see you, mother, and you are all bloody, all over. And-and-” his hands clenched into the bedsheets, into your dress underneath them. “You are crying first, mother, you are crying and shaking your head and begging, and then you just stop. And sometimes you are just laying there, eyes closed, and sometimes you are all clean again and holding the babe and smiling at it and-”
“Shh, shh,” you quickly reached out and waited until Daeron had crawled back up, had thrown himself over you and wrapped his arms tight around your neck. You hushed him, softly and gently, kissing the side of his little head as your throat filled with a lump you could not swallow. “Hush now, little one, hush now,” you soothed, clenching your own eyes shut as you hugged him tight. He was still bony the way some children were at this age, all gangly limbs that he would slowly grow into, and you simply clutched him as tight as you could, attempting to breathe slowly as the images he had conjured filled your mind. But no, no, you could not focus on that either.
“Mother, please, do not- do not-” he began blubbering too much before he could say anything else and your own face crumpled, eyes filling with tears as you shook your head and shushed your boy again.
“No, no, do not even think such thoughts dearest,” you whispered to him, rubbing your hand up and down his back, kissing his hair, his forehead. “It is only a dream. Sometimes dreams can be very scary. Sometimes they scare us even when we are awake. But it is alright. Mother’s here.”
You clutched your boy tighter and silently cried against the top of his head. You felt like a liar. You knew the realities of the birthing bed. Though your past pregnancies had done well enough, you could never be promised true safety. You could not make any promises to your son. And it made you feel sick. It made you feel like a sick, sick, liar.
“Mother’s here,” you whispered to him once more, and he nodded, though he continued crying for a while longer.
By the time Maekar returned to your chambers, both Aerion and Aemon had come to join you and Daeron as well. Daella had already been put to sleep by the nursemaid, but Aerion and Aemon refused to leave your side, just as their brother. Daeron curled up under one of your arms, Aerion took the other, and little Aemon, still a chubby toddler to you, clambered all over your pregnant belly (sometimes making you huff when he knocked the wind out of you).
Though Maekar let out a long groan at the sight of his bed full of children, he was secretly pleased to see his brood all smiling and laughing, curled up with their mother. It filled his heart right to the brim.
You smiled brightly at him as walked over, reaching your hand out to him. He rounded the bed and first leaned down to press a tender kiss to your lips before he began tickling and ruffling up all the boys on the bed. He paused in his mission to check on you, reaching up and cupping your cheek to tilt your head up to him. He frowned at what he saw, noting the tiredness in your eyes, the darker tint underneath, and he was instantly all business once more.
“All of you, to your own beds now,” he ordered, picking Aemon up and waving his hand at Aerion and Daeron. Aerion pouted, brows furrowing with anger as he began to argue, but Daeron just curled up further and pressed to your arm. “I said now,” Maekar repeated firmly, glaring at Aerion until the boy huffed, pressed an angry kiss to your cheek, murmured a ‘goodnight, muña’, and then stomped off. “You as well, Daeron,” Maekar ordered, now turning his gaze to his eldest son, but the boy had his eyes closed and pressed his face to your arm.
You frowned a little at him. Your boy had always been clingy, had always preferred to stick to you more than anyone else, but he had not been like this, not for a long time anyway. You caressed his head once more, noted how fragile he still looked, but sighed and nudged his nose with the tip of your finger.
“It is alright, little owl,” you whispered, coaxing him to look at you. “Father will put you to bed, he will tuck you up tight, give you enough kisses from the both of us, and when tomorrow comes, you and I will find ourselves something fun to do together, just us.”
Daeron pulled away from you finally, blinking his big eyes up at you with a spark of hope. You wanted to cry, wanted to gather him up and keep him secure with you forever.
“Promise, mother? Just us?” He asked, voice small, and you nodded, leaning forward and pressing a firm kiss to his forehead.
“Promise, just us.”
Daeron nodded then, kissed your cheek one last time, and hauled himself off the bed, reaching up to hold Maekar’s hand as he walked both boys out of your room. Your husband turned to offer you one last look, murmuring how he would return shortly, and you only blew him a kiss in return.
It was late that evening, when all the candles had been blown out and the hearths had dimmed down to embers, when the owls hooted and all the princes and princesses slept, that the birth began.
+++
Daeron was not meant to be awake. He should have been asleep. He knew both mother and father would be cross at him for being awake. But he had heard footsteps rushing outside of his door, and sleep never came easy in the evenings, so he could do nothing but leave and follow.
He caught a maid just turning the corner at the end of the hall, running quickly and disappearing, her plain gown just a flutter. He frowned, rubbing the residual tiredness from his eyes, and followed. He could hear more commotion around the corner, and he found all the flurry of activity outside his mother and father’s bedchambers.
“We need more water, hot and cold both. And cloths, Minara, more cloths!”
“Someone have the fire stoked-”
“Where is Septa Cyren-”
“Has the maester been-”
Daeron shoved himself close to the wall and stayed there, his heart pounding. His eyes flitted this way and that, following all the people who came rushing in or out of the chambers. He caught snippets of conversation, words that trailed off when the doors opened, and then screaming.
It was loud. A curdling scream, pure pain. Daeron had never heard anything like that. It was a howl, really, something a dying animal might make, he guessed. His hands trembled further as the scream began to die off. He could only see the wood of the chamber doors, the barest peak in when they opened, but nothing past the wall, nothing actually within the chambers themselves.
“...she has been asking for you, over and over, and though we usually would not call, she seems very distressed this time. We do not want her wasting energy on this.” His father appeared around the corner as well, dressed simply the way he would be in the evenings, eyes puffy and hair more mussed than usual. He was frowning, though it was not his usual scowl but more one of worry. Daeron watched his body go rigid at the words of the Septa, watched his eyes dart to the door to the chambers.
Just as Maekar reached them, he looked down the hall and noticed Daeron cowering by one of the end tables, pressed to the wall as if to hide. His frown deepened and he sighed, half frustrated and half tired. He marched over to his son, beckoning him to stand and glaring down at him.
“Why are you awake? You should be in bed.”
Daeron just blinked up at him at first, chewing on his lip, then he glanced in the direction of the chamber doors. Maekar’s face softened, just a tad, and he gently ran his hand over Daeron’s head, pressing the boy to his leg in a pseudo-hug before letting him go. He opened his mouth to speak when the screaming began again.
It was far too loud even from behind closed doors, and Maekar’s head snapped in its direction. He let go of Daeron and rushed into the doors, slamming them shut behind him. Daeron retreated to his spot against the wall, his entire body trembling. He blinked his eyes, quickly then slowly but hard, but nothing made the world change. Nothing made the screaming stop or magically found him back in his bed.
“What is the meaning of this…” He heard his father’s growl behind the door, the sound of sobbing, loud and pained. He knew it was his mother. He knew it. Daeron clenched his hands into his tunic and simply stared at the chamber doors.
“What the fuck do you mean complications, speak it plainly…”
“...breach, my prince…. The wrong way…”
“How the fuck do you fix it then? Do not blather…”
The screaming began again and Daeron clenched his eyes shut, pressed himself harder to the wall, until it hurt, until dust stuck to his shirt and trousers and his skin throbbed with pain. He pressed his hands to his ears and whimpered, but the screaming dissolved into sobbing and he cried too. He could hear his mother crying, he knew it was her. He wanted to be with her. He did not want to her mother crying, he wanted her crying to stop.
“Daeron?” A small mumble, he turned around to find Aerion come pattering up the hall, cheeks and lips puffed out as he rubbed sleepily at his eyes. “Who is screaming?” He asked, blinking blearily up at his big brother.
Daeron could not find words to say to him. He did not know what to say. He finally managed to break out, “the babe is coming.”
“Oh,” Aerion nodded, then frowned at the doors to the chambers where now there was scuffling and thuds and their father’s voice but unintelligible. “Does it hurt to have a babe?”
Daeron only nodded. He was overcome with fear, overcome with the images of his dreams. He could hear it so clearly, see it so clearly, his mother on the bed, writhing in pain, begging for something he could not give, did not know how to give.
“...fucking save her damnit!”
Daeron’s breath stuttered in his chest when something banged loudly from inside the room. Aerion too jumped at the noise, his face falling now, his lower lip trembling and a fearful little pout coming onto his lips. The younger boy stepped closer to Daeron, clutching at his loose shirt, and Daeron simply stood there beside his brother, trembling as they listened to the loud sobbing through the door.
“Is that muña?” Aerion asked, his voice gaining a higher pitch. The boy trembled more than Daeron now, both his fists coming to hold onto Daeron’s shirt. Soft sniffles started to shake him, his lower lip gaining a tremor.
“...what can be done? Please, tell me what can be done, I will…”
Daeron pressed harder to the wall once more, blinking harshly as the fear burned in him, as his eyes stung with it. He had never heard his father like that. Had never heard his father so… begging. Maekar was always firm, the warrior. Maekar never wavered. Why did Maekar sound like that?
Daeron saw it again, his mother on the bed, covered in blood, twitching then still. Twitching then still. Twitching then still. Twitching then-
“I do not fucking care! Save her fucking life you-”
Aerion whimpered then, pressing his face to Daeron’s back, and Daeron could only reach and touch his head softly. He stared at the hallway, empty now of the rushing maids and septas. He saw the sconces, the fire flickering in them, the dark sky outside the window at the end of the hall, crystal clear with stars blinking.
The screaming began again, long and even more pained than before, mixing with Aerion’s whimpering as he hugged his brother tight. But this time when the screaming faded, there was another sound, wailing, long and high pitched, crackling from fresh lungs. Aerion hugged Daeron even tighter, but tilted his head up at that, frowning as he blinked through tears.
“That is the babe,” Daeron muttered, a spark of hope inside him, no bigger than a kernel of fire. The babe was out then. The babe was out and mother could rest, and tomorrow, tomorrow it would be just them. She would wipe the nightmares away, would tell him that the dreams had simply scared him while he was awake, but Mother was there. Mother was there.
Daeron held tight to Aerion, let his eyes flutter shut, leaned into the wall, but amidst the babe’s crying, other voices rose, high and hurried, not yelling but loud and panicked.
“...too much blood, stop the bleeding…”
This time the crying was quieter, not the babe’s, but yours. Daeron closed his eyes and shook his head, tried to shake the sound right out of it, but it would not go. You were crying, pained and tired, and he could hear it over the babe’s quieted whimpering.
“...it is alright…” that was his father, quieter than he had been all evening.
“...my boys… all my beautiful boys…” Daeron shuddered, lurched forward toward the door. He stumbled, Aerion yelping, still clutching tight to the shirt on his back, almost bringing him down. Daeron shoved him off and continued forward, breath ragged. He reached the door, gripped the handle and shoved, stepping in. He could hear mother, surely she was calling for them, Aerion stumbling into his back.
There you lay, closer to the left side of the bed where you always lay in the evenings. Father was at your side, clutching your hand tightly between both of his and staring at your face, saying something, anguished. Your hair was splayed around you, stuck to you with your sweat. You were red, or, no, your dress was red, drenched really. Down your legs, up to your waist and stomach. Your face was pained, clenched into some expression Daeron had never seen on you before. He could only see the red, a bright wash. Then a Septa was gasping, pressing her hands to his shoulders and shoving him back out of the door and slamming it shut.
But Daeron could still see it, the red blood seeping through your clothes. He could see you twitching and going still. Was it the dream still, or had he just seen it? He blinked his eyes, once, then twice, then hurriedly a few times. But the image stayed, the image stayed pressed there as if someone held it there.
Aerion cried profusely now, clinging to Daeron, shaking and sobbing and yelling for muña. He pressed his face to Daeron’s stomach, clenched his hands into Daeron’s shirt, and sobbed. Daeron held tight to Aerion in return. Or maybe he did not. He could not quite tell what his limbs did. He too only wanted Mother. You had promised tomorrow would be just you two. You had promised.
Then there was a loud long moan of pain. It was like an animal dying. It was like the last sound a stag made before the hunt slaughtered it. It was like the lone wolf, crying out for it’s mate. It was the last dragon’s dying breath. Daeron stared at the door through which the sound came, through which his Father made that sound.
Daeron fell back against the wall, taking Aerion with him. His little brother curled up against him, sobbing in fear and confusion, begging for his mother. Daeron curled up around Aerion, pressing his face to the back of the boy’s head the way you always did when they snuggled into you. He clenched his eyes shut. You promised. You had promised.
hi!! I loved your Maekar x wife reader shared bathe story and picked up that reader wants a baby?? I was wondering if you wrote angst and if so, could the reader be pregnant and she’s happy and Maekar is neutral yet content but Daeron has foreseen the ending of this pregnancy and he worries for his mother (same mother who has coddled him his whole life) and she assures him she’ll be fine but spoilers the labor is difficult and reader is just in pain and the babe is breached and Maekar tells the maesters to fix it and save his wife and readers just pushing to the end, and it’s so sad and gruesome and like you can visually see her slipping as you read it and Daeron is somewhere with his head in his hands shaking because he’s worried for his mother and the other children are worried but of course don’t have visions like Daeron. Maekar is pulled out of the room by maesters and told the babe is breached and there is no way to save both mother and child, he demands reader to be saved, but spoilers, the maesters had spoken with readers mama and papa who were in town for the birth (because a ceremony for the child idk was supposed to happen) and they gave one of the maesters the go to slice their daughter and save the babe and so they do without the consent of Maekar and readers screams are so earth shattering that Maekar is screaming “what have you done?!” At the maesters and it’s like the death of Aemma Arryn all over again instead like Maekar actually fought for his wife. You can tweak stuff but I really love angst and something about a tragic romance ending in death is so idk gothically romantic?? Anywho, have a good morning and in case I don’t see ya, have good afternoon, a good evening, and a goodnight. 🐉🖤
Hiiii! I am so sorry for taking forever to get to this, but I have to be in a very specific mood to write this type of angst, and it has taken me a while to get there :’). Also, I was just hit with some inspiration on what angle to take with it so I’m getting there now! Thank you so much for sending this in and I got way too emosh with this...
Hi, sorry for two in a row but my brain can't handle it!
Imagine PT!reader hearing whispers from other noble ladies about how her appearance isn't good enough for her husband. Of course, she doesn't really care about the whole 'her husband' thing but if she's not good enough for Valarr, is she good enough for Father?
I'm not quite sure if your brain gets the brain worms from this but hear me out! She goes to Baelor crying, and she's like “Father, do I look ugly to you? Am— Am I not worthy of your love and attention?” and obviously he wants to know who said that and goes crazy internally.
Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry for the two paragraph rambling! I didn't expect it to get this long! I'm sORRRY—
Hiiii, I am so so sorry for taking forever to get to this! No excuses, I know, but thank you for being so patient with me! (Also, pls do not ever worry about sending multiple asks or long rambles in my inbox, I absolutely love when people are passionate and ramble and send me any kind of ask! I am just so grateful that people want to interact with me and want to discuss ideas and communicate with me, and that they trust me with these ideas they have had! So yes, just, thank you and do not ever worry abt this!)
Ok, so, I LOVE this idea!!! This is gonna sound so horrible but I love writing insecure reader being comforted by a character (self-projecting much lolll) and Baelor is genuinely perfect for this scenario, especially Baelor in PT!!!!
Wrote a little thing for it here because I cannnn! My aim with my fanfic is to make it as inclusive as possible, which means that I do not try to specify anything about the body so that literally anyone anywhere can put themselves into the scenario. I tried to go with insecurity things that do not directly relate to the physical body, so I hope it comes across ok!
Word count: ~2.1k
Tags: 18+/MDNI, AFAB reader, (significant) age gap, younger!reader (20s), daughter in law!reader, father in law!baelor, light angst, insecure!reader, hurt/comfort, nothing much else really, (please let me know if I missed any)
Disclaimer: I do not own any ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not claim to own any of the ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. Your media consumption is your own responsibility.
Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)
“It’s rather unfortunate, you know, but she is young I suppose, she has time to learn.” Those were the first words you caught as you traversed the path that curled behind the gazebo. You were hidden by thick shrubs, a cliff dropping off to one side, the shrubs on the other, and behind the shrubs was the table where all the ladies were gathered for their afternoon tea.
“Yes, yes, but… hm, you would think that these sorts of things would be innate to a future queen, at least you would hope they would be.” Another voice, a little further away than the first, followed by hums of agreement and sips from cups.
You felt your heart drop into your stomach, a tremor developing in your hands that went clammy at the same time. A lump already forming in your throat. They were talking about you. You should not be hearing this.
“It is only just… she is clumsy, tripping and hopping all over the place like she’s only just learnt to walk. She has no grace.” A chorus of titters, a pang in your heart, your hands clenching into the skirts of your gown.
“And often she speaks too much. Seven bless the girl but silence is better sometimes.” You felt the tears burn fiercely now, like little fires behind your eyes.
“And her dresses, hm,” another lady, Lady Manderley you guessed from the pitch and intonation. You could practically see her raised eyebrow. “One can never tell what the girl will wear next. Sometimes they are far too inappropriate, figure-hugging or low-cut, something a high-priced whore might have commissioned.” You pressed your hands to your eyes, shaking where you stood. Why were you still standing here, still torturing yourself with this? “Or otherwise they are just plain ugly! Ghastly colours and fabrics.”
“I just… I find it difficult to see how she was found to be a suitable match for the Prince Valarr. She is simply… well, she is simply un-suitable.”
It was at this that you finally moved away, running down the path and back into the Keep, tears streaming down your cheeks. You could feel the pain in your chest like a sharp, spiky rock. It was in the lump in your throat, in the burn in your eyes and the weakness of your hands. You felt sick, pathetic, as small as a mouse.
You sped through the halls, not knowing where your feet were carrying you, but simply running. You just needed to run. Run away from those awful women and their awful words, words that sent little spikes into your skin. Words that settled into the back of your mind, whispering to you like the call of the Stranger to the dead. It was like they had chosen everything that already made you feel sick to your stomach with worry everyday, like they chose those things specifically to ensure they would hurt you the most. It was like hearing the voice at the back of your mind outside of your own head.
A sob punched from your chest, harsh and painful, pressing through your throat and out of your mouth. Your nose ran, your tears smeared all over your cheeks and dripped from your jaw. You wanted to curl up into a small ball and disappear, you wanted to run and keep running until you became the air.
Neither was possible when you came to a halt in a random hallway in some random wing of the Keep. You were not quite sure where you had ended up. All the walls in the Keep were far too similar, and you only ever knew where you were when you had paid attention to the place you had been before, to the path you had taken to get there. But you were blank, having run on instinct, and now you were lost as well.
You pressed yourself to the little alcove and collapsed to the floor, a heap of pink fabric, wind-ruffled hair, and tears. You rubbed at your eyes but each time you took a deep breath to gather yourself, you dissolved once more. You could hear their voices in your ears as if they were still there.
“Dearest?” It was a quiet call to your attention, a confused voice, and you wiped at your eyes again, blinked quickly to clear them, and looked up to find Baelor standing there just in front of you, a deep frown set to his eyes and mouth.
You dissolved into tears and sobs once more. He was the only person you wanted to see at this moment, the only person you craved. It was a firm longing in your body, something in your mind that screamed ‘please’ at the idea of him being near you. You shook with your sobs as he got on his knees with a grunt and quickly wrapped you up in his arms, dragging you against him and tucking your face to his chest.
“Father,” you sobbed, eyes clenched shut, body shaking. You pressed your face to him, sucked in lungfuls of his fresh scent, burrowed against him. He was warm, blazing really, and it engulfed you as he pressed a hand to the back of your head as his other arm wrapped around your back.
He shushed you, gentle little sounds, murmuring how everything would be alright, how he was there, “I am here, I am here.” He caressed your hair, your back, pressed you impossibly closer, and you allowed yourself to melt there, to cry.
You pulled back when your breath calmed a little. Not fully, but your heaves became pants and the tremor in your hands settled just a fraction, and you were able to blink and see clearly again. You swiped your hands over your face, pushed your hair back, and then blinked up at him with a pained expression. He instantly reached up and cupped your cheek in his hand, running his thumb back and forth over your cheek, occasionally catching the corner of your mouth. It was the most comforting feeling of all, his callouses and the general roughness of his palm, the warmth of him pressed right there. He smelt of ink and parchment and skin and you were desperate to press your face to his neck and to feel the delicate skin there against your cheeks and nose and forehead, to inhale there, to kiss it.
“What is it, my girl?” He finally asked, and you inhaled, pressed your lips tightly together as they began to quiver, and nodded until you felt able to speak.
“Why did you and Valarr choose me for his bride?” You asked, and it was clearly not what he had been expecting.
“What?” His eyebrows furrowed, and his thumb stalled against your face.
“What was it about me that made you accept the match, that ensured to you that I was a- that I was a suitable choice?” Your voice was heavy, still near to tears, on the edge of something, and it made Baelor’s heart pang in his chest. He could not fathom why this was coming up now, but he just tightened his hand against your face and pulled you closer. He pressed a quick kiss to your forehead, right between your eyebrows.
“Well, it was Valarr who suggested it. I allowed him his choice, but I knew he had chosen well when I first met you.” You blinked up at him at this, your brows still furrowed, eyes still pained. “You are beautiful, there is no doubt of that,” and he smiled a little to himself as he said it. “It was obvious then, and you are somehow even more beautiful to me every day since. But it was not just your beauty that captured me, but everything else.”
You swallowed harshly at that, clutching to him tighter.
“You speak freely, joyfully, making conversation with anyone and everyone. I am sure you are a favourite of all the handmaids and messengerboys for with you they find a listening ear and an enthusiastic conversationalist, regardless of their own station.” He smiled wider at that, running his thumb over your bottom lip as if to emphasize the point. “And you are so utterly joyful. There is joy in your countenance, in the way you skip through the halls, the way you stumble over steps and proceed to laugh at yourself before hopping along anyway. There is joy in the way you adorn yourself, full of bright colours and new fashions. You bring light to this Keep, my dear. Your mere presence brings light to the place. We oft need it, living in the darkness of our expectations and evils in this stone palace.”
He always knew what to say. Always. Without knowing anything, he smoothed over every hurt you ever received. He did not love you in spite of your insecurities, but rather for them. What you hated about yourself, he loved. What you wished to change, he wished would remain the same forever.
You leaned forward, and before he could get another word out, you kissed him. It was gentle, your lips pressing to his, the side of your nose brushing his. His lips were a little dry, but he returned it just as gently, kissing you lightly in return. When you pulled back, he swiped away the lone tear that had slipped from your eye.
“Am I suitable for you?” You asked then, chewing on your lip as you reached up and cupped his cheek in return. His beard rubbed against your palm and you pressed your hand even firmer there, imprinting the feeling to your skin.
“Is that even a question?” He asked in return, furrowing his brow as if it was preposterous to think otherwise. You shook your head, hesitant, and he nodded in affirmation, leaning down and pressing another chaste kiss to your lips. “Good. The answer is most obvious.” You let out a pathetic little chuckle at that, a watery thing as you sniffled and shook your head.
The two of you were silent for a few moments, your eyes fluttering closed as you allowed yourself to simply bask in his presence and caresses. But Baelor would not let this sit, would not find peace until you told him what had happened.
“What has happened, dearest?” He asked again, gentler this time, voice barely above a whisper. You gulped, fluttered your eyes open, but instead of looking at him, you bowed your head and stared at your hands fiddling together in your lap.
“I overheard some ladies speaking about the multitude of ways they found me unsuitable for Valarr and as a future queen.” You shrugged, attempted to smile as if to joke it away, but you watched Baelor’s face break into a frown, watched his jaw tick as he clenched it. “I do not care if I am suitable for Valarr, he is happy enough as he is, but… But if I am not suitable for him, then how could I be suitable for you? It is really only you who I care about.”
Baelor’s hands tightened then loosened, returning to their caresses at your face and back. He sighed, his frown deepening, and dropped his head a little as he shook it.
“There are loose tongues aplenty in this Keep,” he murmured, and you huffed a chuckle in response. He paused for a moment, as if gathering what he was going to say, before he lifted his head again and looked you right in the eye. “People love to form opinions and offer them unsolicited, dearest,” he began, that sage tone in his voice when he was saying something very serious but very important. “People will judge others, will say what they think and why they think it. Many believe themselves to be right, that theirs alone is the judgement to follow, but we must remember to be confident in ourselves, to trust ourselves, and to carry that confidence within ourselves wherever we go. You are beautiful, kind, and perfect as you are. Do not let the twittering of the hens distract you.” He raised an eyebrow at that and you smiled, nodding firmly then giggling and nodding again until he nodded in return and leaned down to kiss you.
Yes, he was right. If you were happy, if you enjoyed your life and your choices, then surely you were doing something right. And if he loved you? Well then surely that was a sign that you were more than suitable.
ok, I got really frustrated with tumblr for the whole issue (tumblr support still hasn't gotten back to me btw 😵) and took a step back for a little while, but I feel like writing soooo badly right now that I just had to get back on for a bit lollll! Anyway, if whatever I post gets flagged, just know that I am uploading it all to AO3 at the same time rn (trying to be better about this especially rn) so you can go read it on there if you would like! I will try to link it either in the post or somehow if I can!
I've said it before and I'll say it again. We need a "This is absolutely NOT mature content" feedback button on posts. You can report a post as missing a community label. We should also be able to report posts as having a comminity label when they dont fucking need one.
“We are going to look tomorrow, I hope?” You plop down onto the seat before the fire in Hugh's rooms.
“Yes… I said we would. My word is good.” He lifts an eyebrow as he looks over at you, an amused lilt to his voice.
You sigh and lean back in your chair. “My apologies.”
He puts his hand up as if to silence you.
You look into the fire and swallow audibly. You know that you should be grateful—grateful to be alive after the gracious Queen Rhaenyra sent you to the slaughter.
You can close your eyes and still smell the blood, feel the fire curling over your shoulder blades, and see Hugh's face—the man who didn't even know you, yet was all too willing to sacrifice himself to let you live another day. You, a simple washmaid, hardly worth the live of a blacksmith. Yet there he stood screaming into the face of the beast while you ran. That has to be why that beast chose him. No fear. Unlike you, who cowered behind a rock, more than happy to let Hugh die for you.
The queen had been too cheap to provide the surviving dragonseeds with passage back to King's Landing. So, of course, with all her grace, she added you to the staff, while Hugh and that idiot Ulf got dragons and plush rooms. You shared a room with four other maids and spent your days scrubbing linens.
But not for long. There were wild dragons on this godforsaken island, and Hugh had promised to help you find one.
“I brought you some wine from dinner. I was unable to sneak food away; I apologize.” He hands you the half-full cask of wine, and you take it.
You mimic his earlier gesture, raising your hand with a smirk. “No apologies. You have done more than enough for someone like me.”
He huffs at this. “Someone like you? A fellow Targaryen bastard? We are not so different, you and I.”
You scoff and look up at the ceiling, your fingers digging into the fabric of your ashen-covered dress, frustration rippling through you. “Except you are a dragon rider, and I am a maid. The gods have chosen you for greatness, and me… they have forgotten.” You sip the lukewarm wine and grimace. The traces of cinnamon and clove tingle across your tongue, but you know, at this point, the wine doesn't taste half as good as it did for them—the dragon riders. The ones who matter.
“A dragon chose Ulf. Clearly, this has nothing to do with the gods and everything to do with luck.” He chuckles and gazes at you with a boyish grin.
“How much of this have you already had?” you chuckle and take another swig. “One day mine will still be warm when I drink it.”
“It will. We will find you a dragon, little one.” He tosses some more kindling in the fire. “Perhaps the most wild of them all; it would suit you.”
You scoff playfully, the wine beginning to have its intended effects. “Have you heard… from your wife?” You nervously play with your fingers in your lap. It's probably not proper for you to ask him about his wife—not after what happened between you when he brought you to meet his beast.
His face grows stern, and he looks ahead. “I have not.” You can see his large, calloused hands curl around the arms of the chair in which he sits. You have watched him send raven after raven to his wife, only to be met with silence.
“Maybe your messages are being intercepted.” An awkward silence fills the space, interrupted only by the crackling fire and your not-so-subtle gulp of wine.
“You drink like a Braavosi sailor,” he says, keeping a completely straight face.
You burst out laughing, spraying wine from your mouth to dribble down your chin. “You would as well if you were a downtrodden maid with nothing to look forward to but leftover wine!”
He laughs—a big, boisterous laugh that sends tingles through your body from your toes to your center. “Your laugh… it is so handsome, if it is not too bold of me to say.”
He turns his head to look at you, his eyes soft but sad. “I cannot lay my hands on you again. Not until I hear from my wife. It is improper. I need to know she has left me.”
“You are a good man, Hugh. Much too good for the likes of me.”
The room falls silent again, and you nervously sip on your wine.
“That is not true,” he finally says, his voice quiet. “You are not the issue here. The issue is me. I am married.”
You nod in understanding and tap on your knee. “So you mustn't lay hands on me.”
He nods, a solemn expression on his face “ As well as I must not allow you to lay hands on me.” He takes the wine and gulps a generous mouthful. “As much as it may pain me to decline your company.”
You get up from your chair and make your way to his bed behind you.
“Little one… do not tempt me. I ask for your kindness,” he says without turning around, his desperation evident in his tone.
“I wish not to tempt you. Only to follow your rules. I may not touch you… but I may of course touch myself?” You crawl onto your back and lay on his bed, parting your thighs and rucking up your dress. “If you choose to watch… well…”
You slide your hand into your underclothes, finding the wet warmth that already awaits you there.
Hugh's fingers claw into the arms of his chair as he fights to stay put, but with your first breathy moan, he is immediately up from his chair and sauntering over.
“What am I to watch if your small clothes stay in place?” he growls, standing at the edge of the bed, his eyes locked on the tantalizing view between your thighs.
“Oh, pardon my rudeness, dear dragon rider. Let me correct this most egregious of sins post haste.” You quickly slide the small clothes down your legs and cast them from the bed before spreading your legs wide and bringing your hand back to its rightful place, swirling your engorged nub.
Hugh grunts, his own hand rubbing the front of his breeches. “You seem to be experienced in this… particular sin.” His breathing picks up as he slowly starts to undo the laces of his breeches.
“I may not know how to claim a dragon…” you moan loudly, sliding your hand down to your entrance to collect more of your delicious wetness before resuming your hasty circular motions. “But this… this I know how to do.”
Hugh pants with wide eyes as he finally gets his laces free, pulling out his hardened cock, which he squeezes.
“Come closer,” you plead as you arch off the bed, your moans becoming more needy, your thighs parting impossibly wide.
“No. I cannot—” he grunts again, his hand now making quick strokes along his girth, a faint slapping sound filling the air like a beautiful carnal melody. “If I do, I fear I will lose control.” While he says this, he steps closer to the foot of the bed. “I have a spectacular view from here.”
You raise your head enough to see Hugh, his lustful gaze locked onto your heat, the vision of him panting and the sound of his slapping skin pushing you right to the edge. Your hand moves in wild, wide circles as you gasp before falling pliantly back on the bed.
You again lift your head to see Hugh gripping the bedpost, the evidence of his enjoyment scattered atop the linens.
You lay back and pant. “Why did I do such a thing?” you chuckle between labored breaths.
Hugh's head snaps up. “I did not wish for you to do something you would regret.” He hastily starts to fix his pants.
“No, it…” You sigh and chuckle, forcing yourself to sit up. “I wash the linens.”
With that, Hugh breaks out into a great big smile. “Then I think it best we make quick work of finding you a dragon hmm?”
If tumblr won't let you post your recent fic on here, will you post it on ao3? I'm excited to read it 🥹
Awww thank you queen!!! This actually made me a little teary eyed :')
I just went onto AO3 and finally uploaded all my works so my AO3 is caught up with everything!
I also uploaded the Ormund fic on there too!
Here is the link to the fic on AO3: Dirty Blood
Summary: All you have ever wanted was to live up to the Hightower name and please Lord Ormund. But you have a critical flaw: being born a Targaryen.
I would say it's a little darker than other things I've written so please just heed the tags and warnings attached.
And here is the link to my AO3 page if you want to read any of the other fics on AO3 instead: scarletrobins
Thank you so much for this, I know it might seem small but I've been really bothered by the whole tumblr issue thing and this made me feel better hehehe :)
just posted an Ormund fic and it was instantly flagged so... 🙃
anyway, it's in appeal so hopefully it's back on my page soon. If I have to deal with all that crap on this blog too I might actually have a fit... pray for me gals 🙏
actually so frustrated right now!!! The entire point of making this side blog was to stop dealing with these issues but they have just followed me onto here.
I appealed the post, Tumblr emailed me and told me that my appeal had been accepted, but my post is still flagged and not viewable to anyone. Someone make it make sense.
The whole point of joining Tumblr was so that I could post my fanfics and easily interact with people in the fandoms I care about, but Tumblr's team and system are making it extremely hard for me to want to continue using this site. I put a lot of effort into writing my works, and I really care about them and the wonderful interactions I have with people on this site, but I'm genuinely so tired of dealing with this issue.
I got no support from Tumblr Support (ironic) on my main blog, and this same issue is happening on this one now too. I genuinely don't know what else to do now other than delete this account and solely focus on AO3 or smthn. Idk, I'm not going to do anything rash just based on emotions right now but I just wanted to share my issues with you guys so you know why things aren't popping up or anything, or even to see if anyone else has dealt with this issue.
@tumblr pls get a grip and actually help the users of your site, thank you.
Dreaded Deception (Ormund Hightower x reader, platonic!daeron targaryen x reader) 💕💔
You have raised Daeron practically as your own son, and when word reaches you that your husband has given him up to the Blacks, you are distraught. But not all is as it seems....
Dirty Blood (Ormund Hightower x Targtower!reader) 💔❤️🔥
Sent with your brother to Oldtown, all you have ever wanted was the approval and love of Ormund Hightower. But you have a critical flaw: being a Targaryen.
A/N:im so sorry to the anon who sent this in but again I started it in a draft that wasn’t a respond to your ask. My bad! Drabble Masterlist
Lenient
Ormund Hightower X F!Wife!Reader
Prompts: jealousy, bath sex
WC: 1.1k
“leave us.”
“m’lord you requested a bath be made up” the woman was carrying in a bucket of the soaps and oils that were used when you got cleaned.
“leave.” He reiterated to the maid, his eyes not leave you for a moment.
“Ormund,” you sighed as soon as the door to your shared chambers was closed. The feast had been uncomfortable for basically the entirety of it. Ormund shifting in his seat, eyes glaring your direction. He made conversation with anybody but you but the moment you attempted to stand to go join some of the dancing he had laid his palm across your lap. The messaging was clear. He wanted you to remain sat beside him. “I bathed this morning, my skin will grow dry.”
Lord Ormund Hightower, the man you’ve been wed to for close to four namedays now paid little mind to your concerns about skin irritation. Much larger concernes plagued his mind.
“I see now that I’ve been far too lenient.” He stood before the bath and tipped in a few vials of oil.
“lenient?” You almost laughed at that word choice. It felt like a scolding. That word hadn’t been directed at you since you were ten and two and your septa had been disappointed in some mostly innocent quest you’d gone on.
“I must be a better husband to you.” He continued and that made you frown, he was a fine husband. A entertaining and thoughtful one infact. Your hand touched his back and your brows furrowed.
“you’ve not done anything incorrectly husband-“ you began to assure him but he turned swiftly and his eyes sealed to your shoulder, collar and chest.
“I was not clear enough with you, nor firm enough.” You swallowed and your hands rose up to hold to your shoulders crossing over your chest as well, blocking where he was looking. Unease trickling down your spine.
“galavanting though my halls in something fit for a courtesan? I’ve let your humiliate yourself infront of the entire court!” His voice raised and you startled a bit.
“it’s a gown Ormund! It’s not anything proactive-“
“you do not see how they look upon you. What filthy thoughts they have about lady Hightower while you sit beside me, while you assure people they will be in your prayers on the morrow!?” You attempt to pull back from this entire confrontation but Ormund grabs your hip pulling you easily until your legs are flush to the large soaking tub. “Do you know what they think?” He growls into your ear from behind.
“I liked the color…the lace.” You reason.
“they imagine you knelt in that sacred space, bare in nothing but your veil while their name rolls off your lips.” It felt like a very specific depravity to be imagined.
“That is what you think of husband-even my collarbone startles you so?” You challenge looking over your shoulder at him. He clearly had been effected by the gown, by you specifically within in. Perhaps the dress was a bit less modest than normal but you did not think it was so shocking that lords were gawking at you?!
“I have already admitted my fault.” His hands were undoing your gowns laces, watching as it slipped down inch by inch until you had nothing but smallclothes on.
“which is?” You shive because his hand had wrapped around your waist and is currently drawing up towards your neck from your midsection.
“not controlling your beastly tendencies, letting you run about my city putting things on your body for you desire and allowing it because of mine.” His voice was deep and you felt warm in your stomach. Back leaning against him slightly. “I will cleanse you…so we might severe the gods and realm as intended.” His hands steadied over your shoulder once you were bare. He was notably still completely dressed. You assumed because whatever he was going to do if he became undressed at the same time as you would not serve the realm.
“I’m not a whore.” You sigh, slightly offended still by these dramatics. His seamstresses made the gown, it wasn’t as if you went to the markets and found some unwarranted style.
“And it is my duty to see to it that you never become one, never are perceived as one.” He nodded down to the water and waited for you to step into the tub and sink down before he went about rolling up both his sleeves. “Now,” he knelt beside the warm water and his hand touched your cheek first. “Allow me to look after you as a husband should…” he ticked on and he took up the soap and a cloth scrubbing them together and then moving it across your shoulders.
“they are too enticing to be seen by all.”
Your eyes lifted to look at his focused ones. “The gods warn against selfishness to Ormund.” You remind him knowing the next thing that was going to fall out of his mouth was going to be that only he shall see them moving forward.
You eased back until your back was against the edge of the tub and your legs were stretched out in the water, a hand holding the side so you wouldn’t drift about as Ormund made all your exposed skin sudsy.
“did you like my gown?” You ask softly when his hand dragged the cloth down the valley between your breasts. Which were bobbing in the water a bit, the occasional exposure to the cold air making your nipples bud.
“I’ve made my passion clear, have I not?”
“Yes, on others seeing me in it. But did your eyes enjoy it?” Your fingers let go of the tubs lip and your damp fingers wrap around his upper arm.
Ormund Hand lost focused and somewhere near your hips he dropped the drag. His eyes closed and brow struggled to remain stern. He had truly meant to be strict about this matter.
“you minx.” He huffed while leaned over some to meet his lips with yours. You kissed him back, small little pecks and giggled when his tongue probed for more. He was bold for alluding to your wanton-ness when he was now persuading you physically.
“Mm-I thought I needed c-cleansing?!” You gasped because his large hand settled over your mound and his fingers expertly found your clit between kisses.
“hush wife,” he growled into your neck sucking a mark roughly into the flesh there. One you’d need to cover, it was in a spot that would ensure your necklines were more than modest! “This is what you wanted?” His thumb took up position over your clit and two of his long fingers pushed down into your core. The water sloshed some, wetting his sleeve and you arched your hips up nodding.
“yes, gods yes.” You agree voice already fluttery. He knew just how to please you. “Ugh-“ your knees drew up and an arm shifted to hand around his head. He wasn’t kissing your neck any longer, he was simply just savoring feeling your pulse against his lips and inhaling the warm scent of you.
“I feel that…” he grinned and his fingers curled more. “Let go for me,” he urged and you nodded nails digging into the back of his neck. “Go on wife, get your fix so we might behave like civilized people for the rest of the night.”
You came with a gasp and when he saw you were about a give out a shout he pressed his mouth over yours.
“Will you wear that gown again?” He asked as you started to settle, limp and floaty in the tub.
Your head shook softly. “No…not if you keep making me feel like that.” You smiled softly blinking up at him.
“you are truly a test sent by the gods.” He sighed, shaking his head but the warm charmed smirk told you how much he loved this, how much he loved you.
I'm truly obsessed with your Baelor and Maekar and their DIL's...
I'd love to know how they would react when another lord flirts with the DIL's right in front of them but their husbands don't seem to care...
Hiiiii! I am so so SO sorry for taking forever to get to this! I completely understand if you are very frustrated with me, but thank you so much for sending this in! I appreciate it immensely and I am so happy that you enjoyed my DIL!reader series!!!
So, I def see this as being suuuuch an insanely frustrating situation for Baelor and Maekar because they would want to act so badly themselves, but they absolutely cannot, and they would hope that somehow Valarr or Aerion would act, but they do not care, so that makes it even more annoying and frustrating for them.
So I see this happening at a feast for both of them (I love setting my fics and ideas in feasts, don't sue me pls), but I'll start with Baelor. The initial formalities of the evening have ended, so members of the royal family have stepped down from their own table to mingle with the other nobility. Baelor and Valarr still remain at the table as people have come to join them there instead, but you have gone down into the main area to talk with your ladies in your little group. You stand just a step down from the royal table so you are not far at all, still within hearing distance, which is what makes it all the more painful for Baelor.
A young Lord, the brother of one of the ladies in your circle, comes to speak to her, and inadvertently ends up infiltrating the group. He begins to stand with you, making jokes and flattering everyone just so he can soak up all this female attention and boost his own ego.
Baelor is not always surveilling you, but he is always aware of you in that way we are always aware of the people we care about, occasionally glancing, just checking to make sure you are comfortable, that you are enjoying yourself, that you do not need him. So on one of these glances, he notices this man, and at first he dismisses it, but on the next glance, the man has moved within the circle to stand just in front of you and is speaking directly to you.
Baelor trains his ear into your conversation then, just to make sure that you are comfortable of course, and he slowly starts to feel his blood boil. The man is plying you with endless compliments, from your dress to your hair to your eyes, to the easy manner with which you speak and laugh, to the merriness you exude. And though Baelor agrees with every word, he despises that another man should feel so confident and untouchable as to say it all to you, a taken woman.
But Baelor is also the most controlled and composed man on the planet, so he does not do anything at first, just watches. Then, he slowly leans in to Valarr and asks him who that lordling is (even though he already knows). He hopes that this will bring it to Valarr's attention, hopes that Valarr will see that this man is being inappropriate in conversation with his wife and will go and put a stop to it, but Valarr just goes, "huh? Oh, that is Lady Winifred's second brother, Alanus or Alexander or something of the sort." Then he turns back to his own conversation again, not a second thought given.
Baelor just hums, nods, attempts to put on an air of nonchalance, but he cannot stop watching, cannot stop listening, and it physically hurts him. But again, he is the Crown Prince, Hand of the King, he cannot lose an ounce of composure. So again, he leans toward Valarr and just lightly says, "he converses rather animatedly with your wife." It's barely a comment, but he hopes that this might cause Valarr to finally pay attention, to finally act on his own behalf. But again Valarr just goes "hm, yes, very," in the most dismissive tone, and returns to speaking to his friends.
Again, Baelor is left wanting, and the only sign of his distress is his hand clenching on the arm of his chair, his nails grating painfully into the wood. His plan is clearly not working, and now he can hear you laughing, so he smiles politely at the lord attempting to converse with him, "excuse me a moment," he says graciously, then stands.
He is the picture of relaxed. Long, languid movements, slow steps, as if he is just going for a stroll in the hall, but he does not go far, only to you, standing just beside you and graciously accepting all the bows of the head and greetings from the ladies and Alanus.
You are absolutely beaming, because you know Father so so well, and you know why he has come to stand exactly between you and Alanus, why his body is turned toward you, attempting to usurp the young Ser in your view. You blink up at him rapidly, eyes shining, hoping he understands from your gaze alone how much you want to kiss him and climb on him in that moment.
He is absolutely polite, the picture of a gracious heir and kind man, but deep down he is absolutely preening at his easy invasion, at the easy way he was able to steal your attention and to stop any advance from the young man, simply by bringing his presence into the mix. (You best believe he is sooo proud of this and cannot wait to get you into his bed that evening... 😜)
With Maekar, I see it going a little differently lolllll. I'm going to run with the same scenario, a feast in its later stages. You are standing with your friends, swaying to the music, grasping their hands and jokingly dancing, just being your usual joyful self. Maekar has watched you with a small, private, smile all night. It is not actually visible but it is there, in his heart anyway.
Then he watches as a lord walks up and joins the group, a brother or cousin of one of your ladies. He's pink faced and swaying a little, clearly on the wrong side of the drink, but he's being merry not disruptive so no one truly minds. But then the lord decides to focus his attentions on you, boisterously complimenting you, smiling widely in your direction.
And Maekar being Maekar, he is instantly angry. From 0 to 100 real quick. He is scowling as he watches, hands clenched around his cup of wine and around the arm of the chair. Aerion hadn't noticed yet. He could be useful in such situations, could sometimes be goaded into thinking that someone entertaining his wife was a slight against him and then he would react instead of Maekar having to step in.
But when Maekar cleared his throat, glared at Aerion, then gestured his head in your direction, Aerion just made some non-commital facial expression, shrugged, then turned away again. But Maekar was boiling now, especially because he could hear you begin to laugh, knew that you became giggly and flirtatious when you had a few too many glasses of wine, and this would not stand.
He stood up then, harsh and warrior-like, chair shoving back. He walked over to Aerion, grasped the boy by the collar and hauled him up. Then he whispered harshly in his ear, "go stop that Lord from fawning over your wife or I shall be forced to do it for you. Do you wish this to be the course of action?" Then Maekar pulled back, raised an eyebrow at Aerion, and the young man gulped, shook his head, stood up, reacquainted himself with his own anger and cruelty, and forced his way between you and the lord who instantly stopped smiling and found a way to disappear into the crowd once more.
Though Maekar was satisfied by that course of action, he still simmered with rage, hands still tight. You stared at Aerion for one moment before you turned to look back at your father in law. Maekar met your eyes, his own blazing with fire, and you shivered, smirking a little as you finally gathered what was going on. You giggled, a hand coming up to hide it, but he heard the sound clear as day, saw the shine in your eyes.
He clenched his jaw, the movement noticeable even with his beard, and you licked your lips, looking him up and down before giggling one more time and turning back to your ladies. Now Maekar burned with heat as well and it only made everything worse. Because now all he wanted was to throw you over his shoulder and drag you to his chambers, away from all these people, and tangled up in his sheets, your favourite place to be.
I am actually obsessed with the idea of these two being jealous. Like, there is something about a jealousy fic that I will never get tired of. It scratches an itch in my brain. Anyway!
I was rereading the DILS anthology (I can't help it, I LOVE it SO MUCH). And then I started thinking about how Baelor, at the beginning of his relationship with Dil!B, only cum on her thighs (that man's enviable self-control) so as not to get her pregnant, and how after she was already pregnant that no longer made sense and he started always cum inside her. So here's the impertinent question of the day, because I've been wondering... what was Dil!B's reaction when Baelor actually ejaculated inside her for the first time and she could finally feel full and then feel it running down her thighs? 🤭
Hiiii! I am so sorry for taking ages to answer this, but thank you so much for your lovely compliment!!! I am so so happy that you are enjoying the DIL anthology! I absolutely love writing this chaotic series and I am just so happy that so many people are enjoying it!!!
Here is the link to the series for anyone who has not read it and wants to: DIL Masterlist
Firstly, love the impertinent question. Let's always ask them hahahah! (18+/MDNI - smut under the cut... obvi lol)
I def see her being a bit shocked about it, it's an alien feeling, but she also kinda loves it. The first time he does it, they are in his study again a few days after it has been announced that she is pregnant. It's late in the evening, and while he told himself he would be working, while he had plans to be working, ofc his girl has come in to distract him.
"I cannot sleep without you, Father," you pout, standing just inside his door in your pretty frilly nightgown. Your hair is a little mussed, as if you truly did try to lay down and sleep before giving up on the notion, and your hands keep fiddling with the fabric of your nightgown, busying themselves as you keep glancing up at him from under fluttering lashes.
He smiles softly, because he cannot help but always be endeared by you. You always just look so soft, so pliable, so ready for affection, and he finds it extremely difficult to not instantly succumb, to not want to give you all that you crave. So he beckons you over because he knows this is a losing battle, and allows you to clamber into his lap.
You take a while to settle in, shifting around to try and find the most comfortable position while he just sighs and raises an eyebrow and waits so that he can eventually get back to his work. You finally decide to just straddle him, knees tucked up on either side of him, your hands curled up on your chest between you, and your body bent forward so you can tuck your face into his neck, breathing in his smell of warm skin.
He rubs a large hand down your back, smiles a little when you shiver, and then attempts to get back to work. But then you begin mouthing at his neck, small kisses at first, just little movements of your lips, and then firmer ones, proper kisses, and then your teeth and tongue get involved and he doesn't realise how hard he had been clenching his jaw. He doesn't realise that he hasn't written a single word for a long while, doesn't realise how he is actually panting and everything inside him has gone hot.
So he drops his quill, pulls back from you, only to cup your jaw with one hand, grip the back of your head with the other, and kiss you firmly on the mouth, wet tongue on your lips, in your mouth, devouring you. Then you're being picked up and placed onto the desk in front of him, your dress being quickly gathered up into his palm as he pulls it up, and the neckline of it being yanked down to expose your chest.
His mouth goes down your neck as you lean back onto your palms, trembling, gasping, warm and wet and throbbing everywhere. He carefully takes your nipple into his mouth, it is hot, his tongue drags along it, and you see stars. You are practically boneless now, slowly leaning back until you are flat on the desk. He follows you, his mouth follows you, still sucking, still teething along the sensitive bud.
You can feel the quill under your back but you don't care, it's not painful or annoying enough to demand attention. His fingertips are touching the wetness smeared along your cunt, pressing you open, rubbing it around even more. And you are just floating between sensations. He's inside you, you don't remember him undoing his breeches but he is there, laying on top of you, rutting into you, and you feel like you are a hearth in human form.
He kisses you, kisses your neck, bites there. You claw at his back, kiss him in return, rub your cheek against his beard like a cat. You tremble, your thighs weak from pleasure and shaking. He holds them, fucks you hard but not frenzied. You feel his cock inside you, moving, each rub along all the nerve endings setting you on fire.
And then you are there, cumming, pulsing around him, moaning loudly, feeling damp and spent and overused and blissful. He ruts into you a few times more, and then a sensation you never felt before. Something that makes your eyes clench shut again, makes you pant like you're in pain, makes your thighs properly tremble, uncontrollably. You clench around him at the feeling which only makes him let out a dragged out "haaah" sound.
You feel full, like he's left something behind, and you just lay there so you can keep feeling it. When he pulls out and falls back into his chair, you turn your head so you can look at him just a little without having to raise your head. He's shiny with sweat, spent but happy, and he's watching you. You wanted to clench your legs closed, to keep a pressure there in the place that feels too sensitive and exposed now, but his body is in the way, his hands caressing your thighs and keeping them open.
He swallows harshly as he stares at the place between your thighs, the place where it feels like something is spilling out of you. You tried your best to keep it in, but it would not obey, spilling in slow dribbles from your core and down to your ass and onto the desk below. You feel hot with embarrassment, then hot with arousal because Baelor is looking at you with dark eyes, eyes that speak of accomplishment and manly pride. You want to kiss him because of those eyes.
Dreaded Deception (Ormund Hightower x Wife!reader)
A/N: Got this idea during the latest episode and I just needed to write it :) I would say it is more a mix of ormund x wife and daeron x mum figure than only ormund x wife. (Also, I know in the books Daeron was sent to Oldtown much later, but in the show Alicent says he was sent when he was practically an infant so for the purposes of this fic, I am going with this. And we’re going to pretend we don’t know Ormund has other children or the physics of how he got back to Oldtown before Tumbleton…) I didn’t know if anyone wanted to be tagged for Ormund so I’ve just left it for this fic. If you do for future fics, lemme know!
Summary: You are devastated upon being informed that Daeron, the boy you had raised practically as your own, has been given up by your husband. But of course, not all is as it seems and when Ormund returns to you, all can be put to right.
Word count: ~4.6k
Tags: 18+/MDNI, AFAB reader, unspecified age gap, younger!reader, some angst, hurt-comfort, can’t really think of anything else rn, never proofread, (please let me know if I missed any)
Disclaimer: I do not own any ‘House of the Dragon’ characters. I do not claim to own any of the ‘House of the Dragon’ characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so. Your media consumption is your own responsibility.
Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)
You still remembered the day they brought your Daeron to Oldtown, a little wriggling thing, a toddler wrapped up in a blanket, his tufts of white hair poking from his swaddle. You were young then too, or rather, younger than you were now. You had not yet been betrothed to Ormund, though it was imminent and you and your family were already residing in Oldtown with this expectation. Even then you had been enamoured by the little thing, doting over him, holding him at any given opportunity, caressing his hair and making silly faces, allowing him to chase after you and chasing him in return as he stumbled about on his stodgy little legs, only just learning how to use them.
You had felt such a kinship with the little one, both new to such a strange place, both meant to fit yourselves into such surroundings, something akin to family but also not. You had known without knowing that you cared a great amount for the babe, and wished to be betrothed to Ormund not only because you were falling in love with him, but because you wished to remain close to Daeron as well. It seemed that the Seven had granted you such a wish, for within a fortnight of this dream coming into words in your mind, you were not only betrothed, but married as well.
Ormund cherished you beyond measure. He was singular among men, to be sure, with his own idiosyncrasies just as every other person that served to make everyone alike and unique at the same time. You had gathered all this in your time knowing him. For instance, the lovely scents he purchased for you as presents, spending time explaining the intricacies of each, the deeper notes and the lighter ones too, things you could not quite comprehend yourself but nodded in ascent to nonetheless. He told you that he abhorred bad smells but loved good ones more than any other person, and though this had seemed a little odd to you at first, you had come to accept it with relish for it meant you lived lavishly with baths and scents and washed clothes galore.
Another thing you had noted during your courtship and betrothal, was how intelligent he was. There was always a plan up his sleeve, denoted only by a shine in his eye, a light smirk that he wore when no one looked or when some new idea seemed to flit into his brain. Once, he had smirked at you from across the gardens when he had been caught in conversation and saw you standing by your lonesome, trying not to look as lonely as you felt. You had told him only a few days prior that some of the ladies were not partial to your company, that they preferred to ice you out than welcome you in, that much of your joy now came in the company of his father’s new little ward and the boy’s nursemaids.
You had smiled at him, raising your eyebrow at the mischievous look, but not a moment later, you had watched one of the ladies who was often rude to you suddenly get yanked back just as a servant hurried from his place, both of them colliding with each other like some manic puppet show. As both servant and lady attempted to right themselves and move, an entire tablecloth, covered in plates and goblets, wines and treats, came rushing with them, sprawling all over the floor in an embarrassing display that had the woman shrieking and turning red at the neck and face.
You had stood shaking with laughter, eyes wide with shock, hands pressed to your mouth to stifle the noises. Someone had somehow tied the lady’s dress to the servants smock, and thus tied the table cloth in there too, creating this large hubbub that had the entire court in attendance laughing. Ormund had found his way to you by then, rocking back onto his heels and humming quietly as he surveyed the scene before leaning in close to you and saying, “hm, I do wonder who has been causing such mischief.” From that moment on, he had won your heart, and you gave it happily, without contest.
He was not solely this nobleman now, this widowed Lord with a serious face and a serious voice when he wished, a man older than you, a man who you had known only at a distance. Now he was someone who had shown he cared for you, someone who smiled in your presence, who had shown you that you were worth something elaborate, that your joy was worth action.
And so it came to pass that you were wed, that Ormund Hightower took a second wife and made the bells of Oldtown ring, and that for a little while, despite all the troubles in Kingslanding and Dragonstone, all the troubles with the royals and their dragons, the two of you (three with Daeron) had made a home and found peace.
Though you had your own children with Ormund over the coming years, you considered Daeron your first. Upon becoming his wife, you truly took charge of the boy. He might have been Hobert and then Ormund’s ward, but you would not let the child go unmothered. You knew yourself to be privileged in having a loving mother of your own, thanked the Seven for it everyday, and so you led from this example.
Each day you took meals with him, and though he could not speak for the first year or so, you took much joy in his babbles and infant-musings. You helped spoon mush into his mouth, wiped his chubby little cheeks, and simply watched him grow. You took over duties other noblewomen would not do, bathing the boy and dressing him yourself, combing his hair and sitting with the maester as he began conducting the boy’s lessons. You did the same for your own children later of course, gave each this same love and care, but you always remembered Daeron as your first.
In the early years, you were careful. You did not refer to yourself as his mother, did not call him your son directly, did not do anything that might infringe upon the Queen Regent despite the distance between you and Kingslanding. You did not wish for word to get back to her that someone was attempting to usurp her rightful place as the boy’s mother. You were sure that she must be filled with grief every day at the absence of her child, sure she felt it in her bones as you did at the thought of Daeron going away.
But eventually, when he turned three and then four, when he slipped and accidentally called you mama as he cried and wailed in his bed, seeking comfort only from you from nightmares and bruises, you let the treasonous thought build. You may not have carried him in your womb, but he was your son.
The boy went to Kingslanding only once during his time as ward in Oldtown, when he was just past his tenth nameday. Both Ormund and Gwayne were required there for some meeting with the King, perhaps to reaffirm allegiances or some other courtly requirement you were not privy to, and they decided to bring Daeron with them. It would not be a very long trip, they would not stay in Kingslanding longer than necessary, but the boy should see his mother and other family members at least once after so many years.
You had been reluctant to let him go, but you had of course relented, knowing the truth of the matter. Ormund had kissed you long and slow as he said his goodbyes, nudging your nose with his and whispering daring promises in your ear before stepping back so Daeron could monopolise your time in the last moments before departure.
The boy had clung tightly to your skirts, pressing his face to his legs and shaking his head in disagreement every time you told him how lovely it would be, what an adventure he was embarking on. He continued to insist that you travel with them, that you must not send him off in this way. You could only get on your knees and hug him tightly, wiping your tears quickly behind his back as he mumbled that he would miss you too much.
“I will miss you as well, my little dragon,” you whispered to him, kissing his little cheeks but smiling nonetheless. “I promise, you will enjoy the journey with your uncles, and you will have a marvelous time in the Keep with your mother and your brothers and sister. It will be splendid, and when you return, you can tell me all about it. You must go, if only so you might come back.”
He finally relented then, swiping roughly at his own tears and pressing a kiss to your cheek before walking back to Ormund and grasping his hand.
When your boys had returned a fortnight later, both had been just as ecstatic to see you as you had been to see them. Daeron clung tightly to your legs as you kissed Ormund, wrapped them both up in your arms before leading them back in after their long and weary travels.
You thought about that moment when you had to say goodbye to them once more, this time with more fear and uncertainty. When the orders had finally come in, the war finally touched you all in your blissful little corner of the world, you had felt sick with dread. Your boys were going away again, but this time there was no guarantee that they would return.
You cried every evening from the moment the raven had arrived until Ormund and Daeron stood at the door, their horses saddled and swords at their belts. Though you had attempted to hide your tears from them, both were experts at reading your face, at knowing how you worried, and both took their turns comforting you.
“You will remain careful,” you ordered, swiping at your eyes as you held tightly to Daeron’s hands. The boy attempted a smile, nodding his head firmly and pursing his lips. “And you will always listen to your uncle, because though he loves to test my patience, he will keep you safe.” Ormund smirked behind Daeron, and the boy laughed, nodding vehemently as he squeezed your hands in return. You looked him over once more, at his lovely wavy hair that he kept loosely tied back and the green doublet he wore. He had grown so tall… You felt the tears touch your eyes again but you blinked quickly.
“And you must eat well! You are a growing boy and tough times lay ahead. You will need all your strength.” Again Daeron let loose a chuckle, a softer, waterier, sound this time.
“Yes, muna, yes,” he attempted exasperation but he smiled too much for it to be sincere. “I will do as you say.”
“Good,” you sighed, nodding once before wrapping him up in your arms and hugging him tight. You pressed a kiss to his forehead, running your hand through his hair and petting him once more.
“I promise to come back muna,” he mumbled against the side of your head, and you wept a little more at how small his words sounded. “I promise.” You nodded once more, and he pressed a kiss to your cheek before pulling away. He stood straight in front of you, nodded once, then turned around and walked away to his horse, head bowed low as he swiped at his tears.
Ormund patted him on the shoulder once as the boy passed him, then he took Daeron’s place in front of you. He reached up and cupped your cheek, running his thumb along your cheekbone and simply taking in your features. Though he was almost certain that he would return to you, sure that he could win this war for his Seven forsaken nephews and then return to the bliss he had found with you, he did not want to take any chances with your memory.
He wiped a fresh tear from your cheek, but another followed it as your face crumpled even more. Your lower lip wobbled as quick breaths left your nose, and he brought you in close, pressed your face to his chest as you began to cry.
“Sh, sh, sh,” he gently hushed, frowning to himself as he bent his head to press kisses to the top of yours as you sobbed against him. “Do not cry. I do not wish our goodbye to be only sorrowful.”
You nodded though your tears remained strong, your hands clenching in his doublet as you kept him close. It took a moment, but your sobs eventually quelled in your chest and you pulled back to look into his eyes. He smiled a little, attempting encouragement, but you could only swallow and nod and keep your lips pursed together to stop the sobbing.
“It will all be alright, my darling,” he comforted, more confident than anyone else, you were sure. “You won’t have the chance to miss me,” he added, a touch cocky this time, and you just huffed, now fighting off a smile.
You smoothed a hand over his doublet, hoping your tearstains would dry quickly, then looked up into his eyes once more as he cupped your cheeks in his big hands once more.
“Take care of yourself, for me, please,” you told him, voice waterlogged. “No stupid plans, no unnecessary risks.”
“It is war, my darling, only those things will ensure victory,” he raised an eyebrow at you, but you only swatted at his chest in return, chewing on your lip before looking back up at him.
“And take care of him too. You are his father in all but name,” you added, and this time Ormund nodded a little more gravely.
“I promise you shall have both of us returned,” he murmured, then leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to your mouth.
You attempted to smile, and did not point out that though he said both would be returned, he did not say that both would be returned alive.
Each day after dragged far too slowly. You became spiked with worry at every raven, at every bit of news that returned to you. Much of it actually spoke of how bored both Daeron and Ormund felt. The travel was slow and dreary, and they were continuously waiting on orders to march, whether it be in the direction of Harrenhal or Kingslanding or whatever forsaken place the Greens desired to send them.
Daeron wrote to you of Tessarion, of how despite it all, he cherished the flights on dragonback he got to have with her. Ormund wrote of how much he missed you, how it stank wherever they went, how he could only dream of being back in your arms, back in your bed, his rightful place.
You were glad to know that at the very least, you could still keep in contact with them, that each raven brought another piece of them back to you, another piece of you to keep.
Unfortunately, it was not only good news. You heard of Rook’s Rest, of Aegon’s near demise and the loss of two beautiful creatures. You heard of the Battle of the Gullet, of Rhaenyra’s heir felled in his prime and the waste that was laid to the ships in the aftermath, the wrath and fury that was sure to be unleashed on the lot of you.
And then everything seemed to collapse much quicker. Suddenly Kingslanding had been surrendered, and despite your distance, a spike of fear shot through you. What would be your fate? What would they do to your Ormund? To your Daeron? You trembled with it, nights you spent awake, burning through candles only to sit there and worry. You hugged your children tight each evening, kissing their heads and promising them that nothing would happen to them. Though you felt like a liar promising them mercy.
The truly devastating news arrived swiftly though. Daemon had come to the army on dragonback, had demanded Ormund pledge his allegiance to Rhaenyra so they might all return home unscathed. At first you were joyful at hearing that he had accepted, were proud of him for heeding your warnings and not fighting unnecessary battles. He had made a promise, he must return home to you, and he was doing it.
But of course, it had not ended there. Daemon required Daeron. The boy would be taken to Kingslanding, an order. And… and Ormund had given him up easily.
Your hands trembled as you read the words, as you sat on the end of your bed, the fading light of the sun at the windows. You felt like that light, slowly dimming, disappearing. You read it again and again, until the parchment crumpled in your hands and the words blurred and turned splotchy from your tears. You sat there sniffling and shaking, then rocking back and forth and wailing, engulfed in a fiery pain.
Your boy, your boy had been taken away, surely to his death. They would not let him live. Though he was innocent, they would not let him live lest he grow and challenge their fragile reign. You felt sick with it. You vomited into the chamberpot, heaving and sobbing. You curled up on the floor, eyes clenched tight, a mess of skirts.
The maids came to speak to you, your ladies attempted to comfort you, but you could only wail. Your boy, your son, had been taken from you. In the days between, you could not sleep. You cried and cried, saw his little face smiling at you, his little eyes and little nose, saw the way he had been when he was a babe and the way he was when you last saw him, smiling and all grown. You only slept when your body could not wring any more pain from you.
You did not leave your chambers, ate so little, and could only imagine the horrors he would face. Perhaps they would be kind to him before they ultimately took his head. You hoped he was being brave, but the thought of him shaking with fear, the thought of him with tears in his eyes only made you crumble more. You wanted him happy, you wanted him here, safe, with you. You wanted your happy family returned to you. This stupid war, that stupid throne, it had stolen the only thing you had ever wanted… you were consumed with rage only to begin crying once more. You hoped he would at least have a glimpse of his mother before the end. You hoped Alicent would give him the love you could not in his final moments.
In the days before Ormund returned, you were manic at times, writing and sending ravens to Kingslanding, begging Rhaenyra to spare him, begging her for clemency for the boy you had raised as your own. If only she would live up to her title as merciful, if only she would heed a mother’s love, the kind she herself had felt. She knew of the pain of losing a son, surely she would not subject you to it if you only told her…
The horns announced Ormund’s return, the horns and then the sound of hooves beating on the ground. Though you had somehow been risen from your bed and dressed that morning, you had not had the will to go down and greet your husband. You had sat at the little table in your chambers and felt your heart rush in your chest, your eyes watering once more, your hands shaking.
Ormund had entered without ceremony, throwing the door open to find you. He was shiny with sweat, a full day’s riding coating him with dust. His boots were still dirty, his clothes rumpled, and his hair was unusually mussed. He must have jumped straight from the horse and run up to you.
You lifted your head up to look at him, blinking slowly, then quickly as your face crumpled and you began to cry. You stood, moving to him as he moved to you. He reached his hands out to you, his face shifting into shock then a frown, but you shoved his hands away. You cried out in pain, hit at his chest, unloaded all the heartache that you had been forced to sit with since the raven had arrived.
“How could you?!” You wailed, struggling against him when he attempted to wrap you up in his arms. You pummelled at him once more, shaking your head as your tears dripped from the end of your nose and jaw. “How could YOU?! You promised that both of you would return, both of you!”
“I know, I know, my darling,” he spoke quietly, placatingly, but the fight had not left you yet, and you shoved at his chest hard enough for him to step back a little. He continued watching you with that sad expression, the corners of his mouth turned down, but it only made you cry further.
“He is my son,” you gasped, eyes wide open now, red limned, smeared with your tears. He stared right into them as you clenched your hands into fists and clutched them tight to your chest. “He is my son,” you whimpered, curling in on yourself as Ormund stepped forward once more. He wrapped you up tight this time, pressing your face to his chest and pressing his chin to the top of your head. He shushed you quietly, mumbled “I know, my dear, I know”, and caressed your back. “He is my son,” you whispered, your lips sticking together, your throat tight, everything inside you tight with pain and then loosening with despair.
You stayed tucked against Ormund a while, just listening to him soothing you, feeling the press of his lips to your head and the smooth motion of his broad palm along your back. He waited until your sobs turned to whimpers and then from whispers to shaking breaths. He only pulled back when your trembling ceased, and then he cupped your face firmly, swiping his thumbs along your cheekbones and ensuring that you looked up into his face.
He wore something akin to determination on his face, something that confused you, something that was touched by anger but not despair, something unexpected. It was almost that look he had when concocting one of his plans, but it felt far more… dangerous.
“I know you are upset by the news, I know you believe that Daeron has been whisked away to Kingslanding but-” a knock at the door interrupted him, but he only clenched his jaw and called back, “one moment”, not looking away from your face. The firm grip he kept on your face shook it lightly as he ensured you kept your gaze on him. Your own face had become contorted into a frown, something between confusion and fear and uncertainty. “There are larger plans at work. Hope is not lost simply because Kingslanding has been taken. No, it will not be so easy.” For a moment you wondered if he was even speaking to you, his eyes going far away. You trembled in his hands once more, and he returned to you. He smiled a little, caressed your face once more, then leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to your mouth. “I bring you a surprise present.”
Then Ormund turned back to the door and called for whoever had been knocking to come in. The door opened, and your eyes immediately darted to the mop of Hightower red hair that entered. You wondered if the surprise was Gwayne but no, the boy was not tall enough to be Gwayne, and his hair was far too long, and…
You gasped. Loud and sharp, hands pressing to your mouth as the tears welled once more. The boy smirked a little, huffing a little laugh as Ormund did. Your husband moved to stand behind you, gently kneading at your shoulders as he leaned down to whisper by your ear, “your son does look a proper Hightower, does he not?”
You felt manic. You laughed, loud and unrestrained, gasped and laughed at the same time, sobbed and gasped and laughed and made an indistinguishable noise all at once as Daeron stepped further into the room and held his arms out to you.
“Do not cry so, muna,” he chastised, but allowed you to rush to him, to pull him into your arms and sob into his hair.
“My boy, my darling boy,” you cried, kissing his forehead and simply hugging him tight. You pulled back, caressed his hair and his cheeks, running your thumbs over his cheekbones and his jaw, beaming so brightly your face hurt.
You were suddenly light in your bones. The sorrows you had clutched so tightly suddenly lifted like birds into the sky, disappearing from you. You felt exhausted, elated, desperate to cry and desperate to scream. He was alive, and he was here. Your little family was back together again.
You pulled back once more, kissing his forehead then gently picking up bits of his hair and examining them between your finger tips.
“Oh, your hair,” you cried in faux-despair. “What have you done to your beautiful, beautiful, hair?”
Daeron just laughed, shaking his head at you as he lightly swatted at your hand before gripping it tightly in his own.
“Do not be so dramatic, muna, it will grow back to what it was.” He rolled his eyes and you pinched his cheek, laughing freely. Ormund wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, tugging you into his chest and resting the side of his head against yours as you both looked at your son. “It was necessary,” Daeorn added, rather gravely, and you felt a little sobered in your joy. You could never be too comfortable. The war was not over, you were not safe. But for this moment, you wished to enjoy it. If only for this moment.
“It’s alright,” you sighed, reaching out and pinching his cheek with another smile, “you look dashing with it, hm?” You teased, “just like your uncles.” And at that Ormund laughed heartily as Daeron rolled his eyes.
That same evening, after you had all indulged in a small feast and sent yourselves to your own beds, you pressed yourself tight to Ormund, kissed his face and beamed down at him.
“Thank you,” you whispered, eyes shining like stars as he smiled at you in return.
“I made a promise to you, darling,” he returned quietly, caressing your bare arms and back. “I would not go back on it.” You kissed him again, then snuggled back into his arms.
“I was so scared,” you admitted, pressing your face to his chest. “I was sick with grief.” He pressed a light kiss to your hair as he settled down next to you, all the candles now blown out and only the faint glow of the fire lighting your faces.
“It is not over yet, my love,” he murmured to you. “This trickery will not stand for long, and we must make our move so as to not lose this valuable time we have gained.”
“I understand,” you told him, nodding gravely, but you only pressed yourself to him further.
You knew he was to leave again on the morrow, to continue with this new plan he had concocted, to risk his life once more, to be sure. But for this day and for this evening, your little family was returned, and you would have it no other way.
