✧ author’s note: this is mainly a blog where i repost things i’m hyperfixated on almost every month. currently obsessed with: a knight of the seven kingdoms!!
✧ get to know me: hellooo i’m xóchitl (xóch), i am a bisexual mexican woc and a huge multifandom obsessionist + history buff + i love dilfs. i have a thing for the color red/black, love shimmery eyeshadow and dark lipstick. horribly addicted to coffee, staying up, and binge watching the same shows. i’m also an artist and an editor, i mostly sketch/edit the characters i like. don’t be shy if you wanna talk or become friends! my dms/asks r always open ! 🫶🏽
✧ requests: OPEN. shoot me an ask! totally okay if you wanna be an anon ;;
✧ warnings: please be aware that some works will be nsfw, meaning 18+, minors dni ! there will be some dark works as well
Can you please do HOTD men x F!reader who’s favourite hobby is arguing?
hotd men x f!reader who's favourite hobby is arguing
featuring: gwayne, ormund, aemond, cregan, aegon ii, jace
cw: mentions of sex established relationship (married)
ser gwayne hightower
he is a calm man, and a secure one. he knows his dear lady wife well and her habit of contradicting him and engaging in verbal sparring all the time is something he got quite accustomed to. gwayne finds it ridiculous but adorable, he loves teasing you, playing with your patience, continuing the argument just to prove you wrong in the end. gwayne is very lighthearted about it too, viewing your passion for debates as something uniquely you, he also loves the fact that you can express your opinion openly and trust him, and respect him enough to say everything you think out loud. will tease you mercilessly, not letting the argument die, saying outrageous things on purpose, baiting you into taking the opposite side. and he should be honest, he loves seeing the look on your face when he won the argument you started, smug and amused for the rest of the day
ormund hightower
in his eyes, it is the most infuriating and the most arousing quality you have. in the beginning, ormund has a patience of a saint, dodging your every provocative question with a polite smile and a smart response. he loves that you are intelligent enough to have this kind of debates with him and he loves that you are fiery enough to express your opinions so passionately, but it still gets on his nerves. though, it gets on his nerves in the most beautiful, torturing, enraging and sweet way. ormund hates when you disagree with him, hates when you mock him, hates when you start a fight out of nowhere, but oh, to look at you with fire in your eyes and that sexy defiance you carry yourself with, it does unholy things to him and makes him want to do unholy things to you. he would never admit it, but he gets all hot and bothered just from the sight of you acting like a brat, even if he knows it’s a provocation, the violent urge to put you back in your place is clouded by desire so strong, he fears if you find out the power you have over him, he is doomed
aemond targaryen
he will never let it slide. each sarcastic comment or stinging word gives you immediate engagement from his side, aemond is like a hawk, sensing the tiniest shift in your voice and ready to prove you he is right. aemond physically can not leave an argument unfinished, his pride and urge to be intellectually superior chokes him every time you verbally corner him. he treats arguments like like duels, it’s never a game to him, it’s a battlefield, he needs to win and he will. genuinely, one of the most baitable people in king’s landing, it takes almost nothing to gain his full attention if you challenge his opinion. he also never forgets what you said, using everything he knows against ypu in that moment, treating the prospect of losing to you almost as death. deep down he is very insecure and acts defensive towards every jab or innocent arguments, even if it’s just about the type of flowers that should be planted in the royal gardens. though, if he went too far and was too harsh, he will always apologise later or come to you silently, pulling you close, nuzzling your neck as some sort of declaration of peace
cregan stark
the north has prepared him for everything. even for feisty women. most of the time, he doesn't even get into all that, refusing to argue with you. every time you try to start something, cregan just nods and listens carefully, with a satisfied smile. you can ragebait this man all you want, it just will not work. cregan enjoys watching you try to provoke him, twisting his words for the sake of a quarrel but he is always aware you are doing that on purpose, but lets you have the floor, carefully listening to everything you have to say, offering a dry perhaps or a softer smile and a come here. cregan doesn’t need the last word and he doesn’t need to be right, he will just pull you into his lap, kissing the top of your head, waiting for you to stop the debate he doesn’t even care about. it drives you insane but at the same time it feels nice to be accepted and loved unconditionally like that, even by someone who is very different from you
aegon ii targaryen
you drive him crazy. absolutely crazy. almost every conversation ends up in bickering or loud yelling, where furniture gets tossed, and dishes get shattered. even if he agrees with you, it will still probably end up in an argument. he reacts first, thinks later, so sharp and offensive words fly around naturally from both if you. aegon gets sidetracked constantly, he isn’t that calculated and smart enough to keep up intellectually moat of the time, so he plays dirty, twisting your words, remembering you something you did last month or saying something completely unrelated and claiming that’s a reasonable argument. air is always thick in the room when you two start your verbal sparring and in many cases it actually ends up in hatefucking eachother like your lives depend on it. there are no winners and no losers on such days, only raw, primal energy and light irritation dulled by the satisfaction of release
jacaerys velaryon
it is impossible to argue with him, because he most of the time simply agrees with you. when you still find a way to start something, he apologises so quickly, it leaves you speechless. he is not a pushover, jace just can’t stand the thought of offending you in any way or hurting his loved ones. he always assumes good faith, never blaming you for picking up a fight, he genuinely wants to understand your perspective before getting defensive, completely disarming you. jayce is emotionally mature and takes your relationship and mutual trust very seriously, so if he thinks the thing is not important enough to argue about, he will take your side immediately, even if he has a different opinion. it’s not because he can’t argue, no no, jace is rather a good debater, having the intelligence, wit, and courage to convince others in what he believes in, but with you, he just chooses not to. why would he fight someone who is on his team? part of his family? he would rather show them love
a/n: thank you for this lovely request and your patience, dear anon!! <33
being the lady of the hightower has been your dream for as long as you could remember... but little do you know that being with ormund hightower comes with some things you have never known before you become his wife
genre/warnings:
18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—marriage of convenience, age gap, lots of romance & fluff, pregnancy, found family with daeron, arguments, hurt/comfort, ormund is a bit of a warning, tyrell!reader (reader is ormund's second wife), takes place during the dance of dragons, spoilers! from house of the dragon season 3
notes:
gif by @/dracaria-dracarys. part 2 to once upon a broken heart but can also be read as a standalone. daeron is my precious boy and ormund is a blatant red flag but bulls chase after red so i... yeah
“Tsk, tsk, my dearest...”
His voice was a low, honeyed murmur against your neck, the heat of his breath sending an exquisite shiver straight down your spine.
You arched into him, a soft breath catching in your throat as Ormund drove his shaft deep inside you in a slow thrust with that same devastating precision he brought to everything he touched.
When he swept into your life like a master strategist claiming a piece on a cyvasse board he had already decided to win, you had thought he was once again playing with your feelings. But now, sharing his bed and basking in his affections, he was no longer someone you could only yearn from afar or your estranged husband.
This version of Ormund Hightower was new... and one you had come to embrace the easiest.
And now, you were the Lady of Oldtown in the truest sense, and beneath your heart was his child, growing safely inside you while the world outside played its dangerous games.
Ormund had one hand entangling with yours, and the other on your hips, anchoring you as he set a more demanding pace. Your thoughts scattered, and he leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“You’re distracted,” he whispered, a dark smirk touching his lips as he felt you gasp beneath him.
His pale blue eyes were hazy with lust, but he made sure to roll his hips softer this time.
“Look at me... I won’t have your mind anywhere else tonight.”
You opened your eyes, meeting his burning gaze, and locked your fingers in his hair, pulling him down into a searing kiss as the tide of your passion swept you both away.
“Are you... trying to seduce me, my lord Ormund?” you breathed against his lips feverishly.
Ormund chuckled breathlessly, the vibration of his chest pressing warm against your own as he paused to press a trailing kiss down the line of your jaw.
“Well, it’s not quite working, I’m afraid,” you teasingly murmured, albeit tilting your head back to give him better access.
He let out a low sigh, half-amused and half-exasperated, his hands cupping your waist firmly as he leveled his gaze on you. “Dearest... I cannot, physically, go any harder than this— not with our child resting right there.”
You arched an eyebrow, a taunting laugh escaping you.
“My noble lord husband… at least, the one I thought I knew… is a preacher on the streets and delightfully depraved in the sheets. Is he simply afraid he won’t be able to control himself this time?”
Ormund went completely still above you. For a moment, the room was silent save for the heavy sound of your breathing and the distant flickering of candlelight against the bedposts. His gaze darkened, lust flickering in those hazy blue eyes as he stared down at you.
When he finally spoke, his voice dropped an octave:
“Every woman is the image of the Mother,” he growled, the solemn weight of his Faith clashing deliciously with the raw hunger in his expression. “You are carrying my heir. You are not to be treated roughly like a common whore. You should be revered and honored.”
You smiled up at him, unfazed by his pious nobility, and wrapped your legs tighter around his hips, pulling him back down.
“But what if I... want to get unholy with you tonight?” you whispered, your fingers digging into the firm muscles of his back.
A grunt tore from his throat at your defiance, whatever thread of restraint he had left instantly snapping into pieces. Ormund captured your mouth once more, his grip tightening as he surrendered completely to you.
“My dearest wife... you are the one who asked for this.”
Needless to say, the Lord of the Hightower didn’t practice a single holy thing for the rest of the night.
. . .
“Are you quite satisfied now?”
His voice was a rumble against the shell of your ear, rough with residual heat.
You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you just pressed closer, burying your face into the crook of his neck. Ormund’s arms tightened around you instantly, a possessive band of warmth that locked the two of you together. His bare chest rose and fell in a rhythmic cadence beneath your palm, his skin flushed where you touched.
“You tell me,” you murmured, your voice muffled against his collarbone.
Ormund let out a hummed laugh—a sound full of fond satisfaction, his palm squeezing your bum. “I’d say the evidence speaks for itself.”
He followed with peppering soft, feathery kisses along your jaw, cradling you as if you were the center of his universe. It was pure, unadulterated comfort—the kind that makes you drop every guard you’ve ever built.
Which, of course, was precisely what he intended.
While one hand idly stroking your back, lulling you into a state of defenselessness, Ormund leaned back just enough to look down at you. His eyes were soft, gleaming with an affectionate light, but beneath the tender haze lurked that sharp glint that never truly slept.
“Since you’re so agreeable,” he began, brushing a thumb over your lower lip in a gesture so sweet it made your heart ache, “we can finally agree that you are to take my ward to assist you.”
You blinked up at him, your brain still hopelessly slow and liquid from the last hour. “That again? Ormund, you said—”
“I said you’ll soon be waddling, and I won’t have my wife burdened when she bears the noble task of carrying our child,” he cut in gently, a dangerously charming smile dimpling his cheek as he pressed his palm on your growing belly.
“But I said we’d discuss—”
He leaned down and kissed you deep and slow, stealing whatever protest was forming on your tongue before you could even voice it.
When he pulled back, his gaze remained unrepentant.
“And we just did.”
It was an old truth by now, but Ormund Hightower had the frustrating tendency to force his will on others, and everyone had to abide by his word or risk his ire.
You huffed out a breath, half-indignant, but as he pulled you tighter against his chest and began tracing lazy patterns over your spine again, the frustration melted into a resigned scoff.
“You are terrible,” you muttered, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his chin.
“Mayhaps,” Ormund murmured against your lips, his grin triumphant.
Your husband’s ward, also a prince of the realm— Daeron Targaryen was a delight to have around.
The youngest of Queen Alicent’s sons was dutiful, exceptionally polite, and as adept with a lute as he was with a sword. Though a bit shy and prone to keeping to himself, the moments you did share with him were always pleasant, and you had quickly grown fond of his gentle nature.
And now, Ormund had tasked him to—
“Daeron, you really do not have to do this,” you sighed, lamenting and turning to face him.
Following a brief nod from your husband earlier that morning, Daeron had fallen into step right behind you ever since. Wherever you walked, he followed—blade at his hip, hands folded, looking almost like an unassuming knight, except that he was a royal prince.
The boy immediately stopped, his shoulders straightening. His eyes widened before he collected himself, but his posture remained resolute.
“My lord tasked me to be your sworn sword, my lady. It is my duty to ensure your safety.”
You tilted your head, genuinely amused. “Oldtown is as peaceful as it gets. What is there to guard me from?”
“Following the wars, the times are still uncertain. My lord felt it best that you have someone able to protect you by your side in times he cannot.”
There was something in the way Daeron conducted himself that made you think that this boy had been thrust into a world far too severe for his years, and it made your heart twinge.
“You are too stiff, dear boy,” you let out another sigh. “Boys your age could afford to let loose a bit. I’m sure Ormund wouldn’t mind.”
It was only for a fraction of a second, but you didn’t miss then sudden freeze in his posture and the faint veil of horror that swept behind his eyes.
What has happened to him?
“My lord’s judgement is always sound,” he insisted, attempting to sound stern. “He only wishes for your mind to be at ease. And mine is also at ease knowing you are well-guarded.”
“I see,” you acknowledged. “So you intend to follow me everywhere today?”
Daeron bowed his head slightly. “Everywhere, my lady.”
“Very well. You could do that, but...”
Mayhaps it was because you were about to become a mother yourself, but your motherly instincts were tingling and you were overcome with the need to comfort him.
The corners of your lips curved into a meaningful smile.
“…if I am to be saddled with a guard all afternoon, I insist on better company than silence. I happen to know for a fact that you play the lute far better than Ormund’s court fool does— so If you are to follow me into the gardens, you are required to play me a tune.”
A flush touched Daeron’s cheeks as his head shot up to meet your gaze, and whether he realized it or not, a genuine smile bloomed across his face.
He is but a young boy, you thought fondly.
“It is nothing more than a little hobby, my lady,” he chuckled softly, the rigid posture finally melting away. “But if you wish for it, then play I shall.”
. . .
“Has Daeron always been like that?”
You asked later that evening, your fingers tracing lazy patterns through your husband’s dark hair as Ormund rested his head against your chest.
“Like what?” he questioned lazily as he breathed in the scent of your bath oils.
“So... solemn,” you frowned. “He takes his duties so seriously that I fear he forgets he is still a young man.”
Ormund hummed but he didn’t answer right away. Instead, his hand slid up your waist, pulling you flush against him.
“A tainted princeling,” Ormund murmured against the dip of your collarbone, trailing slow, warm kisses along the skin of your shoulder. “Caution was drilled into him young... and I have given him a noble task.”
In your hazed state of mind, you missed the way he spoke about taint.
“Following me around?” you breathed out, tilting your head back as his lips found the sensitive curve beneath your jaw. “Ormund, we are in Oldtown, what could possibly— Ah...”
He silenced your questions with a deliberate press of his mouth against your pulse point, his teeth catching the soft flesh in a gentle bite that scattered your thoughts entirely.
His hand slipped inside, pushing the fabric of your nightgown down, exposing your tender breasts to the cool evening air before immediately replacing it with the heat of his mouth.
He peppered hot kisses down your chest, tracing your bare skin until he reached the tips of your breasts. A titillating moan spilled from your lips before you could stop it, your hands tangling into his hair, pressing him closer instinctively.
“O-Ormund—”
“You worry too much about the boy,” he whispered huskily against your skin, feeling the wild flutter of your heart, completely satisfied. “Let Daeron mind his duty... and let me mind mine.”
You tried to focus, to press him on why he assigned Daeron to your side, but your cunning husband was relentless— as if he knew what you were going to ask and therefore, found ways to distract you from it.
His hot tongue on your breasts made you shiver— flicking and swirling over peaks that had grown sensitive since your pregnancy. You gasped, your hips arching off the mattress as his hands roamed freely over your body, mapping every curve with a practiced familiarity.
Needless to say, the spot between your legs had grown wet in no time. Heat rose to your cheeks as his fingers gently parted you, feeling the slickness of your heat with an appreciative hum.
He slipped one finger inside, and a gasp caught in the back of your throat. “Ngh...”
Then he inserted another finger and you let out a shameless moan— the sudden intrusion made your hips roll instinctively against his fingers, your breath hitching into a ragged sigh as he began a sweet rhythm that left you clinging to him for anchor.
Your husband hummed again, pressing deeper, his thumb working in slow, tantalizing circles against your clit until your soft moans began to echo softly in the quiet room.
“Bearing my child suits you so well,” Ormund whispered, his voice thick with lust as he observed how you squirm under him.
Before you could respond, he leaned down and pressed a tender kiss right onto the swell of your belly. His breath lingered against your skin as he rested his forehead there for a fleeting second, worshipping the life you carried for him.
For a moment, your heart melted. He adored you this much— this was everything you used to pray for.
“Would you like me to fetch your cloak, my lady? It is rather windy today.”
“There is no need, Daeron. I am actually quite enjoying the breeze.”
“Really...?”
“Why, do you feel cold?”
“No, my lady. I’m quite fine.”
As the days turned into weeks, Daeron remained your constant shadow, fulfilling the duty Ormund assigned him.
You paused in your tracks, turning back to him with a wistful smile.
“Daeron, did you know that your eyes drop to the floor every single time you attempt a lie?”
Yet the longer you spent in his company, the more clearly you saw that he was not an elusive knight or a distant prince— he was simply a boy hiding behind the mask of a man.
A faint blush dusted his cheeks as his gaze instantly darted upward, caught red-handed and your heart warmed for him. He was miles away from his mother, who was trapped still in King’s Landing, and the closest maternal figure he could have was you.
“We are getting my cloak then.”
You had asked him to accompany you to the Starry Sept, thinking a visit would offer you both a moment of peace—a chance to say your prayers and a welcome reprieve for Daeron from the noises of the sparring fields.
The young prince walked a half-step behind you as he looked around, his hand remained habitually resting near the pommel of his sword. You sat before the table of candles, lighting a taper for safety and peace, offering him to do the same.
Bathing his young face in warm, flickering light, he finally looked like a ward he was rather than a knight or a prince.
“Do you miss your mother, Daeron?” you asked then, because suddenly you saw in him the face of the solemn queen you had long thought as the very living image of irony.
Alicent Hightower was the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, yet happiness was a luxury she had never seemed to possess, and now her youngest son turned to look at you—
—and for a fleeting second, you could have sworn a sheen of unshed tears glistened in his eyes.
“Very much, my lady,” he confessed quietly, casting his eyes down.
The raw honesty in his quiet admission tugged sharply at your heart—and when you felt the gentle flutter of your babe kicking within you, that ache became tenfold.
Reaching out, you gently rested your hand over his, offering a reassuring squeeze that drew his gaze back up to yours.
“The queen must have missed you just as deeply,” you murmured, your voice thick with tender sincerity. “A mother’s heart never truly leaves her children. And until you are reunited with her... you are never alone here. You have a home with us.”
A look of profound gratitude softening his face as he offered you a genuine smile. “Your words bring me a great comfort, my lady. My lord is truly fortunate to have you as his wife.”
“Ha. He sure is. Tell me, Daeron,” you began, tilting your head slightly. “What was Ormund like before I arrived in Oldtown?”
Suddenly the ease in Daeron’s posture evaporated. He stiffened, his shoulders squaring instinctively, and once again it made you frown.
“He... well, he has always been a man of great resolve,” he stammered out, clearing his throat as he searched for the right words to say. “But I have to say… since you came to Oldtown, he has changed. He smiles more, and I admit I have never seen him care for anyone the way he cares for you, my lady.”
Your heart swelled at his words, a fond smile gracing your lips. “Does he now...?”
You were reflecting on everything that had transpired between you, when—
Clang!
The sharp, heavy scrape of iron against stone shattered the sacred quiet of the sept.
A dark, hooded figure suddenly lunged from the shadows behind a stone pillar. A curved blade gleamed in the light, aimed straight for the young prince’s exposed back.
“Daeron, behind you!” you shrieked.
In a heartbeat, the gentle boy vanished, replaced by the lethalness of a knight. Daeron spun on his heel, his left hand shoving you protectively behind his back while his right drew his sword in one blinding, fluid motion.
Steel bit into flesh with a gruesome, heavy strike— and blood spattered across the candles.
The attacker gasped out a wet, strangled breath, his blade clattering against the stone before his body collapsed onto the sacred floor, with his blood pooling across the flagstones.
The sudden, brutal violence crashed over you. The sweet scent of incense dissolved into metallic stench of blood, and a surge of dizziness made the high stone vaults spin out of control above you.
“Guards!” Daeron roared, his voice rough in the way you had never heard from him before. Sheathing his crimson-stained blade with a trembling hand, he spun back towards you, his eyes wide with panic.
“My lady! Are you hurt—?”
He is safe. You are safe. However, the world was already tilting away. Your breath hitched, and clutching your abdomen, your knees buckled beneath you—
Daeron dropped to his knees, his arms catching you just before you hit the cold marble.
Ormund was by your bedside when you awakened.
He was visibly worn with concern, the shadow of exhaustion heavy beneath his pale blue eyes, which searched your face as if ensuring you were truly fine.
“Dearest.” He reached out, his calloused hand cupping your cheek, his thumb softly brushing away a stray strand of hair from your face. Then he enveloped your cold fingers, pressing them to his lips before resting them over the soft swell of your belly.
“Do not try to move too quickly,” he urged when you shifted. “The maester said you and the babe suffered a great shock, and therefore you must rest.”
Amidst your hazed mind, the sight of him made your heart lurch with relief. You swallowed past the dryness in your throat, your mind flashing back to the blood on the sept floor and instinctively leaned into his touch for comfort.
“You must have been so scared,” he murmured, his brow furrowing in deep lament as he gazed down at you. “My brave girl... to see such horror in a house of peace.”
“I was,” you whispered, squeezing his large hand and closing your eyes to breathe in the comforting, familiar scent of lavender that clung to him. “It happened so fast, Ormund, I thought—”
“Do not think on it,” he cut in softly, leaning down to brush a lingering kiss against your temple. “It is over. The traitor is dead, and you are here, safe with me.”
Despite your best efforts, a shudder racked your frame as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes.
“Oh, my dear, sweet wife...” Ormund shushed you, shifting onto the mattress to gather your trembling body against his broad chest. He rocked you slowly, his arms wrapping around you like a shield, burying his face into your hair.
He peppered soft, fleeting kisses across your face, the affection was such a comfort that slowly coaxed the panic from your chest.
“Daeron...” your voice came out small, buried against his neck as the fear bled away. “He... he saved me. He was so fast.”
Against you, to your surprise, your husband’s posture snapped taut.
“He did what was expected of him,” he said then, his voice carrying a coldness. “I will ensure he learns from such a grave lapse in judgement, so that you are never exposed to such peril again.”
“Ormund...” you rasped, looking up at him with tearful eyes. “Please... do not be harsh on him. He did well.”
Ormund stared down at you, a tempest of fury raging behind his eyes. After a silent moment, however, he sighed, letting go of his unspoken rage for now as he wrapped his arms around your form.
“Say no more of the boy. Rest your eyes,” he said with a tone of finality, tucking your head against his chest. “You have endured enough for one day.”
Yet as sleep pulled you under, you had no way of knowing this was just the fragile calm before a storm.
“Fucking craven!”
The next time you saw your husband with his ward, you heard an explosive crash echo from the walls of his study.
You hurried toward the half-open doors, stopping dead as Ormund’s voice thundered out, utterly merciless—
“Listen to me well, Daeron. A prince does not get to be afraid. If you hesitate for half a second on the battlefield, you will not just lose your life— you will condemn every banner and every Hightower who marches behind you to the block!”
The sight inside made your breath catch in your throat— Daeron stood cowering, his shoulders hunched as a shattered goblet lay in pieces near his feet.
It was unthinkable and simply unacceptable. How could Ormund unleash such venomous rage on a boy who deserved none of it?
In that single, sickening second, all of Daeron’s uncomfortable gaits whenever you mentioned your husband suddenly made sense. Refusing to let him suffer a moment longer, you slammed the door open—
“That is enough!” you cried, stepping between them, your voice trembling as you shielded Daeron behind you. “What are you doing to him!”
“Stand aside,” Ormund growled. “The boy must learn. A future king cannot flinch!”
King? Your heart lurched into your throat, terror instantly replacing your anger. “Have you lost your mind? To speak such words is high treason!”
“His brothers are a spoiled cunt and a one-eyed craven!” Ormund thundered, his towering form casting a long shadow over both you and the boy behind you. “The realm needs a new king who can command, and therefore, now that task falls into him!”
“He is a child!” you screamed back, refusing to step aside. “Look at him! He is terrified! You... you cannot break a boy to feed your own ambition!”
Insatiable, ruinous hunger— it was the one trait you had always known defined him. But as the clarity finally dawned on you... you just realized you were looking at a man willing to burn anything to sit behind a boy-king’s crown.
How could he...? How has it eluded you?
Behind you, Daeron’s breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps. Even without looking at him, you knew he was close to tears.
This ends now. Without another word to your husband, you turned, grabbed Daeron’s cold, trembling hand, and pulled him out of the study.
“Return to your desk!” Ormund’s commanded viciously. “I am not finished with you, Daeron!”
“He is finished!” you shouted back, not daring to look back as you hurried the young prince away from him.
You guided Daeron through the corridors, as his boots dragging against the floor and his tears finally falling. He didn’t say a word, and you didn’t stop until you reached the safety of the courtyard gardens.
You turned to him, opening your mouth to offer whatever words of comfort you could gather, but the sight of him struck you silent.
Looking at his tear-stained face and trembling form, you didn’t see a prince or a knight, but a terrified boy who desperately needed to be saved.
Silently, you reached out and pulled him tight into your arms.
Night fell over Oldtown, and sleep was impossible despite your exhaustion.
You stood by the wide stone window of your bedchamber, your arms wrapped around your waist as you stared out into bay. Every so often, the fluttering kicks of your child inside you stirred against your palm, offering comfort against the heavy knot in your chest.
The door opened and closed behind you. Soft, heavy footsteps sounded against the floorboards behind you. You offered him nothing but an icy silence as your husband approached.
Gently, his broad arms wound around your waist, pulling your back flush against the heat of his chest. He leaned his head down, his warm breath fanning softly against the sensitive skin of your neck.
“You have not slept,” Ormund breathed out, his voice far softer, carrying none of the rage from earlier.
You remained entirely rigid, staring blankly out at the dark waters, refusing to melt into his embrace.
Ormund let out a long, low sigh against your skin. “I know I was harsh with him today,” he admitted quietly, his hands resting gently over yours where your child had just kicked.
“I take no pleasure in it, my dear. But this is necessary. I have named him the successor to the Iron Throne and Daeron cannot afford to be soft. I must leave again for Tumbleton at first light... in three days.”
Cold horror spiked through your veins. You twisted in his arms, wrenching yourself away from his grip as you spun to face him, your eyes widened in disbelief.
“Tumbleton, again?” you gasped, voice trembling. “When you barely escaped with your life the first time?”
“Listen to me—”
“And you have doomed him,” you whispered, tears spilling past your lashes as the horrific truth sank in. “By the Gods, Ormund… he is just a boy! You are painting a massive target on his back and sending him straight into the slaughter!”
“It is what must be done,” Ormund countered in a frighteningly calm voice. “He must rise to meet his destiny, for his sake, for House Hightower, and for ours.”
Tears blurred your vision as you stared at the man you loved. A sick, hollow ache settled deep in your chest— how had you been so blind? You had loved him, trusted him, believed his cruelty was a shell of a devoted husband.
But Ormund Hightower was a man always reaching for more power than he could ever handle, no matter who he broke—or killed—to get it.
“And what of us?” you asked tearfully, your voice breaking into a ragged whisper as your hand instinctively grasped your abdomen, shielding your unborn child. “What becomes of me, and what becomes of your child, should you fall? Have you... have you even stopped to think about us for a single second?”
Ormund’s expression softened instantly, as if he knew and felt too what your tender heart was feeling as he reached out, gently cupping your tear-stained cheek.
“Every breath I take is for you, my dearest. Everything I build, every battle I fight, I do so to forge a world where no one can ever threaten you or our child again.”
But you shook your head in despair, inconsolable, unable to comprehend his justification. He pulled you tighter, brushing his thumbs on your fallen tears.
“I will return to you,” he swore, his pale blue eyes burning with conviction. “You have nothing to fear, my sweet girl. I swear it on my life, on my blood— on everything I hold holy.”
His other hand moved down, resting over yours, his warm palm feeling both you and the babe.
“All I ask of you… is to stay safe. You need only do one thing for me—bring our child safely into this world.”
You looked into his eyes, horrified at his words. Whether he truly believed he was doing this for you or was simply wrapping his own thirst for power in a noble promise, you couldn’t tell—
Yet as he kissed your brow, you knew with a chilling certainty that his pursuit of the throne would be the very thing that destroyed you all.
Thinking about Ormund with a martell!reader after the new episode...how interesting would that be. and hot.
ᴡɪᴄᴋᴇᴅ ɢᴀᴍᴇs (ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴇᴡ) | ᴏʀᴍᴜɴᴅ ʜɪɢʜᴛᴏᴡᴇʀ x ᴍᴀʀᴛᴇʟʟ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ x ɢᴡᴀʏɴᴇ ʜɪɢʜᴛᴏᴡᴇʀ
─ pairing: Ormund Hightower x Martell!reader x Gwayne Hightower
─ summary: Gwayne returns home after a year away with a pretty wife. Ormund always has to have what Gwayne has. Coming soon to a blog near you!!
─ content: 18+ MDNI
You lay on your back, the length of your body exposed from the waist down, one knee bent lazily, the other leg stretched long. Your breathing had slowed as your body settled. Between your thighs you were tender, swollen, still wet, the dull throb of a cunt that had been fucked hard and well.
Ormund lay beside you, propped on one elbow, the cut of his abdominal muscles flexing as he shifted his weight. A flush across his chest, a thin sheen of sweat still visible along the line of his collarbone. He held your hand in his and pressed his lips to each individual knuckle.
You watched him. When he finished, you moved your hand to his face — your palm settling against his jaw. He turned into the touch and leaned forward to kiss you. Not the rough kiss of earlier when he had pinned your wrists above your head and thrust into you. This was soft.
He pulled back just enough to speak. "Wicked, wicked creature."
"Surely you do not speak of me," you said, and a guilty smile curved your mouth — the kind that promised trouble and meant every word of it.
His own mouth answered with a slow, crooked smile, and his hand moved down your naked body. His palm skimmed over the swell of your breast, the plane of your stomach, and then down, slowly, caressing the bare length of your leg from thigh to knee and back again. "Of course you," he answered. "You have corrupted me. Mind, body, and soul."
You gave him an amused look — one brow lifting, your head tilting just slightly against the pillow. "If I remember correctly, my lord, you begged me to invite you to my bed."
He chuckled. "A fair humiliation to endure for the privilege of loving you."
Loving...
You turned your head on the pillow toward him, and your expression shifted — the amusement still present but something careful surfacing beneath it. You began to sit up, pulling the sheet across your lap. "Ormund?"
He was not a man to be ashamed or ignored. He met your gaze with steady confidence. "I love you."
You stared at him. He had never said that before, not in the dark of night when he had buried himself inside you and whispered filth against your ear, not in the mornings when he had held you close not wanting you to leave his arms. You opened your mouth. "Ormund, we discussed—"
"I know what we discussed." His voice was soft but it cut you off cleanly. The sincerity in his eyes was unmistakable. "But I was already in love with you then."
You bit your lower lip, your brows drawing together just slightly. He moved closer to you on the bed, closing the distance you had tried to create. His arms came around you, pulling you against his chest. You let him.
"Set your husband aside," he said, his mouth near your temple. "Be my lady wife." His hand moved up your spine. "I will fulfill every promise he has failed to deliver. Give you the children he refuses to."
Your eyes stung, moisture gathering along your lower lashes. You pulled back just enough to look at him. "And if I do that, Ormund, what will your people say of me? That I am a Dornish whore? A Martell sent to ruin the good men of Hightower?"
"You will be the Lady of Hightower," he said.
"I am already Lady Hightower."
The words felt like a slap, though you had not intended them as one. Ormund's jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed slightly as something shifted behind them. Not quite anger. He hated being reminded that Gwayne was your husband, and that he was merely a paramour. It made him feel replaceable. He wanted to be forever.
Your voice softened. "I can keep you as a companion, perhaps even carry your babe." Your hand came up to his chest, your palm flat against his sternum. "But you will never be my husband. You understand that, do you not?"
"No," he said, and the word came out sharp, bitten off. "I do not understand."
You exhaled through your nose. "Then I am afraid we cannot continue this arrangement."
The sheet fell from your lap as you slid off the edge of the bed, your bare feet finding the cool stone floor. You stood, naked, your body still marked from the evening. You moved without looking back, heavy hair swaying against the small of your back as you bent to retrieve his shirt from the heap of discarded clothing on the floor. You picked it up, turned, and tossed it at him. It hit his chest and he caught it reflexively.
"You will show yourself out."
You turned and walked toward the bathing chamber, making it three steps before his arms came around you from behind.
He was tall, broad, and he enveloped you completely — his chest against your back, arms crossing beneath your breasts, his chin resting on the top of your head. He ducked down, pressing his lips to the place where your neck met your shoulder. "I am sorry, princess," he whispered against your skin.
You said nothing. You let him hold you, your hands coming to rest over his strong forearms, your fingers curling lightly around the muscle. He held you tighter.
"I wish to give you everything," his voice was rough at the edges. "I wish I had met you first."
The regret in his voice was unmistakable. You closed your eyes. "Ormund." A pause. "It may not make sense to you, but Gwayne and I do love one another. He is a good husband to me...he was very kind to allow me to keep you despite his many reservations."
The words were firm, certain, delivered without cruelty but without apology. You felt the breath leave his chest — a slow exhale against your hair. You turned within his embrace, facing him now.
"This only works if everyone plays their part, do you understand?"
He looked at you for a long moment, his eyes searching your face. Then he nodded.
You rose onto your toes and placed a kiss on his lips. "Good."
He kissed you again. His hand came to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. When he pulled back, his eyes were clear. The eyes of a man who had made up his mind.
There would only be one man in your life. It would be him.
This can be read as a standalone or as part ii of the seven sins series.
summary: as you carefully weave your way into his life, learning his weaknesses and exploiting his desires, lord ormund begins to wonder whether the seven are testing his faith, or rewarding his devotion.
word count: 10.8k+ (i'm sorry)
pairing: ormund hightower x noble!reader
contents: 18+ (mdni), smut (two scenes one fic), dubcon, mutual manipulation, reader is very ambitious and calculating but worships him, ormund is a religious pervert and has a god complex, forbidden desire trope, oral (m receiving), religious corruption, somnophilia, religious themes including shame, penance, purity, minor suffocation, arranged political marriage, infidelity.
a/n: this was so much fun to write! i loved living in ormund's sick sick head while writing this. enjoy the filth
please let me know if you enjoyed this. i've always been a whore for academic validation
READ PART ONE HERE
For the first time in many years, the Lord of Oldtown found no comfort in prayer.
Within his household little had changed. The gardens still bloomed in earnest with bees drifting lazily through beds of lavender; servants still hurried through corridors with duties to attend; and every bell still rang at its appointed hour.
Everything was as it had always been.
The great doors of the Starry Sept stood open when he arrived, pale shafts of sunlight spilling across the marble floor. The scent of wax and frankincense lingered in the cool air, and candles burned beneath the carved likenesses of the Seven.
The quiet soothed him - it soothed the great beast that lived within him and lulled it into submission. The sept had always been a place to think, undisturbed by violent impulses or rage.
Lord Ormund did as was his custom. He knelt before the great statue of the Father, folded his hands together and bowed his head in prayer.
The words came as they always did.
"Father, grant me wisdom. Grant me strength. Grant me restraint."
The words had become a ritual more than a petition. He had long ceased asking the Seven what they required of him. They had made their will clear years ago -
The realm had grown soft.
Someone had to restore what weaker men had allowed to decay.
Why else, he had often wondered, would the Seven have fashioned him as they did?
They had not blessed him with gentleness. They had given him a mind that calculated without sentiment, a will that did not bend, and a temper capable of making grown men tremble.
Lesser men called such qualities cruelty. Lord Ormund called them instruments.
No smith forged a blade merely to admire the shine of its steel.
He had spent years believing that every gift bestowed by the Seven carried with it an obligation to be used. His sharp tongue, his relentless ambition, even the violence that came as naturally as breathing; none of it was without purpose. A shepherd who refused to wield his crook invited wolves into the flock.
The Faith condemned pride. It condemned greed. It condemned bloodshed. Lord Ormund had long reconciled the contradiction by believing the Seven judged purpose above deed.
If his hands had been stained, he thought, they had been stained in the service of a holier order. Every life extinguished, every threat, every surge of fury had been another stone laid in the foundation of the realm he believed the Father intended him to build. Even wrath could be sanctified if it was directed against enemies of the Faith or of his noble House.
For years, the certainty granted to him by the Gods had sustained him. Whenever his tempers mastered him, he came here; he knelt before the altar, confessed it, accepted his penance, and departed convinced that his soul remained in right standing with the Gods.
This time, however, no certainty came.
When Lord Ormund closed his eyes, he did not see the Father's stern countenance. Every attempt at prayer dissolved into memory -
A memory of his hand pressed against your chest, the heat of your skin, the feeling of your raging heartbeat beneath his palm. With his hands clasped together in prayer, he could almost feel the sensation beneath his fingertips.
All the sins he committed could be justified when done in service of the Gods.
Lust, however... Lust was an indignity.
It reduced princes to fools and lords to panting beasts. It made mockery of discipline and laughed in the face of reason.
And of all the trials the Seven might have chosen for him, they had clothed his in silks, taught her to speak with intellect, and given her eyes that lingered just a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed.
The Gods, it seemed, indulged in their own kind of cruelty from time to time.
Lord Ormund remained kneeling for some time after his prayers had ceased to resemble a prayer at all. It was only when the chapel door opened behind him that he finally opened his eyes and lifted his head towards the sound.
"My lord."
Your voice was soft when you came to a stop a respectful distance away, dressed simply despite your station. A light veil covered your hair, and in the morning light filtering through the stained glass you appeared almost ethereal, the coloured light casting ribbons of sapphire and gold across your face.
Lord Ormund realised that if it weren't for the fact you spoke to him, he might have mistaken you for the Maiden herself.
For the briefest instant, irritation flared in his chest. He had come seeking solitude. Instead, the object of his unrest had found him.
"My lady."
Silently, he pushed himself up to stand.
Your expression held none of the uncertainty he had expected after what transpired in his study. Neither embarrassment nor triumph lingered there. Only the same composed warmth you seemed to offer everyone fortunate enough to earn your attention.
You stepped a little closer.
"I hope I'm not disturbing you." Your voice was sweet, kind.
The answer came without softness. "You are."
A lesser woman might have flushed, might have hung her head in shame. You merely inclined your head.
"Forgive me, then."
Silence settled between you.
Lord Ormund ought to have dismissed you, ought to have left the sept. Instead, he found himself studying you as he had so many times since your arrival in his city.
Over the past week he had watched you perform before his household with perfect grace; every smile measured, every courtesy precisely judged. He had watched you bewitch his entire court as though some magic had possessed them.
During the feast he threw to welcome you to Oldtown - a formality, an expectation - he sat at the high table and watched, dazed, as you made his lords fall at your feet. You laughed at their jests, consented to every request to dance, seemed to know - by name - their wives, cousins, fathers, children, enquiring about their health and wishing them good fortune. In exchange, his lords fawned over you, telling you how honoured they would be to host you at their homes.
He saw the servants flitting about you like flies. Not because it was their duty, but because you made them love you. You giggled with your maids as you descended the stairs of the tower, walking arm in arm. He overheard the cooks arguing over which pie would be more to your liking, and then the servant boys arguing just as fiercely about whom would get to carry the damned thing up to your chambers.
Even Daeron seemed enchanted by you and elated since your arrival. Lord Ormund watched with a sense of disquiet as the boy smiled - no, laughed - every time you conversed. It also did not slip Lord Ormund's attention that Daeron had started to look to you for approval on his lessons, and not to him. That was perhaps the most difficult thing to swallow.
Within a week, you has managed to wrap his household around your finger. The Lord of Oldtown could not determine where the manipulation began and where it ended.
Your courtesies, your ploys, your moments of genuine joy all seemed to melt together like smoke, shifting and changing whenever he reached for certainty, leaving him unable to tell whether he was being deceived or simply refusing to believe what was there in front of him.
The feeling was maddening.
"What brings you here?" He asked at last.
Your eyes drifted towards the great statue of the Mother.
"I came to pray."
Lord Ormund almost smiled. "I gathered as much."
A gentle shake of your head. You looked back at him, your eyes just as soft as that first night in his study. "I came to pray for you."
Something in his expression stilled. He searched your face. There was no trace of mockery or coy satisfaction; no calculated sweetness.
Lord Ormund grimaced. "Then either you are very thoughtful," he said, quietly. "...Or very ambitious."
The corner of your mouth lifted almost imperceptibly.
"Two things can be true at once, my lord."
And there it was. Not denial, not outrage, not the offended innocence of a lady accustomed to having some hidden intention. A simple acceptance. The answer unsettled him more than any lie ever could.
If you had protested, if you had insisted that your intentions were entirely pure, he would have known how to respond. He understood performance, courtesy, the careful dance of noble conversation where every word concealed another. But you had simply looked at him and admitted the possibility that you were both kind and cunning; that you could offer him tenderness and still understand the power of it.
Against a better judgement, a low laugh escaped him.
"You answer dangerous questions very comfortably."
You did not turn away from his gaze. "My father always says the truth is easier to remember than a lie."
He regarded you for a long moment. There it was again. Not innocence but a gentleness devoid of weakness.
You possessed none of the meekness he expected of a noble lady; the same meekness he so often despised. You did not diminish yourself to flatter men, but wielded softness as a weapon, discreetly. And that, more than anything, made him suspicious.
"You prayed for my soul?"
You took a breath, lifting a brow as if to chastise him for inquiring about your private conversations with the Gods. Nevertheless, an amused smile toyed at the corners of your lips.
"I prayed that the Seven might send you someone who sees you as you are."
The words settled somewhere deep within him. His gaze lingered upon your lovely face, and he did not say a word. You stared right back, and then - eyes flitting around the sept as if to check you were definitively alone - you stepped a little closer.
"Someone who sees that a man may yearn for control..." Your voice dropped to a whisper. "...And still hunger for worship freely given."
He watched - disturbed - because your words did not sound like a prayer at all; they sounded like an observation, a judgement.
For a moment he did not move. The words struck with such precision that he almost resented you for speaking them.
"You presume to understand me rather quickly for a woman who has known me but a handful of days." The words were sharp, but not cruel. He would not give you the satisfaction of knowing you had vexed him.
No woman ought to possess the power to unmake him. You were merely flesh. Merely the daughter of another lord, promised to his cousin in exchange for an army. A trial from the Gods.
You only smiled. You kept your eyes on him - those cunning, knowing eyes - as you turned on your heel and made for the exit. It was not long before you disappeared out the main doors of the sept and into the sunny morning air.
His reaction told you all you needed to know that your words had found their mark.
At first, you told yourself everything was strategy. You had a duty to your House, a duty to secure the alliance. Politics had never rewarded squeamishness, and you had long since accepted that influence was won as often through intimacy as it was through steel.
Yet if you were honest with yourself, duty alone did not explain the ease with which you had embraced the task.
You owed something to yourself as well.
You knew yourself too well to imagine that a courteous knight, all earnest smiles and gallant promises, could ever satisfy the life you had envisioned. You had no desire to spend your days beside a man content merely to inherit the world as it was.
You wanted one who intended to shape it. A lord whose ambition reached beyond his own lifetime. A man capable of inspiring obedience the moment he entered a room, who carried power as naturally as other men carried swords. One who expected the world to bend around him - and possessed the will to force it when it refused.
Lord Ormund Hightower was all of those things.
The tragedy, you told yourself, was that your father thought him too wicked to be your husband.
You had an obligation to understand the man whose favour could determine your future, and understanding Lord Ormund required information.
Your maid, as it turned out, had no qualms against gossip now that she knew you could be trusted.
"What does his lordship enjoy?" You had asked the previous morning.
You looked at the girl through the mirror as she brushed the tangles out of your hair.
"He enjoys books. Military histories, from what I've heard... Accounts of old campaigns."
"That much I know," you nodded, eager. "What else?"
The maid stopped her brushing and lifted her gaze to meet your own. She saw then, the sly glimmer in your eyes and responded with a subtle but definitively conspiratorial grin of her own.
She knew exactly the type of information you were after.
The first book thus appeared on his desk the next morning. No note. No explanation. Just a tome you believed argued Grand Maester Gawen's point more convincingly than the one he had been reading.
The tea came later in the week. Lemon balm and honey.
You had learned from a passing comment that his sleep had been troubled for months. You did not ask him about it, you did not mention that you knew. Instead, you simply ensured a servant brought the tea to his chambers in the evening.
When he questioned the maid, the answer was simple.
"Her ladyship thought you might enjoy it, my lord."
You knew that if you approached him with concern, he would reject it. Lord Ormund rejected weakness and anything which might allude to it, and so you made it seem effortless, accidental, almost insignificant.
A few days later came the sprig of lavender wrapped in a handkerchief embroidered with his initials. The gift had been left on his pillow by a servant. Again, no note, no explanation.
You had intended it as a gesture, a reminder, a quiet acknowledgment. You had remembered the way he smiled at the flowers embroidered upon your sleeve, the way the fragrance was woven through every corner of the Hightower; its oils burned in censers, its blossoms drying from the rafters, its scent clinging to tapestries and bed linens alike.
You told yourself you remembered because such details made useful weapons. The gifts were a safe offering; innocent enough to escape suspicion and yet personal enough to suggest consideration.
For Lord Ormund, the small piece of cloth unsettled him more than it had any right to.
He thought he ought to have ordered the servants to stop allowing such foolish gifts into his chambers, but the order never came.
In fact, it became a quiet ritual - He would discover some small token and spend the better part of the morning pretending it had not affected him at all, only to catch himself reaching for it later with absent-minded familiarity. The handkerchief found its way into his sleeve whenever council meetings dragged on. The lavender remained upon his desk until it dried. The books occupied a place of pride upon his shelves.
He despised how quickly you had dominated his mind and his days.
If you were manipulating him, then he ought to admire the skill with which you did it. If you were sincere... The possibility was infinitely more dangerous.
Two weeks after your arrival, the real trial began.
It was late, the crescent moon hanging high in the sky. One by one the candles had been extinguished until only every third sconce still burned, pools of amber light interrupted by long stretches of darkness. Somewhere below, the sea sighed against the cliffs beneath the Hightower, its rhythm carrying faintly through the open arrow slits.
Your maids slept soundly. The guards outside your apartments did not.
You had learned their habits over the week with the same patience one might devote to studying a new language. Every hour they exchanged a few quiet words before beginning their circuit along the gallery. It lasted less than thirty heartbeats.
Tonight, that would be enough.
You wrapped a robe over your linen nightshift, tucked the polished tray beneath one arm and listened.
One guard coughed, another laughed quietly. Boots disappeared down the corridor.
You slipped through the door before either man returned, pulling it shut without allowing the latch to click.
You should have turned back, you knew. No unmarried woman wandered the private chambers of a noble lord after sunset. If the wrong person saw you rumour would travel faster than ravens.
You should have gone back. Instead, your fingers only tightened around the tray.
It was only tea, after all. That was the lie you told yourself. Not because you believed it, but because it sounded respectable enough to quiet your conscience. The truth was considerably less innocent.
You wanted to see him. Not in council, where every word was measured. Not at supper, where every glance was witnessed. Not in the sept beneath the eyes of the Seven.
Alone.
Two household guards stood outside Lord Ormund's chambers, halberds resting against polished breastplates, the green beacon of House Hightower stitched proudly upon their surcoats. Both straightened the moment they recognised you.
You inclined your head in greeting, balancing the tray between your hands.
"My lady." One of the guards shifted his weight uneasily. "It is rather late."
"It is."
Silence settled between the three of you. Their discomfort was almost endearing. The guards were accustomed to denying entry to quarrelsome bannermen and overeager petitioners; not to young noblewomen carrying herbal tea.
"I should like to speak with Lord Ormund."
The older of the two frowned. "Has his lordship summoned you?"
"No." Another silence.
You watched the question pass silently between them.
"My lady," the younger guard began carefully. "His lordship has retired for the night."
"I imagined as much."
Your eyes flickered towards the floor, seeing the warm light glowing beneath the door. Voices drifted through the wood; servants readying him for bed.
"It would perhaps be wiser to return in the morning."
Again, they looked at one another. Not because they doubted you, but because they understood perfectly well what the castle would assume if they admitted you.
The older guard lowered his head.
"These are Lord Ormund's private chambers." His voice dropped almost to a whisper. "If you cross that threshold tonight, there will not be a servant in Oldtown who believes you came to drink tea and discuss scripture."
You did not falter.
"I'm afraid it cannot wait."
Finally, the older guard released a weary breath.
"I shall ask whether his lordship wishes to receive you."
You grabbed him by the arm before he could turn towards the door, the tray almost clattering to the floor. Both men looked to you as if you had grown another head.
"If you announce me, he will have time to remember he ought to refuse."
The younger guard stared, trying hard to suppress his laughter. The older one looked as though he had suddenly developed a headache.
After a long moment, he muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Gods help me."
He knocked once upon the chamber door. A voice answered from within.
"What is it?"
"My lord." Another pause. "Lady Y/N requests an audience."
Silence. Then -
"At this hour?"
"Yes, my lord."
Another silence. It was long enough that you wondered whether he would refuse. Finally, his voice came again.
"...Send her in."
The older guard stepped aside. As you passed him, he lowered his voice just enough that only you could hear.
"My lady," he stopped. "For both your sakes and ours..." He searched for the right words. "Be careful."
At first, you listened politely whenever someone warned you of Lord Ormund's temper. Every servant had a story. Every bannerman recalled some slight that had earned a public humiliation. Eventually, however, the warnings began to grate.
They spoke of him as though he were some unknowable force of nature, when it truth he was remarkably easy to predict. Feed his vanity. Respect his authority. Never challenge him before an audience. Make him believe every decision was his own.
It was hardly sorcery. It was simply understanding the sort of man he was. You had learned he responded far better to admiration than obedience, to subtle affection than open flattery. He liked to believe he had reached every conclusion himself. Give him that illusion, and he would walk precisely where you wished him to.
And so you said nothing, and the doors opened onto a chamber worthy of a King.
Your own apartments were grand, but Lord Ormund's bordered upon ostentation. The chambers overlooked the sleeping city through immense arched windows dressed in emerald velvet so heavy it pooled upon the floor. Rich green tapestries woven with scenes of the Age of Heroes hung between soaring pillars of pale stone, their threads shimmering gold in the light of a hundred candles.
Moonlight spilled across polished marble and glinted from objects that no man strictly required; gold-bound manuscripts stacked beside his enormous bed, crystal decanters filled with Arbor wines, reliquaries of chased silver and saints carved from pale jade gathered upon an altar in one corner.
There was devotion in the room. There was also wealth displayed with a confidence bordering upon vanity.
You found yourself smiling. Your father had once remarked that the proudest men always found the most elaborate ways of calling their indulgence virtue. Lord Ormund, it seemed, had perfected the art.
Near the hearth, where flames leapt high enough to chase away the chill of the stone walls stood an enormous bath fashioned from polished white marble. Steam drifted lazily through the chamber, scented with rosemary and lavender, the water catching the firelight until it gleamed like molten amber.
Lord Ormund reclined in the steaming water as though it were a throne, one powerful arm resting along the marble rim, the water concealing him from the waist down. His dark hair, usually so carefully arranged, hung damp against his temples and curled at the nape of his neck.
A servant poured another bucket of steaming water into the bath while another stood nearby with fresh towels. Lord Ormund accepted their attentions with the unconscious ease of a man long accustomed to being obeyed, scarcely glancing in their direction at all.
It struck you then that privacy meant something altogether different to a man like him. Even here, in the most intimate room of his household, he remained the Lord of Oldtown. The bath was not a retreat from power, but merely another place from which to wield it.
Those clear blue eyes settled upon your face with unmistakable curiosity before drifting, deliberately, to the tray clasped in your hands.
One dark brow rose.
"Do you make a habit of entering the private chambers of men who are not your husband, Lady Y/N?"
You lowered your eyes to the tea in your hands as though only just remembering why you had come.
"The servants told me you struggle with sleep. I thought you might appreciate this."
He tilted his head to the side as if surveying you.
"The servants speak too freely, it would seem." His words were a warning. Then, to your quiet satisfaction, the corner of his mouth twitched.
You found it difficult to hide your grin. "I make it my business to know the households in which I reside."
His eyes did not move away from your face.
"You make it your business to know the household..." He repeated, tasting the words. "...Or to know me."
Neither servant dared to breathe. The implication of you spying on him was loud and clear.
You offered no answer. Instead, you stepped farther into the chamber, setting the tray down upon a small table beside the bath. You tried hard to maintain your composure, but it was difficult not to look at the man before you, the breadth of his shoulders and the arrogance with which he carried himself.
"It's lemon balm. It calms the mind."
His response was curt. "My mind does not require calming."
"No?" The quirk of your brow was beyond disrespectful.
"No."
You expelled a quiet laugh. "Then you merely haunt the sept before dawn."
The words escaped before you could soften them. For the first time since entering, the smile disappeared from his face entirely.
Lord Ormund's gaze remained fixed upon you, the tension making your pulse quicken.
The servants exchanged a nervous glance.
"You observe more than is polite." Silence settled over the chamber. It stretched long enough that you wondered whether you had gone too far. Then -
"Leave us."
The command was quiet. The servants moved immediately. One collected the discarded clothes, another bowed deeply before retreating through the carved oak doors. Within moments the chamber was empty save for the two of you and the steady crackle of the fire.
The door closed with a muted thud. Lord Ormund watched it for another moment before speaking.
"You have developed an unfortunate habit of finding me when I am least prepared to receive visitors."
You tried to hide your smile.
"Another servant told me you are accustomed to taking meetings from the bath."
"I am."
"Then I fail to see the problem."
He studied you with that unnerving intensity which made you feel as though every thought behind your eyes had suddenly become visible.
"The difficulty is not the bath, it's the visitor."
You should have felt chastened by the comment. Instead, your courage only grew.
"May I sit, my lord?"
"You have already decided that you will, have you not?"
You glanced around the chamber. There was a multitude of places to sit - the chair by the windows, the bench at the foot of his bed, the settle by the fire. Each option was dismissed in turn.
Bold, you moved closer to the bath and gracefully lowered yourself down onto the thick Myrish carpet. Kneeling as if to pray, you folded your arms atop the broad lip of the bath and rested your chin upon them. You gazed up at him, meeting his eyes from beneath long lashes.
Lord Ormund watched, saying nothing.
It was a comfortable position, informal, entirely inappropriate.
"You are aware," he observed after a long moment of silence had passed. "That no lady has ever presented herself before me in quite this manner."
Your tone was teasing. "I suspected as much."
"And yet here you remain."
The shrug of your shoulders appeared relaxed, almost coy.
"I find the floor comfortable."
Lord Ormund gave a quiet, incredulous laugh. "You continue to bewilder me, Lady Y/N."
"Do I?"
He extended his arm past you and reached over to grab the tea. With one hand, he transferred the brew from the pot to the matching porcelain cup. Little droplets of water fell from his elbow, disappearing when they hit the carpet.
"You tell me you pray for me."
"I do."
Lord Ormund settled back into the bath and took a small drink of the tea.
"You send me books."
"I thought you might enjoy them."
He smiled against the rim, a soft, amused kind of smile.
"You leave flowers upon my bed and embroider my initials upon linen."
"I had thread to spare."
Each answer was maddeningly simple. Each one could have been entirely innocent. That, or meticulously calculated.
"I'm having a difficult time understanding what you want of me."
"Does it trouble you, my lord?"
Lord Ormund watched as the pad of your index finger made contact with the water. You said nothing as you simply enjoyed the action of skimming your digit over the surface - slowly, absentmindedly - the motion setting off ripples in its wake.
"It does."
"Then perhaps you are right to be troubled." You tore your gaze away from the cloudy surface of the water, meeting his eyes again.
"After all," you mused, "most people offer kindness because they wish to receive something in return."
"And you do not?"
He could have stilled your hand, wrapped his fingers around your wrist and forced you to withdraw. He should have done so, and yet not a single muscle in his body wished to even entertain the notion.
Your laughter was gentle, the most melodic of sounds.
"I did not say that." A pause. "A letter arrived today from Ser Gwayne."
Lord Ormund set the cup back down. His brow lifted expectantly.
"A letter from my cousin arrives in my castle and yet my Maester deems it more appropriate to deliver it to you than me."
"Do you not believe, my lord, that words which pass between a man and wife are sacred and should be kept private?"
Your expression was a provocation.
"You are not man and wife yet."
The smile you offered him could not have been any more wicked.
"Thank the Gods."
You did not drop his gaze as you removed your hand from the surface of the water and instead placed it on the rim of the bath. Slowly, you pushed against the stone and lifted yourself onto your knees.
Lord Ormund's eyes followed, curious about your intentions as your deft fingers seized the thin tie of your robe. You did not pull, only lifted a brow, offering him time to decide where the boundary of propriety lay.
A long moment passed.
No protest came.
The robe was discarded.
"You are entirely too comfortable in my presence, Lady Y/N." His words were a whisper.
"You sound disappointed."
"I sound concerned."
Left only in your thin nightgown, you settled back next to the bath and grabbed a washcloth from a nearby stool.
When Lord Ormund looked to you quizzically, you only offered him a sweet smile.
"You sent your servants away, my lord. I only wish to help."
He watched with blazing eyes as you dipped the washcloth beneath the hot water. Slowly, you took the soap and massaged it into the fabric until suds dripped freely down from your hands and to your elbows.
"It appears," you began, leaning over and pressing the washcloth to his shoulder. Your touch was light, his skin smooth beneath your fingertips. "The Queen has dispatched Ser Gwayne at your behest. He has boarded a ship and shall arrive in Oldtown within the fortnight."
You did not look him in the eyes, too distracted by the sight in front of you, the task at hand.
"The wedding will have to be delayed but not long enough to slight my father. Our alliance appears to be safe."
Lord Ormund offered a curt nod, but whether the news satisfied him or not, you could not tell.
The washcloth moved over his chest. There was a slowness to the act, a delicious kind of tenderness.
It was a long moment before you spoke again.
"How long has it been since you slept properly, my lord?" You asked the question as if you were not just leading him to his own damnation.
Lord Ormund cleared his throat. "I sleep."
"That was not my question."
"You are remarkably comfortable questioning me."
The Lord of Oldtown kept his voice even.
Your giggle was quiet.
"And you, my lord, are remarkably comfortable pretending you don't enjoy me."
You moved to his other shoulder. For a fleeting moment you imagined yourself pressing your tongue against his neck and tasting the droplets cascading down his skin.
"You possess a rare talent, Lady Y/N."
He watched you leaning over him, the unbound hair brushing your skin, the curve of your breasts beneath the barely there linen of your nightdress.
He could not seem to tell you to leave.
"...A rare talent for speaking the thoughts wiser people generally keep to themselves."
You worked in silence, your movements unhurried, careful as though tending to something precious rather than powerful.
You watched his expression and understood very well the torment he was in. His jaw tightened, his breathing changed as though he was working hard to keep it even. It did not take a sorcerer to imagine the kind of thoughts plaguing his mind -
He was a man conflicted.
Wordlessly, you moved around the bath to kneel behind his head. You washed the hard muscles at the nape of his neck, his skin so hot it almost burned your fingertips, and you realised that the torment wasn't his alone.
Situated behind him, you allowed the washcloth to slip from your hands, sinking somewhere beneath the surface of the water. On a hasty impulse that you simply couldn't resist, you slid both of your fingers to his broad shoulders and squeezed.
The fragrant oils in the water made it easy for your hands to glide across his flesh, to tenderly massage his shoulders until Lord Ormund's eyes closed and he relaxed against the tub.
"Does this please you?"
Your voice was a whisper when you leaned forward and spoke the words so close to his ear that shivers erupted down his spine.
"Relax, my sweet lord. Let me take your burdens away."
The work of your hands didn't cease - they squeezed and rubbed and pressed all the right places until Lord Ormund's head involuntarily tilted back against the rim of the tub. He submitted fully.
You could see his face, his eyelashes casting shadows over his cheeks, the damp little hairs clinging to his temples in gentle curls. With his eyes closed and his full lips slightly parted, he was the embodiment of bliss, the perpetual furrow between his brows finally smoothed away. For once, there was no severity about him, no hint of the relentless vigilance that seemed to accompany him even in silence.
He was a sight to behold, and you would be damned if you didn't make him yours.
And so, spurned on by his enjoyment of the assault on his shoulders, you allowed your hands to roam lower. Slowly, almost lovingly, you allowed them to slide from his broad shoulders to his chest, his head cradled between your elbows.
You stroked the smooth skin there, unhurried, allowing your own relaxation to become his own.
"You said you did not know what I want of you," you breathed. "I wonder, does this answer your question?"
At your words, his eyes opened slowly. He gazed up at you, his expression glazed over with newfound relaxation. The look on his face was almost sleepy and he made no moves to remove himself from where he was.
Your hands continued their ventures, your nails delicately grazing his skin, the sensation a perfect combination of gentleness and pain.
At last, Lord Ormund spoke, his voice just as soft as yours.
"You are wicked, aren't you?"
You smiled, almost shyly.
"No, my lord." Your words were a caress he could not bring himself to refuse. "I simply have the courage to pursue what I desire."
His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
"And what would that be?"
You released a chuckle, expelled upon a quiet breath.
"Must I truly say it, my lord?" The question hung in the air. "In truth, power has never interested me nearly as much as the man who wields it."
He stared up at you, saying nothing. Those calculating eyes remained fixed on your face for the longest moment.
The water lapped quietly against the sides of the bath as Lord Ormund studied you, searching your face for some trace of manipulation, some sign that he was being led exactly where you intended.
Seconds passed, your hands still roaming the hard muscles of his chest, his head still cradled between your arms. Then, without warning or ceremony, he rose.
In that instant, you began to wonder if you'd crossed the line; been too hasty with your efforts. Seduction born from impatience was the weapon of young, foolish girls, and you had been raised better than that. If Lord Ormund Hightower was ever to be yours, it would not be because desire had conquered him for an evening.
Water streamed from him in shimmering rivulets, cascading over broad shoulders and the hard planes of a body shaped not by vanity but by years of discipline. He made no attempt to shield himself, nor did he reach instinctively for the linen draped over a nearby chair. Such modesty seemed never to occur to him.
He stepped from the bath with the unhurried confidence of a man who had never once imagined himself an object of scrutiny. There was no self-consciousness in the set of his shoulders, no hurried movement to preserve your sensibilities. His body belonged to him as unquestionably as the castle around him did, and he bore both with the same effortless authority.
You remained where you were, kneeling at the head of the bath, now gazing up at him in all his glory.
The notion of him truly being a vessel for the Gods no longer seemed so absurd.
Lord Ormund approached slowly, his jaw tight as he came to a stop only a few inches from where you knelt.
With a gentle hand he reached forward and cupped your chin, tilting your head so you could look him in the eyes.
You had met handsome men before. Lords with golden hair, princelings with easy smiles, knights who mistook charm for character. None had ever held your attention for long.
Lord Ormund was different.
Every movement carried intention, every word conviction. He possessed the confidence of a man who had never doubted his own authority.
There was something intoxicating about a man so utterly convinced of his own purpose. A man who carried power as naturally as he drew breath. Power had always been attractive. Power worn without apology was almost impossible to resist.
Your own hands twitched in your lap, as if desperate to reach forward and touch him.
Every breath began to feel a little more deliberate, every inch of distance between you torturous. There existed a sharp and unbearable awareness of wanting; a deep and throbbing ache between your thighs, the involuntary straightening of your spine as you prayed for benefaction.
You had no choice but to close your eyes and attempt to centre yourself, to calm the furious, untamed desire.
"Look at me."
His words were a command wrapped in the softest of silks.
You could only obey, gazing up at him from beneath half-lidded eyes.
There was no smile on his face, only careful deliberation. He never ceased watching you, as if indulging himself on the sight of you kneeling before him, all breathless and wanton, the embodiment of the fantasies which plagued him during each sleepless night.
His hand stroked your cheek, the touch affectionate, almost fatherly. Freshly bathed, the scent of rosemary and lavender clung to him more strongly than before. You were acutely aware of your mouth salivating at the proximity of his cock, your lips parting as if your own body were inviting him to step forward and to use it as he pleased.
His thumb grazed your bottom lip.
"It is late," he said at last. His voice was a low purr, a sound laced with satisfaction, amusement. "I do not believe your betrothed would be pleased with you being in my chambers at this hour."
Despite his prudent words, Lord Ormund smiled when he pushed his thumb into your warm, wet mouth and you welcomed the intrusion with a quiet hum.
Your jaw opened for him; four fingers held your chin in place, his thumb pressing hard on your tongue until your eyes fluttered closed. The feeling of want was so intense, the tears threatened to come unbidden.
Despite the softness of his gaze, there was a brutality to the act.
Lord Ormund went deeper, as if testing the limits of what you could take. With his thumb pushing so far into your mouth, his knuckle served as an obstruction to your breathing. He pressed on the far end of your tongue and released a quiet, satisfied chuckle when a gentle gag reverberated from the back of your throat.
The arrogance radiated from him like heat.
Slowly, he withdrew his hand, the saliva dripping down your chin and onto your chest.
Your voice was a breathless whisper when you finally found it in yourself to speak.
"And you, my lord? Do you wish me to leave?"
He stroked your face again.
"It makes no matter what I want. It is a matter of what the Gods have ordained as right."
You swallowed, hard. You did not flinch away from his eyes when you replied.
"You are the Lord of Oldtown," you reminded him, as if it were the most obvious counter-argument. The words were spoken softly, almost reverently. "You command this castle. Every door opens at your word. Every man within these walls answers to you..."
His eyes followed you carefully, watching as your hands reached forward to delicately stroke his thigh. He did not stop you.
"...And yet you speak as though you must ask permission to allow me to remain."
His expression shifted, just slightly. You saw it -
The hesitation. The pull.
You smiled faintly.
"I am not here because I have been commanded. I am here because I wish to be." You moved closer, close enough that your voice became little more than a whisper. "And if it is your concern that I am within your chambers too late..."
Your gaze lifted to his.
"...then remember that these are your chambers." A moment passed. "And you are the lord here."
Your fingers brushed lightly against the powerful ridges that framed his waist.
The words were innocent enough. The meaning was not.
"I am yours to send away." A pause. "Or yours to keep."
He weighed your words. It was a long time before he spoke.
"I cannot tell," he said at last. His fingers tangled in your hair, brushing it away from your face almost absentmindedly. "If the Gods brought you here as a test of my faith, or to reward me for keeping it."
Bold, wanton, you pressed your lips to the skin just below his hip. It was gentle, slow, deliciously provocative.
"And if I am a reward," you mused, looking up at him with such sinfulness in your eyes, the Lord of Oldtown doubted how much longer he'd be capable of restraining himself. "Would it truly be virtuous to refuse me?"
The question hung in the air, his self-control splintering with every breath, his morals yielding to the logic. The atmosphere between you felt thick and hot.
When he responded, his tone was quiet, almost solemn.
"Perhaps you are right." He sighed, toying now with the strap of your nightdress. "A man cannot spend his life believing the Gods have guided his path, only to deny that guidance when it takes a form he did not expect."
There it was. The self-righteous indulgence driving him to his own undoing.
Your smile was sweet when your hand finally found the base of his cock, the weight of it heavy in your hand. You squeezed it hard enough to make his eyes flutter closed.
Your response was saintly, pious.
"I am pleased to see the Gods have not led you astray, my lord."
His hand tightened around your hair when you finally brought him to your lips, the warm wet feel of your mouth making him release a long, shaky breath.
It was slow at first, your innocent eyes gazing up at him as his lips parted. Your cheeks hollowed to give him a wet, hard suck, enjoying the familiar feeling of power at watching him screw his eyes shut and his breathing accelerate.
"You will be the ruin of me," he breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. His cock throbbed upon your tongue.
Lord Ormund placed a hand on the crown of your head and drove in deeper, entitled now to what you had offered him.
You hummed around him, his thick and veiny shaft proving difficult to take all at once. You would be damned, however, if you displeased him; his pleasure was the pinnacle of your own arousal and you would do anything to make him see just how much he needed you; to see that no other woman would ever make him feel the way you could.
And so you took it all, saliva dripping freely down your chin, his cock buried so deep in your throat you couldn't breathe. It was bliss, to be used this way. Your eyes watered uncontrollably, tears spilling down your cheeks and blurring your vision.
"Sweet girl," he praised. "Take it all for me."
His hand gathered your hair, the gesture almost loving. Lord Ormund looked at you with adoration in his eyes, admired how pretty you looked on your knees in front of him, how well and eagerly you took his cock; the way you moaned around it as if the simple act of him fucking your mouth was enough to bring about your own undoing.
With one hand around the base, the other gripping his thigh to steady yourself, you soon set a perfect pace. Every movement was wet and sloppy, your lips sliding across his length as if they were made for it. You couldn't help but close your eyes and enjoy the act of pleasuring him, the small sounds and praises falling from his lips like a prayer.
Lord Ormund groaned when you released him with a wet pop, maintaining eye contact as you licked a long, bold stripe from the base to the tip. Your fingers toyed with his balls, and then, when he least expected it, pressed on that sensitive little spot right at the root, earning a profanity so abominable you could only smirk.
It was all eye contact and saliva, the most wicked thing you'd ever allowed yourself to experience. You were determined and drowning in the feeling of serving him, of making him feel so good the Warrior himself would not have been able to stop this if he appeared inside the chamber.
You knew, in that moment, that you would not be marrying his cousin.
The Lord of Oldtown was too greedy by far to let another man revel in this, in you -
He was spellbound, lost within his pleasure, lost in you. His divine purpose was forgotten, his morals and obligations discarded; the only thing to exist was you on your knees and your skilled mouth around him.
You gorged yourself on the knowledge that you were the cause of this; the knowledge that a man, even as powerful as the Lord of Oldtown, could still find himself at your mercy.
He was yours. He always would be. You would bend him to your will and make him suffer at the mere thought of living without you.
Two hands now on the back of your head, he drove himself even deeper. He revelled in the vibrations your moans provided, cussing as your throat closed around him.
His thrusts were becoming rampant, violent as he searched for his release. Lord Ormund was frantic, taking exactly what he wished, pulling at the roots of your hair as if unable to contain the intensity of the feeling you were providing.
It was senseless, crazed, your fingernails digging into his thighs, your jaw aching.
And then, a few moments later, his hips stilled as he held you exactly where he needed you, spilling himself in hot spurts down your throat. He was so deep the hair at the base of his shaft tickled your nose; so deep you could not draw in air.
It made no matter -
Tears streamed down your face and your eyes squeezed shut as you committed yourself to helping him ride out his high. He tasted like salt and soap, pulsating on your tongue and swearing as you pushed him deeper down your throat and felt him come undone.
It was the most erotic of experiences; the most addictive feeling you'd ever had.
A long moment passed before you released him from your mouth, humming at the taste of him on your tongue. He watched, hazy, as you wiped the corners of your lips with your index finger and made a show of swallowing what he had given you.
His face was pink from exertion, his chest rising and falling in laboured breaths. He looked entranced by the sight of you; the gentle curve of your swollen lips signalling just how much satisfaction you had found in pleasing him; the provocative glint in your eyes telling him that if he willed it, you would happily spend all night indulging him.
The knowledge of your devotion was intoxicating, a power unlike any he had ever known.
Eventually, as if dazed, Lord Ormund reached for a clean towel from the chair. As he did so, you rose from the floor and straightened out your rumpled nightdress.
You only smiled at him softly when he dipped the towel in a nearby basin and took it upon himself to wipe your lips, chin and chest with the most tender of touches.
Halfway through the task, he released a quiet, incredulous chuckle.
"What was it you said in the sept?" He asked. "About worship freely given."
You reciprocated his laughter, albeit more shyly.
"I prayed the Gods would send you someone who would worship you freely." A pause, a smile. "Perhaps they knew I would be happy to oblige."
He could only shake his head at your audacity, the amused smile never leaving.
Your own grin did not falter as you crossed the chamber towards the tall, arched windows, giving him a moment to compose himself after what had just transpired.
The cool glass overlooked the sleeping city, where countless lanterns glittered beside the Honeywine like stars fallen to earth.
Behind you, Lord Ormund shifted, and you listened to the quiet rustle of him donning his bathing robe, the delicate clink of a decanter being opened, wine pouring into cups.
From this height, Oldtown seemed almost dreamlike, its secrets traced in ribbons of amber light, the Honeywine shimmering beneath the moon as ships rocked gently against their moorings. Far below drifted the muted sounds of laughter and music, carried upwards by the breeze until they became little more than whispers.
Lord Ormund came to stand beside you, close enough that the warmth radiating from him chased away the cool night air creeping through the panes. He had exchanged his nakedness for a simple dark robe, hastily belted at the waist. In his hands, he held two polished glasses of Arbor Gold. You accepted one graciously.
For a long while, neither of you spoke. His gaze remained fixed upon the city below.
"I should return to my chambers," you said at last.
Silence.
From the purse of his lips, you knew Lord Ormund was not pleased with the idea -
You found yourself elated by the quiet certainty that he wanted you near. Not out of duty, nor courtesy, nor even convenience, but because he now knew what you could offer him. Knowing that filled you with a satisfaction almost impossible to resist.
Eventually, he spoke.
"Perhaps you should wait until the guards change watch. It would be wise for the departing men to escort you back to your chambers."
You blinked. You could not decipher if his concern was real, or if it was simply an excuse; an excuse of a man who felt greedy for me.
Either way, you would not argue. You simply inclined your head, expelling a tired sigh as you moved across the chamber to sit at the foot of his bed. Lord Ormund did not seem to mind; he only smiled at the sight of you - so bold and unabashed - lowering yourself down to lay on your side, your head propped up by a hand.
Then, as if nothing unseemly had ever happened between you, he leaned against the window sill and asked, "How are you finding Oldtown?"
And so the conversation started to flow, drifting from the Hightower to the harbour below the Citadel; from the Citadel to the wedding preparations; from the wedding preparations to the imminent march out of Oldtown and to King's Landing.
Minutes slipped quietly by.
Five became ten.
Ten became twenty.
You spoke of the books you had sent, the stupidity of his lords, the campaign, Daeron's fondness of you.
The bells of the Starry Sept rang somewhere below. One, then another.
The fire burned lower, its glow spilling warmly across the linens, the once vicious blaze slowing to a gentle crackle.
Your replies became less frequent.
Then shorter.
At last, they ceased altogether.
When Lord Ormund turned, he found your head resting on your folded arms, your legs tucked to keep you warm. You lay across the width of his bed as if you belonged there, as if you'd done this a thousand times before.
For a long while, he did nothing.
Your breathing remained slow and even, one hand still curled loosely around the empty cup balanced precariously upon the coverlet.
It was easier to admire you when you were unaware of it. When you were awake, you met him with that knowing look in your eyes, that quiet confidence that suggested you understood far more than you ever revealed. But now, with your guard lowered, he saw something else entirely - the softness of you, the curve of your face in the candlelight, the gentle parting of your lips as sleep claimed you.
Lord Ormund knew he should have looked away.
That was the first thought that crossed his mind, and yet he remained where he was, seated in the silence of his chamber, watching you sleep as though he were afraid the moment would vanish if he dared to break it. In waking hours, you were a challenge - sharp-tongued, clever, impossible to fully predict. You met his authority with a confidence that few would dare. But like this, with your defences lowered and the firelight casting you in gentle shadows, you seemed almost... pure.
And that was what unsettled him.
He had known beauty before. He had seen it praised in courts and painted into songs. But none of it had ever held his attention like this. There was something dangerous in the way his eyes lingered, in the way he found himself memorising details he had no reason to remember. The curve of your hip. The quiet rhythm of your breathing. The simple fact that you were there - in his chambers, within his reach, trusting enough to sleep in his presence.
A man of his station was accustomed to possessing things. Lands. Titles. Allegiance. Yet he had never understood the temptation of possession until now.
The thought disturbed him, so in an attempt to silence the greed, Lord Ormund tried instead to consider his options.
The obvious choice was to wake you.
He would escort you to the door himself and watch until the guards returned you safely to your chambers.
His gaze lingered upon your sleeping face and he imagined your eyes opening, confusion replacing that serenity, followed by embarrassment when you realised where you had fallen asleep.
No, he would not disturb you.
He thought about summoning the guards with a single pull upon the bell rope. They would carry you to your chambers without question. By morning, no one would be any wiser.
The idea lasted only a heartbeat.
You had trusted him to fall asleep. He would not repay that trust by placing you, vulnerable, into the arms of strangers. He knew what lesser men could do with a woman, beautiful and unconscious. He told himself it was his duty to guard you from those savage beasts.
The Mother, after all, smiled on those who protected the innocent.
His jaw tightened. There remained only one choice. You were already in his bed. The corridors were cold. You were exhausted. You would wake before dawn and return unnoticed.
The justifications came with suspicious ease.
One arm slipped beneath your knees, the other behind your back. You scarcely stirred when he lifted you from the foot the bed and moved you beneath the covers. The great bed welcomed you without complaint; your head naturally found the pillow, a quiet sigh escaping your lips before you settled once more into sleep.
This was enough, he thought. He considered retiring to the adjoining solar. There was a place to sleep there; hardly comfortable but entirely appropriate should someone discover you. No matter how much he wanted you, there was still the matter of your betrothal and the alliance to think about.
He glanced towards the chair by the fire, then back to you, peaceful and asleep.
With quiet irritation, Lord Ormund realised he had no intention of sleeping anywhere except the bed he had occupied for years.
And so he whispered an apology to the Father as he moved around the chamber, extinguishing the candles until only the fire remained. Then, as he had done thousands of times before, he pulled the covers back and laid down upon the featherbed.
It was only a short moment before you stirred -
In your sleep, you had turned towards the nearest source of warmth, and without waking, you were crossing the breadth of the mattress as naturally as ivy claimed old stone, curling against his side until your cheek rested lightly against his chest.
Lord Ormund closed his eyes when he felt your arm reaching for him beneath the coverlet, nightshift drifting as your bare leg slid across his own until it rested firmly over his hip.
He lay perfectly still, scarcely daring to breathe lest the rise and fall of his chest disturb you. One hand remained gathered in the folds of his robe, as though somewhere in your dreaming mind you feared he might disappear before morning.
This is how men become fools, he thought.
It was absurd. Entirely improper. He should have disentangled himself the moment you had moved. Instead, he found himself listening to the quiet rhythm of your breathing with a concentration he ordinarily reserved only for battle plans.
His eyes remained fixed upon the dark canopy overhead. He told himself he would move as soon as you shifted, as soon as you loosened your grip upon his robe, as soon as dawn broke over Oldtown.
He knew, even as he made each promise, that he was inventing reasons to remain exactly where he was, his hand grazing your exposed skin beneath the sheets.
It was a long time before you stirred again, moving more of your weight onto his body as your face nuzzled his neck. You were practically lying on your front now, sprawled across his chest, the nightshift bundled impossibly high. With his hand clutching the back of your knee, he realised just how exposed you were beneath the coverlets, how easy it would be let his hands roam.
At first he thought it was nothing, just the gentle shift of weight to make yourself more comfortable. Then he felt it -
Your hips rolled in slow, agonising circles, your breath hot upon his neck, and Lord Ormund prayed; prayed for restraint and for forgiveness.
He felt like a man possessed, enjoying the feel of a woman who never asked to be touched; a woman promised to his cousin but who so willingly got down on her knees in front of him and made him feel like a fucking God.
He told himself it was only flesh. That if the Gods had not intended for this to happen, they would not have allowed you to fall asleep upon his bed. That if you did not wish for him to touch you, you wouldn't have done what you did earlier that evening.
The Gods wanted this for him. They wanted to reward him for all that he had done in their service, all that he had done for the realm and the Faith. They wanted him to indulge in the feel of your smooth skin, the clean scent of your hair, the heat of your cunt pressed up against him.
Lord Ormund closed his eyes and succumbed to his depraved fantasies, imagining what it would feel like to roll you gently onto your stomach, to push the linen shift up over your hips and to sink into you with such violence your hands would claw at the sheets, his name falling from your lips, like a prayer in its own right.
He thought about the sounds you would make as you reached the pinnacle of your pleasure, how you would squeeze around him as he drove deeper, deeper, deeper.
His eyes opened when your hips finally found the pressure they were searching for, his powerful thigh sliding between your legs with ease.
He knew you were dreaming; what of, he could only imagine. All he knew was that tiny whines were falling from your mouth, the sound muffled against his throat, and that the smell of your arousal was so intoxicating he could not think straight.
Never stilling the gentle rocking, you hummed against his skin; a small, shallow breath fell from your parted lips when Lord Ormund grasped your hip beneath the sheets and applied more pressure to the apex of your thighs.
He would not dishonour you, he told himself, would not defile you. He would merely let you use him as your sleeping body demanded, guiding the lazy, instinctual movements until you were spent.
He told himself there was no sin in this. It was a kindness; a courtesy done for a woman unmarried, weighed down by the burden of a match she did not desire -
You needed this release. You needed him to take your burdens away as you did his; to care for you as a shepherd cared for his flock, as a lord cared for his subjects, as a God cared for his devotees.
Lord Ormund tilted his head to the side, burying his face in the crown of your head and breathing in your scent. His grip on your body tightened, his other hand grasping your nightgown and moving it aside. A second later, his index and middle fingers were on you, toying with that little bundle of nerves so deliciously that you could only pretend to still be sleeping.
He was quiet, pushing your leg aside and spreading your lips with ease. You felt his breathing still when he realised just how wet you were, an audible swallow sounding from his throat as if he were salivating at the mere thought.
He coated his fingers in your slick, using it to massage your clit with confident, skilled movements.
As the sensation built, you dug your nails into his chest and muffled your cries against his neck. The feeling was so intense; so raw tears threatened to escape your eyes.
Your hips bucked against him, mewling pathetically as your orgasm built.
You could feel how hard he was beneath you, the thin fabric of the robe doing nothing to conceal his own arousal. Every part of you urged you to reach down, to take him in your hand and guide him to the place so desperate to be filled.
It would have been bliss, you knew, to feel him stretching you out, sliding so deep inside you'd struggle to breathe.
There was no time to think about it -
You cried out when your climax hit, your teeth sinking into his shoulder to smother the sound that rose, unbidden, to your lips. You felt your hips seize, your core spasming as if possessed, clenching around nothing with such intensity you felt it would never stop.
Lord Ormund guided you through it, the movements of his fingers slowing, accounting for the imminent overstimulation, the twitching of the nerves as you came down.
"Shh... I have you."
His voice was a murmur, the gentlest of sounds meant not to wake you, but to offer comfort, to bring a measure of release to a body and mind finally free from the burdens of the waking world.
He held you close as your toes curled and your fingernails left pink, crescent shaped indentations on his chest, your leg pinning him to the featherbed. He hummed against your hair, an encouraging sound, a sweet praise meant only for you.
Nothing had ever felt as good.
And then, when it was over, silence descended between you. Whether he knew you were awake, you were not sure. The only thing you were certain of was how utterly spent you were, how weak your muscles felt.
And as your body relaxed back against him, you felt the gentle graze of his hand upon your hip - devoid now of its urgency, its fervour - soothing you to sleep.
matcha originated in China about 1200 years ago, açaí has been consumed by Indigenous communities in the Amazon for centuries, and Dubai chocolate was invented by combining chocolate with knafeh, an 1100 year old SWANA snack.
western (usually white but seemingly not in this case) people love to call nonwhite foods suddenly becoming popular in western mainstream culture "industry plants" as if they haven't always existed.
freddie fox intentionally played gwayne as in love with criston cole :) gwayne is 100% queer, sorryyyyyyy
and i never said otherwise lmao? 😭 are y’all aware that he could also be bi???? LIKE HELLO ??? bisexuality is literally part of the lgbtq+ community last time I checked. and btw, nothing has been confirmed yet…. so he could be gay, bi, or even pan! my point being we simply don’t know.
what’s annoying is seeing people witch hunt authors over a headcanon when i never see that same energy directed at people who write supposedly straight male characters with male readers or male ocs. like ppl should stop writing about Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent since both have always been portrayed as straight… that’s ur logic … whatever his sexuality ends up being is completely fine and should be respected but attacking people for saying “he could be bi” when nothing has been confirmed yet, and acting like the only acceptable possibility is that he’s gay, is just… weird
i’m so sick of the gwayne sexuality discourse you guys. i don’t care about people writing x female readers for him because he is FICTIONAL. people could write loras or renly x female reader for all i care. THEY’RE NOT REAL! nothing is even confirmed officially, everyone is just fighting about their own personal headcanons (and being super weird in the process), so i need everyone on all sides of this argument to please just stop crashing out. can we bring back blocking tags and scrolling you people are exhausting
Summary- Gwayne and his wife disagree on politics. They fuck about it instead.
Gwayne Hightower x Female Beesbury Reader
Prompt: Rough, almost angry sex after an argument about honor, the Faith, or the pointlessness of the war. Teeth, bruises, apology in the form of deeper thrusts.
Warnings! Men being disappointing. Real even in fantasy worlds. Rough sex. Unprotected sex. My contented is created for readers 18+. As usual authors notes are at the end of you guys wanna gab.
You had always been stubborn.
Strong of mind a will- and even worse: sharp of tongue.
A woman raised by too many women, your father had died young and you had spent your upbringing surrounded by your mother. And your aunts. And your grandmother. Your Great Uncle, one of the only men born this century, far away at in the Capital.
The matriarchal house Beesbury; its daughters known for their notorious stingers.
Gwayne had known all of this, and had married you anyway.
You could be so sweet.
Soft skinned, soft breasted.
Your words dripped over him like honey. A balm for all of his many wounds, physical and worse. Mental, years of playing the part of a perfect Hightower son. Of experiencing the horrors of battle in his knighthood had left him more frayed at the edges than he would ever allow to show on his carefully crafted public persona.
No, he’d worked far too hard for far too long to allow any red to bleed through the pristine green.
Gwayne could play the game with the best of them. Knew when to be clever. When to play up his words, and when to down play them in turn.
But best of yet. He knew when to shut the fuck up.
A skill that you sorely lacked.
Most of the time, it amused Gwayne greatly. The way you snapped at lords and their lordings, cutting them down to size when their arrogance overwhelmed a room. The way you rolled your eyes at gossiping high born ladies who had not better to do but spew venom.
The way your nose scrunched just so at the slightest tone of authority.
It does not amuse him at all when you talk about The War. About how useless you believe this inter house fighting to be. A strain on the realms resources, an unnecessary mean to send young soldiers to their death. About the death of your great uncle.
You are sharp of tongue, but not careless of tongue. Usually you keep these opinions about the war to your inner circle. To Gwayne himself. There’s a difference between a ill timed comment and a treasonous one.
You push it at a council meeting. You sit behind your grandmother, head of House Beesbury. And Gwayne next to his father, flanked by Ormund.
The room of Reach born nobility is in disagreement.
Blacks and Greens and succession and usurping. The sacreligious act of beheading Meleys and parading her head through the streets of Kings Landing had sparked uproar in all directions. The Battle of Rook’s Rest was the beginning of the end, many feared.
Gwayne was still beaten to shit from it. Nursing cuts and bruises and leaking burn wounds.
Otto Hightower has a brilliant mind, a conniving mind. But an arrogant mind.
“It is arrogance to think that Rhaenyra will not retaliate for this” your grandmother sighs, wrinkled face grin and serious “her reach is farther than you’d like to admit and the king now lies half dead. From a battle with a single of the dragons that the Blacks host”
You agree with her. Completely.
“That dragon and its rider are both now slain” comes Otto’s smooth reply “the battle was a win for the rightful heir, and the crown, as all will no doubtedly be with Vaegar on our side”
“The battle was a firepit” you respond, and yes. It is out of turn. “Rooks Rest was a mighty castle and its been reduced to rubble. Hundreds of families can’t bury their dead because there’s only ashes left. That was one battle, one. Please give reason to how think the realm and its people can survive this war”
Gwayne stiffens. Gives you a look from across the table that you pointedly ignore.
Otto spews his carefully crafted reply and ambitious nobels nod along. War is a man’s work, it can be confusing for some he finishes and Gwayne knows-
He can tell my the scrunch of your nose.
That you are about to say something wholly inappropriate.
“War is the work of knights- and unfortunate common folk who face the draft, Lord Hightower” you make sure he hears the title you give him. Lord Otto Hightower has never seen a battlefield. He’s just the cause of them. “Or am I confused about that?”
Gwayne sighs.
Gods damn it.
You don’t expect Gwayne to side with you against his father, you’d given up such hope long ago. But does he really have to allow Ormond to make a snide little comment about women’s hysterics? And Otto to give you his most condescending gentle fatherly scolding?
You hate the way Lord Hightower fathers his children. You want no part of it. Your husband knows that.
The killing blow when Otto calls on Gwayne, for his son’s knightly opinion, his son’s husbandly opinion. Gwayne who had been there at the battle himself.
Gwayne who you had held in your own arms as he shook and recounted the horror of dragon fire. Who had groaned in pain as you smeared the maesters ointment on his burn wounds.
“From the moment the rightful heir took the throne, war was soon to follow. That can’t sway us from doing what is just, and following the crown faithfully”
Gwayne says the exact words that he knows his father wants to hear. His dutiful pious son.
They make you simmer with resentment.
They silence you.
Your arms cross tight over your chest and you glare hot at the wood grain of the table as the meeting in the council room continues. Your grandmother reassures you in the form of a pat on the thigh. Men will be men, she always says.
Not surprising, but ever disappointing.
-
Gwayne has half a mind to find another bed to sleep in tonight. Hells, he’d even take a floor.
Usually, he can temper your bad moods. He can laugh at your tangents and listen idly to your complaints. Talk you out of a red hot rage.
Not tonight. Not when he still has battle simmering under his skin. He had been on edge for days and that council meeting with the Reach Lords had just tipped him well over.
He opens the door to the chambers the two of you have been given. Nice, yes. Quite smaller then your joined accommodations in Old Town. He longs for the familiarity of his own feather bed, but at least this is leagues better then cots on the road.
You sit at the modest desk turned vanity in the corner, boar bristle brush running through your long hair. Donned in a soft robe. Spare him only a glaring glance through your reflection in the mirror as he enters.
He doesn’t say a word to you which only seems to incense you even more. The two of you huff around each other in tense silence, him wiggling into pajamas and you fluffing pillows with more force then
-Until the tension finally snaps-
Neither of you can pinpoint how it happened. Where a sharp comment turned into a shove turned into a harsh kiss. Your mouths meeting furiously. Tongues twisting with none of the sweetness that usually exists between the two of you.
This is not love making between a man and his wife. This is an outlet for all the frustration the two of you feel. An even space where your bodies can speak instead of your mouths.
Gwayne squeezes your cheeks too hard between his fingers, his strong grip on your mouth making you gasp. You look like a fish out of water, caught on a hook. His cock jerks in his pants.
Gwayne knows what you like, after years of marriage of course he does. And you the same. Both of you possess a keen eye for patterns.
He doesn’t care to play with your clit until you’re shaking tonight before he shrugs his pants to the ground and pushes inside of you. You don’t care to suckle on his ear until he’s a sighing mess before you meet his thrusts with swivels of your hips. It’s rough and perfunctory- the scalp of skin on skin. The moans and grunts that fill the space of the room are not dotted with sweet nothings or hot murmurs.
Its almost primal.
The sounds feel ripped straight from the forest. From lesser beasts then a lord and his lady- but that stops them not.
If anyone was to walk by the door they would know exactly what Gwayne and you are doing.
It hurts, so perfectly. His cock battering your cervix. Your talon like fingers yanking at his hair. The teeth. Bite marks scattered where they may not be able to be covered.
Later, the two of you will talk.
And argue, probably.
It will lead to you feeling guilty about taking all of your frustrations out on him, and him feeling shit for siding with his father over you in public. Kisses and flowers and so much honey will follow.
But for now, in the sweaty room, neither of you apologize.
Okay so I kind of love these short form prompt ficlets? Also the Beesbury’s don’t play and lowkey I wish I could delve into them more. I know that in season 1 Lyman was the master of coin and died for his support of Rhaenyra. That is still true in this story- which I don’t have time to turn into a full blown story(I keep telling myself)-
Anyways, I think I may post more little smutty bites like this.
The events of this blurb take place after "Wrapped around your finger..." but this can also be read as a standalone blurb. Content tags are canon divergence, reader uses she/her pronouns, no physical description of reader, smut, fluff, pet names, gwayne and his wife are both bi and i love that for them, oral, slight overstimulation, reader continues to walk him like a dog :) thank you to @httpsvalarr for suggesting this part <3
While Gwayne is putting his arms through the sleeves of his shirt, he feels like he is stepping out of a dream, and coming to terms with reality again. He notes the sights and sensations around him: green curtains, woolen rug beneath his feet, rose fragrance from your hair, the sticky aroma of sweat and spend lingering on his skin.
And then he remembers. "A letter came for you while you were out." Gwayne nods to the wax sealed parchment lying on your bed.
Your fingers snatch up the letter, hastily ripping open the seal. "It's from my sister!" Your exclaim, face lighting up at the realization. Your eyes flash across the page and you look up at Gwayne "The babe came!"
He nods at you to continue.
You pace the bedchambers as you read aloud, unbothered by your bareness. It was only your husband in the room with you. And you'd just had sex - given yourselves fully to each other - there was no need for embarrassment now. “The babe came quickly and without too much pain for my sister. He is a boy, black of hair, and he already has a strong set of lungs. Both he and my sister are healthy and happy. And she named him after our grandfather."
Gwayne pulls a chair next to the copper tub beside the fireplace. Servants had prepared a hot bath for you, at his request, and the steaming aroma permeates the air with the addition of floral perfumes. He sits with a quiet groan (that last tourney wore on his knees especially) and leans over to test the water with his hand. “Come get in. The water is cooling. On the morrow you can write back your congratulations.”
You stare at the letter, beaming, and scan it again. “I wish to go the Eyrie to see them. To meet my little nephew and see my sister."
He shakes his head at your suggestion “The Vale is a great distance from here, dove. I don’t want you away for so long.”
You say nothing, but everything at the same time. You don't neet to utter words to convey how you feel. Gwayne notices the slightest shift in your body language; your shoulders slump, shifting away from him, and you reach for your robe on your vanity to cover yourself.
Panic grips him like a vice. He cannot go back to having you at a distance, not now. Not when he's just only been able to have you fully. Before he's even realizing what he's saying, he blurts, “I am sure we will find a way to you to visit them.”
The look on your face - pure unbridled joy - makes the icy panic melt from Gwayne's veins. Abandoning the robe, you skip across the room, where he sits beside the copper tub. He hasn't driven you away. You drift to him, curling yourself around him like a cat, practically purring with satisfaction that he bends to your whims. He may be spineless, he thinks, but his cooperation has enormous benefits. Your favor, your affections - they are worth more than his spine anyways. His hands find yours to hold you steady as you step over the side, and into the water. You go to lower yourself into the bath, but Gwayne holds you firmly by the hips to stay standing.
"Wait" he breathes, eyes locked on the junction of your thighs. Gwayne leans forward to press a gentle kiss at the split of your cunt.
"Husband" you voice is laced with a half-hearted warning. "What are you doing?"
His hands tighten, securing into the fat of your hips, lips landing again and again onto your folds. "It's alright" he mumbles. He kisses your low belly- stubble that has emerged late in the day scraping the soft skin of your stomach. "Please, let me taste you. Just a little." You fingers that clutch his shoulder for support dig into the velvet material of his shirt. But Gwayne is undeterred as he dips his head lower. As his mouth finds your puffy clit. When his tongue splits the folds of your cunt, you squeak, hands flying to his long, auburn strands.
Even though your center is sensitive, and admittedly a little sore, your husband soothes the area with a gentle touch. His fingers, callused from the sword, carefully part your folds and nudge the flat of his tongue, then the tip of his nose into your clit. You inhale sharply as he slightly sucks the puffy bud.
"You taste so good, dove I can't help it" He mumbles apologetically. His scratchy chin grazing your thighs is a new sensation that is turning your knees to jelly with each passing second.
When he looks up at you with wide blue eyes, you notice the lower half of his face shines with slick. "You're insatiable, husband. Greed is a sin cast down by the Seven." you tease, running a thumb across his pink lower lip.
"The Seven would understand if they tasted this." he responds, before dipping his head again into the junction of your thighs. His long fingers plunge into your soaked folds, parting your thighs so he can kiss your clit again. Gwayne latches to your center, drinking up the juices from your dripping cunt. The beginnings of your peak ignite low in your belly as his lips suck your hypersensitive clit.
"Gwayne, please" you whisper, your thighs beginning to tremble around his head.
All your husband can do is moan as he devours pleasure from you, and when you come, he practically whimpers, pressing his face even deeper into your cunt. "So perfect" he mutters when he comes up for air, and you are regaining your breath.
He leans forward to greedily indulge in your cunt once more, but your grip tightens in his hair to hold him stationary. "No. Come in the water with me." You state. Not a question - a command to your husband.
You lower into the bath and watch him fumble with his shirt, and step clumsily out of his pants, nearly tripping in the process.
"I didn't hurt you before, did I?" he asks as he lowers himself into the water, sloshing it over the side. You find yourself reaching for him before you even realize it. Settling into his lap, your knees straddling him on either side. A smile tugs at your mouth at his concern for you. His hands run over your back, and settling a firm hold on your arse.
"No, you didn't hurt me. It just felt a little different." You admit.
He asks "Different how?"
"Oh." Your face heats at what you are about to confess "Different than with Sara."
"And you and Sara..." he trails off watching bashfulness cover your face. "I see." He chuckles, pulling your chin up so you meet his gaze. "Dove, you have no reason to hide that from me. Thank you for being so forthright."
"You're not angry with me?" You squirm, eyes brightening at the realization that Gwayne is pleased with your honesty.
His cock twitches underneath you. Not only from your movement, but from the taste of you every time he runs his tongue across his teeth. You’re opening up, not running away. He’s finally undoing the distance that started between you at the start of your marriage.
"No, of course not." He shakes his head at the ridiculous thought. "It would be hypocritical of me take lovers and expect you to not have any."
"Wait." Your eyes flash with something Gwayne cannot name. "Lovers" you repeat, emphasizing the plural. "You did? Who were they?" Your mouth curls in giddy amusement, eyes widening at the new information.
Now it your husband's turn to flush under scrutiny. He sputters, pink creeping into his face, "Surely you cannot expect a man of my standing to be - to be chaste."
"Who. Were. They?" You repeat, the glint in your eyes is mischievous, not malicious. "Tell me the last person at least" You deliver a small, playful punch to his chest.
"Arrion Baratheon." He hangs his head at the admission.
You gasp. It's over exaggerated and completely dramatic. You're having too much fun tormenting your husband. Some strange cocktail of jealousy and arousal stirs in your belly. Fingers tightening, curling into the roots of his hair, you interrogate "Was he more handsome than me? More comely?” Manipulating the auburn strands tighter in your fist, you remind yourself to never let him cut his hair short - it’s the most satisfying way to bend him to your will.
"N-no" Gwayne chokes out "Gods no."
You laugh at his trembling hands holding you, his watery eyes. “Oh husband. I hope you don’t favor these past lovers more than me.” Under the water, you feel his cock stiffening against your thigh.
“I do not. Gods help me, I love you.” He rasps. His voice comes out broken, composure crumbling at your torment. He looks up at the darling girl in front of him and unconsciously gulps- your mouth contorting into a knowing smirk. You’re finding great amusement in this, making him sweat and balk in the damned bath water, boiled like a frog under your prodding questions and incessant pressing against his erection. But honestly, he cannot think of anywhere else he’d rather be.
The events of this blurb take place after "In the palm of your hand..." but this can also be read as a standalone blurb. Content tags are canon divergence, reader uses she/her pronouns, no physical description of reader, smut, fluff, pet names, unprotected sex, yearning!!!!, loss of virginity, reader continues to walk him like a dog, dry humping (aint nobody dry), p in v, cream pie, hyperspermia thank you for reading <3
It's hours later when you return to the castle. Even though your body feels weary, still you buzz from the feeling of accomplishment and practically bounce down the halls to your bedchambers. Gwayne paces in front of your doors, and follows on your heels into the room. When you said "later" he must have took your words as gospel, faithfully making himself available hours later. "How was your meeting with the Septons?" He asks, as the door closes behind you. You notice his hair sticks up wildly in some places; either he was raking his hands through it while he waited or never bothered to fix the traces you left earlier.
"It was wonderful. Very productive." You beam at him. "On behalf of House Hightower, I pledged five thousand gold dragons to be sent monthly to aid the poor. The Septons were so pleased!"
Gwayne’s mouth hangs open, rendered speechless.
"And I met some of the orphans that directly benefit from our donations. Such little angels!" You set your prayer book down on your desk, and prompt him, “You did say I was allowed to pledge five thousand, husband?" You raise your eyebrows expectantly waiting his answer.
He sputters. "I said five hundred."
An airy laugh escapes you. "Oh, I must have misheard you. But it’s no consequence to House Hightower, being one of the wealthiest in the realm." You shrug innocently. "Right?"
Your husband’s eyes bulge in shock. How is he going to explain to his Master of Coin the tenfold influx of charitable giving leaving the Hightower coffers? That his wife cares too much for orphans and he could never tell her no? That's the truth of it, as pathetic as it sounds, but the Master of Coin would understand if he saw her.
You sit on the chair next to the fire, and begin to unlace your boots. This pulls Gwayne from his self pitying stupor. His wife must be assisted, doted on, even now. He eases onto one knee in front of you, batting your hands away from your muddy boots. "Here, let me." Reverently, he pulls your skirt up over your knees, taking care to linger his palms over your calves. Then, he works the laces, gently loosening them so your boot can slide off your foot. He switches to the left boot, repeating the actions dutifully.
"You don't seem angry at me." You comment. Like earlier, you rake your fingers through his auburn hair to fix it, moving it away from his face, pulling ever so slightly at the scruff of his neck.
His head hangs, lulled by your ministrations. He presses a soft kiss to your bare knee. "I can't imagine ever being angry with you." His large hands knead into your calf muscles, easing the strain you felt from walking around the Oldtown today.
"Never?" you challenge, smile tugging at your lips.
"Could I ever be angry at those huge doe eyes looking at me?" He muses, hands moving higher slightly to massage into your knee, savoring each second you allow him to kneel before you "No, I don't believe it is possible."
You hum in approval. "Gwayne?"
His gaze flies up to meet yours, and you can see him holding his breath, hanging on to your every word. Blue eyes widened expectantly at the sound of his name from your lips.
"Would you help me with something?"
"Anything" he breathes.
"Will you help me undress? I walked through the mud earlier, so I need to change."
Gwayne nods his head harder than he ever has in his life. Lost for words, he leans back on his heels, to give you space to stand and step away from the chair. You turn your back to him, so he can access the ties down the length of your spine. Like the boots, he works the knots patiently, savoring every contact that his fingers make with your back. He feels like he is opening a gift that he has been waiting his whole life for, and doesn't intend to rush the precious packaging.
Once the laces are loosened down your back, you turn, lifting slightly on tip toe to peck the side of his mouth. "Thank you, husband. That would have taken me twice as long to wrestle with by myself! Now I need change and prepare for dinner with my ladies."
Gwayne feels as if he has been wounded, slapped, or perhaps stabbed. Pain shoots through his chest, but all he can do is whimper, "No." His head hangs against your shoulder. "No, you cannot leave again. You just can't." The blood has rushed to his cock, leaving nothing for his reeling brain. Gwayne is at the end of his rope, tormented by your smell of sweet rose soap and wide eyes. Every time he believes he has you, you manage to dart out of his grasp at the last possible second. It’s not eloquent, or particularly convincing, but he must do something to slow you down. He kisses your neck, pressing fast, open mouth kisses. Grabbing blindly at your backside, he paws at your body without the restraint usually possessed by a knight of the realm. "Dove, I will die if I have to wait any longer."
You can't help but laugh at his dramatic claim. And the jerky way that his hands, callused from the sword, clumsily pull at your dress and every handle of your body tickles. Coordination, and his sense, have been tossed out the window. The poor man looks ready to be put out of his misery, you decide. Also, the pulsing in your center is getting hard to ignore, likely spurred by the way his pretty eyes twist in agony. So your slender fingers begin to work the buttons of his shirt. "Husband, there's no need for tears." You tease. "If you wanted me, why didn't you just say so"
He laughs, but it sounds more like a choked sob. Were you a deer in the forest, luring him blindly on a hunt he was never meant to complete? Or maybe he had been the prey all along? It was starting to feel that way. But if this position he finds himself in leaves no cause for complaints, as you tenderly open the fastenings of his shirt. You lift on tip toe to kiss him, to soothe the torture of your honorable husband. He groans in approaval, stepping forward so your backside bumps against your desk. He tastes like salty tears, and cloves, which you've noticed he ocassionally chews to sweeten his breath. Gwayne kisses you hungrily, nothing like your lips meeting for the first time in the Starry Sept, tongue scraping against your teeth, claiming your mouth as his own. When you finish the last button of his shirt, you run your fingers up and down his bare chest. Your touch sends shudders down his spine, causing him to involuntarily buck his hips towards yours. Desperately, he undresses you next. His hands work the chemise up your torso, and only breaks away the kiss to lift it over your head, before meeting your lips once more.
His hands hold your lower back, pulling your form into him as close as possible. One callused palm holds your arse, allowing him to roll his hips against your cunt. It's impossible not to feel his erection straining against his pants, brushing against your center again and again. The fabric grows damp, the combination of both your arousals mixing, filling the space. Gwayne shudders a shaky breath into your neck, mouthing at the underside of your jaw, mummering "Oh my sweet girl, thank you." You chase his motions, locking your ankles to hold him flush against you. Something strange, a new feeling, hooks behind your belly, as he snakes a hand in between the tight space between you. "Let me, please dove." His fingers fumble, then find his target to circle your clit. The feeling sends a jolt through you, a small suprised hiccup leaves you.
The sound encourages him to pet into your bundle of nerves, his callused fingers dutifully slipping over your slick folds. The pressure to your sensitive cunt, and the friction of his cock against your center swirls into an intoxicating combination. His fingers are coasted with slick, and his pants are beyond soiled now, the dampness spreading with each passing drip from his leaking cock.
"Inside." you choke, voice coming out hoarse, wrecked, and totally surprising to your usual composure.
"Inside? Have you ever-?" he asks.
"No" you confess. "But it doesn't matter. I want you." Your fingers fumble at his pants, tented by his cock.
Never had three words ever brought him so much relief. Gwayne nods dumbly, convinced by nothing other than your hands loosening the ties of his pants- a sight he feared might only exist in his own imagination "Inside, yeah.” He confirms, and hastily shucks them down, only enough to let his cock spring free. He sighs as it finally hits the cool air, soothing the angry heat that builds at the head. He pulls your arse closer, angling your hips better for him to meet them.
His cock slaps against his bare stomach, smearing the skin with precome, and you press against it. The feeling of your sensitive folds brushing the hardness pulls the string even tighter in your belly.
"I won't let it hurt, I promise" He mumbles against your neck, guiding you to grind up against the velvet skin of his erection. His cock slides easily against your folds, pressing against your entrance. When Gwyane finally presses in, a choked groan rumbles through his core. He chases the feeling, swallowing your mewls, and letting your wet heat envelop him inch by inch. Slowly rocking his hips, not pulling out too much, just letting your bodies stay connected.
"Is that good, dove?" He kisses your ear tenderly.
"Yeah" you squeak, fullness leaving you lost for words. You hook your chin onto his shoulder, threading your fingers into his long hair, pulling your husband even closer into you.
As your fist tightens in his hair, he cannot help his eyes rolling back in his head. "Gods, you're so perfect." As Gawyne's rutting quickens, he once again presses his fingers to your clit, drawing quick figure eights. His pelvis knocks against yours clumsily, chasing the quickly approaching orgasm threatening to spill. He is so deep inside you, the head of his cock knocking repeatedly into your tender walls, sending shivers down to your toes. "Come for me, sweet girl. Please come.” He begs, and a final press against your clit brings your peak crashing over you. Your legs tremble around him, as heat floods your veins. The thought crosses your hazy mind to question why you were so insistent to run from him, to torment him? The answer was so obvious before, but now it escapes you.
Your stomach muscles clench and spasm, tightening the vice-like clutch your body holds over his cock. "Huh-uh- thank you-fuck" his dampened forehead leans against your neck as Gwayne spills. You feel his cock jerking deep inside you, flooding warm heat nearly up into your ribs. His fingers hold you, almost tight enough to bruise, to stay sheathed on him as his cock sputters, threatening to fill you past the point of overflow. He pants, as his breath slowly comes back to a normal pace. Tenderly, he kisses your jaw and corner of your mouth, nudging your face up to look at him, instead of at his cock leaving you, and come leaking onto the desk. "My perfect wife."
You roll your eyes at his fawning compliment, but still wrap your arms around his shoulders. Gwayne's cock gives another twitch at the sight of you blinking your huge eyes up at him. Your eyes are glassy, blissed out from your peak and exertion, and framed by doe-like lashes.
"Must you leave for dinner now?" He pleads, blue eyes widening in hope that you stay.
Whatever plans arranged with your ladies could be easily rescheduled, but you wrinkle your nose as if deep in deliberation.
Gwayne's mind is already hastily planning his next move, for when you reply that you must leave. He will offer to help you clean up, bathe, as any doting husband would. He will touch you, eat your cunt, draw peak after peak out of you. Keep you in this pliant, placated state so you lose track of time and forget about every obligation you committed to and-
"I can reschedule" You chirp, swinging your legs from where you perch on the desk.
The answer suprises him, and sends a melting sensation of relief down his spine. Still, he thinks, he'll probably just go with his original plan just to be safe.
𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: pregnancy has left you sickened by nearly every scent in oldtown. your only reprieve is burying your face in gwayne’s neck. though your poor husband rarely escapes without his pretty, pale skin thoroughly ravished.
𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: smut, romance, cockwarming, pregnant sex, p what p, poor gwayne, his wife is a menace, domestic fluff, 18+ MDNI
𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐚𝐧: in celebration of gwayne finally having a bath in hotd. don’t get me wrong, I would have 100% risked that STI for dirty Gwayne, but now we can all admire that pretty pale neck again….
anways! this is also a little thank you for the unexpected, wonderful reaction i received on my debut gwayne fic! this can be read as a continuation or a stand-alone.
𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐰𝐜: 1.3k (oneshot)
You were barely showing, just the softest swell beneath the silk of your abandoned nightgown, but the pregnancy had already made your stomach squeamish.
Gwayne sat with you in the wide armchair by the open balcony doors, the warm night air billowing the gauzy curtains with the scent of the bay and night-blooming summer flowers. You were settled fully in his lap, arms around his neck, bare skin against his, his cock buried deep inside you and simply… resting there. Warm and full from your first round. Neither of you moved. The slow, steady throb of him against your walls was enough. It soothed the deep soreness pregnancy had left you with, and that restless ache that forever made you want to live in his skin.
Your nose was buried in the pale column of his throat.
You could not get enough of the smell of him. Clean skin, faint traces of the cedar and orange soap the maids used on him, and underneath it the deeper, warmer scent that was purely your Gwayne.
Ormund’s cloying perfumes made your stomach turn these days and the entire household reeked of his potpourri. You kept the windows and doors thrown open all day and night. But your husband’s neck was the one thing in the world that did not make you want to retch.
So you scented him constantly. And took advantage of him as you pleased, ravishing his pretty, pale skin. Your poor husband patiently endured his fate, condemned to spend his days feasted upon, the long column of his neck bitten red and purple for the whole of court to see.
“My dragon love is attempting to eat me again,” he murmured, voice low and amused even as he tilted his head to grant you better access. “I have a meeting with the High Septon in the morning, you greedy, greedy woman.”
You hummed against his skin, the sound making him close his eyes. His Adam’s apple bobbed and you attacked it. Your teeth scraped at the sensitive skin. He hissed, hand tightening on your hip. You soothed the sting at once with soft kitten licks, tongue tracing the indentations you had left.
“Sorry,” you whispered against his skin, not sounding very sorry at all. “You are just so pretty, husband. And you smell… gods, Gwayne.”
You whined as you buried your face again in the curve of his neck, just breathing him in. You felt like Ormund with his damned pomander.
“How am I to survive a whole week without this?” you asked mournfully.
“Stay.” His hand found the gentle swell of your belly and spread protectively over it. “It is far too much strain to ride in your condition.”
“The babe will be perfectly fine—"
“It is too much strain for you.”
He caught your chin and guided your face away from his throat until you were forced to look at him. Green eyes steady, serious. “You are already ill every morning. You scarcely keep anything down till midday. I worry for you.”
You hummed in reluctant acknowledgment and dipped your head again, resuming your slow, wet kisses, tasting the salt of his skin.
“Rhaenyra is with her second child already,” you murmured against his skin. “We want to go together and choose eggs for the babes to cradle with.” Your hand drifted down to rest over his on your stomach. “Oh, how sweet would it be if they were of the same clutch?”
“Very sweet,” Gwayne conceded, though his tone suggested he found the prospect considerably less charming than you did. He tried, but your husband was not born with fire singing in his blood. You could not fault him for not understanding. “But please, dearest, you should make the journey after the babe arrives and you have recovered.”
You answered him by rolling your hips.
A slow, deliberate grind that dragged your slick walls along the thick length buried inside you. Gwayne’s breath left him in a rough exhale and you felt him twitch inside of you, swelling even fuller. His hands immediately settled at your hips, large and warm.
“Again, for me,” he rasped.
You obliged. Up and down, slow at first, savoring every inch of the stretch, the way he filled you so completely even when neither of you was thrusting hard. The armchair creaked beneath you. You were dripping; his seed from the first round already spilled out with every upward slide, slicking his thighs and balls, making filthy wet sounds that filled the quiet chamber. Mixed with the quiet wash of the bay and the soft rustle of curtains, it was obscene.
You whined and he helped you without hesitation. His strong hands lifted and lowered you in a steady, generous rhythm, strong thighs braced beneath yours.
You kept your face buried to his skin, dipping to suck dark marks at his collar, breathing him in like you were starving for him, licking sweat from his skin, biting down whenever the pleasure spiked too high.
“That’s it,” he whispered against your hair, voice strained. “Have what you need, sweetling. Use me.”
You whimpered and clenched around him, his words going straight to the tight coil low in your belly. Your pace turned desperate, grinding harder, faster, chasing the friction of his cockhead against that perfect spot inside you while your sensitive clit dragged against the base of his dark curls on every roll.
“My love,” he gasped, head tipping back against the chair, his eyes fixed on you. “My beautiful love. Gods, I should keep you always like this— soft and lovely with my babe.”
Your pace quickened, hips rolling with growing urgency. The soft swell of your stomach brushed against his abdomen with every downward slide. One of his hands left your hip to cup the back of your head, holding you close so you could keep nuzzling and biting as you pleased. The other remained firm on your hip, helping you rise and sink, rise and sink, until the pleasure coiled tight and bright low in your belly.
You pulled your head back just enough to grip his chin and drag his mouth to yours. Breath mixed. Teeth clicked.
You came with a muffled cry, walls fluttering and clenching around him. Gwayne groaned deeply, hips lifting once, twice, grinding up into you as he followed, spilling hot and deep while you rode out every last pulse.
For a long moment neither of you moved. You stayed exactly where you were: impaled, trembling, staring into his green eyes while you stroked his hair and pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to his lips. His hands stayed wrapped around your back, holding you gently against him even as his cock twitched with aftershocks inside you.
“That was shameless,” he murmured.
“Was it persuasive?”
Gwayne gave you a long, unimpressed look. You smiled sweetly.
“…You are an unscrupulous woman.”
You squealed with joyous victory, peppering thankful kisses to the scar under his eye.
He ran his fingers through his hair, brushing it from his face, doing poorly to hide his own smile.
“You have my blessing— provided the maesters find no cause for concern.” His gaze sharpened. “And you will rest once you arrive. You will not exhaust yourself attempting to keep pace with your sister, and at the first hint of pain— however slight— you will stay with her and send for me.”
“You make me sound so terribly fragile.”
He pressed a kiss to your left eye, then to your right. “You are what is most precious to me.”
Then he bent to your throat and began repaying your greedy attentions, one lingering kiss at a time.
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