Things

25 yo

[angelsworks]

Little Witch The last kingdom x reader

Chapter 8

Little Witch Masterlist -> Here

Next chapter -> H E R E

Summary: You wake to find a gift from Uhtred. Later you leave the confides of your room to explore the market.

Warnings: Not historically accurate, possessive behaviour, creepy behaviour.

Dawn breaks across the sky. The world made light by the little rays that manage to pass by the vast cloud cover. The streets around you had started to fill with people. Carts and horses alike can be heard from the window. The clops of hooves and the scraping of wooden wheels on the stone below drift from the street.

You wake on your back, despite going to sleep on your front. The expected pain you feel never comes. Instead the sharp stabs and rubbing you’ve been experiencing is replaced by a dull ache.

Your eyes flick open and you see the room illuminated by the dull daylight. There’s no Uhtred next to you when you wake. Something that disappoints you greatly. Despite the heat that warms your cheeks when you think of the events that transpired, you’ve grown close to the Viking. There might even be a seed of fondness growing in your heart for Uhtred. Not that you’d care to admit that right now.

Still dressed in his undershirt, you slipped from the covers and furs. You stood, stretching till your bones popped and muscles were able to release some tension. Still you felt little pain.

Curious, you gingerly reached a hand up to your cuts. Finger tracing over the tops of them. Gently, brushing over those you can reach. You found that the start of a scab had formed on them. Even the deepest and most painful ones had started to heal. A vast difference to how they looked or felt a few days ago. Even compared to yesterday, it felt like you’d healed almost supernaturally.

It was all thanks to the salve of course. The Elders gave it to Astrid to give to you. They are the wisest and most experienced people you’ve come across. Their knowledge is vast of all pursuits. From medicine and healing to strategy and tactics. Your time with them was an opportunity to learn more about yourself. However, it came at a price. When you returned home you found Steffen in place of your parents. The thought of him makes you shiver.

Looking around the room you see everything as it was when you arrived. Apart from a chair that had been positioned in the middle of the room. Hanging over it was a dress. The sight of it made your eyes widen. Even as a girl you’d never seen something so pretty. The material was cotton, dyed to a deep blue. One that reminded you of the summer’s night sky. When even the dark of night wasn’t enough to stop the sun’s light.

The bodice was cinched at the waste in a pleat like manner. The sleeves were long and so was the skirt. It was a straight cut that had a dark blue ribbon stitched to the edges. Inside the dress was a stitched under layer. Designed to add extra thickness to the skirt and shield the wearer from the cold.

Below the chair, placed on the floor in front, were a pair of long leather boots. Detailed with strings and buttons to hold them up.

Your cheeks became warm once you picked up the dress to find the pair of panties underneath. The pants were a simple white cotton. They didn’t cling to your body when you put them on. If anything they helped to add to the volume of the skirt of the dress. After finishing your outfit by putting on the boots, you did a little twirl. Admiring the quality and design of the dress. It made you feel a girlish glee at how you looked and felt. Something you hadn’t felt for a long time.

Along with a few tankards and a plate or two, the room was bereft any sign of Uhtred. His absence was beginning to make you anxious but the bustling market outside was piquing your interest.

A short walk around the stalls shouldn’t hurt. You were sure it wouldn’t. The town was small enough you might even find Uhtred.

You left the room and shut the door, walking down the dimly lit corridor to the stairs. At the bottom you found a pub like area. Although sparsely populated, you felt you had all the patrons attention as you walked down the steps.

It amazed you the difference a bath and new clothes could make. You felt different in yourself and it seemed others could see that too.

You saw the woman who spoke to you and Uhtred last night. You went over to her at the bar. She was changing barrels, lifting them on to various shelves in the wall. Despite her outward appearance, she seemed to lift the barrels with little struggle. Almost as if she had muscle hidden beneath her skirts and puffy sleeves.

“Excuse me, have you seen the man I came in with earlier?” You asked her, keeping your voice low to avoid attracting the attention of the other patrons.

She turned to face you and gave you a once over. Her eyebrows briefly twitching as she registered the difference in appearance. You really must have looked a sight when you came in last night.

“No I haven’t. Could be he’s had his fun and left. Men like him do that you know.” She told you, turning back to your work.

You wanted to argue. Berate her for making such an assumption. Tell her that wasn’t the case and Uhtred wasn’t like that. You realised quickly, telling her such would not help. Better she not know and think you a one night stand than anything else.

As you stepped outside you raised your hand to shield your eyes. The difference in light from the bar to the street was drastic. Your senses instantly became aware of the new environment. Ears perking to the noises around you. Nose detecting the smells around you, people, horses, food. Eyes watching a sea of people wander the market.

You found yourself following a crowd walking down the street. Their cloaks were various greys and blacks and browns, simple colours. Colours that made you appreciate your blue dress that little bit more. It felt special. It felt like Uhtred wanted you to have more than the ordinary.

The crowd went in different directions. Leaving you to slow your steps. You wandered past a few stands. The stands sold various trinkets and fabrics, horse shoes and weapons, shoes and books. So much to look at. In the middle of the town square was a fountain. It was made of simple stone but carved with ornate details of flowers and people.

You passed by slowly, letting your fingers run over the stone of the fountain wall. Over to the corner of the market was a small stand outside a bakers shop. There a young man was selling breads and other baked goods. The man was soft looking. In the way of clear skin and soft short hair. Eyes that sparkled. He was pretty. A vast contrast to Uhtred and his friends. Even Osferth’s eyes didn’t shine like this man’s. Dulled by the sights of battles and the horrors of man.

Rugged was how you would describe Uhtred, Sihtric and Finan. Their experience in battle had made them hard. Hard with muscle and experience. Handsome.

Your thoughts were broken as the man’s gaze moved to you. It seemed you had been staring and that had been noticed. The corners of his lips turned up and your eyes turned away. Again you moved around the fountain, letting your eyes move elsewhere.

You watched other vendors at their stalls. Selling items and other possessions. Your people watching was cut short as a hand touched your arm. It jolted you, the unexpected contact. You snapped your gaze to the right, where the young man from the baker’s stand stood next to you. He held a loaf of bread in his hand, wrapped in a white cloth.

“Good day Lady, I noticed you from my stall. I thought I must come and speak to you. It would be wrong to miss the chance to meet an angel.” He told you, a smile on his face.

His comment made a genuine smile grown on your face. No one who knew you truly would compare you to an angel. Not with your ‘abilities’.

“What kind words you speak to me. Who is it I should thank?” You ask him coyly.

“I am Edgar lady. Baker in this town. Might I make an offering to such an angel?”

You laughed at his compliments. “I have not been called an angel before sir. However, If as an angel I get such delicious treats I would be happy to accept.”

Edgar smiles and his eyes twinkle as he gazes into your own. “You are pretty when you smile lady.”

All you could do was blush as you looked down, away from Edgar’s gaze.

He held out the bread for you. Gingerly you took hold of it, flicking your gaze to his own again.

“Thank you Edgar. I’m sure it will be lovely.”

Edgar’s gaze drifted to your body. His eyes scanning you head to toe as you looked away once more.

“Perhaps the lady would give a kiss for such an offering?”

Your breath caught in your throat as your brain became blank. You weren’t sure what to say. You hadn’t been flirted with enough to know how to deal with this. You wanted to politely say no but weren’t sure what anger that could arise from the man.

Edgar’s hand moved to your forearm. Perceived as a gentle gesture by onlookers but you knew different from his grip. It had grown tight around your forearm and was beginning the hurt you.

“Hey mate, seems you’ve found my sister. Now I’d suggest you take your hands off her before I take out my dagger and do it for you.” Finan sneers at Edgar.

Finan appears beside the two of you. A welcome sight to you. His face is that of fury. You’re sure this is the angriest you’ve seen him since meeting.

His threat is enough to scare Edgar into releasing your arm and taking a few steps backwards.

“Now piss off back to your bakery. If you so much as look at her again, I’ll take your eyes!” With a rough shove from Finan he takes off back to his shop. Leaving you to face Finan’s glare.

“What do you think you’re doing witch?” He speaks in a hushed, harsh tone. “You think it’s a good idea to go running off on your own. Are you looking to get hurt?”

You freeze, trying to shake your head and plead your case. Finan’s gaze doesn’t waver as he looks for an answer in your eyes. All he finds is a scared girl, looking up into his eyes with both gratitude and fear.

“Come on, you can explain to Uhtred why you felt the need to wander off.” He tells you. Taking your hand in his own. His grip is gentle though, careful not to hurt you or be too rough.

Finan leads you back through the town and to the pub you visited yesterday. He lets go of your hand long enough to open the door and usher you inside. You see Uhtred. He’s sat with Osferth and Sihtric with a tanker in his hand. A troubled look covers his face. A look that only lifts once his eyes meet your timid form moving towards their table.

He stands at once and leaves his tanker on the table. Uhtred takes determined strides towards you and reaches out to hold your arms. His eyes scan your form rapidly as he searches for any sign you are hurt.

“Are you hurt witch? Has someone harmed you? Kidnapped you?” His eyes meet yours and stare deeply, looking for an answer he won’t find.

“I’m fine Uhtred, honest. Nothing has happened.” You try and tell him, try to reassure him that nothing is wrong.

His eyes turn colder, harder. His gaze makes you shiver as you realise you could be in trouble.

“Then what would possess you to run from me? To wander off alone? Do you know what could have happened to you?” Uhtred scolds, shaking you slightly to get his point across.

“I wasn’t trying to run Uhtred. You left me alone. I was coming to find you.” The remark gets a scoff from Uhtred.

You try to move out of his grip, but Uhtred doesn’t let you. His eyebrows furrow as he tries to get your attention again.

“I do not care for excuses. When I leave you somewhere, I expect to find you there. Now listen to me y/n, the next time you run from me it won’t be Finan hunting you down. It will be me and I won’t just escort you back to our group. I’ll find you and bend you over the nearest surface, tanning your ass until I think the lesson of not running from me has been learned. Understood?” Uhtred speaks low enough that only you can hear. At least you hope only you can hear.

The thought alone mortifies you. Heating your cheeks and making you unable to hold eye contract with Uhtred.

His finger gentle hold your chin, tilting your head to look in your eyes.

“Look at me witch, tell me you understand.”

Finally you moved your gaze to Uhtred. “Yes Uhtred, I understand”.

“Good, now let us go. We still have plenty of ground to cover before reaching Coccham.”

Uhtred takes your hand and leads you out of the pub. The others follow suit. You find the group walking back through the town. Ending at the stable where you left the horses.

The same stable boy met you at the gate. His eyes watching you closer than before. The boy moved back to horses to give each rider their mount.

While he brought the horses over, Uhtred turned to you. He pulled a small pendent out of his pocket. The pendent was made of silver and strung on a black waxed cotton cord.

“I want you to wear this, it will keep you safe. It’s Thor’s hammer. In my culture it’s given to protect the wearer from evil.” Uhtred says softly as he ties the symbol around your neck loosely.

You touch the metal and feel the design under your fingertips, “Thank you Uhtred”.

The stable boy leads over Uhtred’s horse. His eyes still watching you, taking in your forms and any details he can see.

“Now come lady,” he winks at you, finding jest in his cover up for calling you a witch, “We ride to Coccham”.

Taglist: @captainlunaxmen @fleureeee @shitsandgiggles1 @laneyspaulding19 @bubblyabs

[porcelinee]

A Bitter Dawn

Chapter 4: Silks and wine

Tag list: @ferchu1990 @kitkat1690 @qardasngan

Overwhelmed by wedding preparations after a month in the Red Keep, the reader finds unexpected comfort when Baelor clears the room and gently takes care of her. However, the illusion of peace shatters at the rehearsal dinner when Prince Maekar’s party arrives from Summerhall. Confronted with a heartbroken Daeron, the reader is forced to act cold and distant pulling away from Baelor in devastating realization as her old love stands just steps away on the eve of her wedding.

Dyanna,

A month has passed in this wretched city, and the days are bleeding together. My father’s letters arrived last week, filled with stiff words of duty and congratulations. It sickens me. He betrayed me, Dyanna. He rolled over and handed me to the King without a fight, as if I were nothing but a prize horse to be traded for peace. I hate him for it.

The wedding is in two days. They are tearing the castle apart to prepare for it. But what frightens me more than the ceremony is Baelor. He is... sweet, Dyanna. He leaves small pots of Dornish mint in my chambers. He walks with me in the courtyard when the court isn’t open. It is getting harder to keep my walls up, and I am terrified of how easy it is becoming to look at him without feeling anger. I feel like a traitor to the boy I left behind.

"My lady, the lemon cakes from the royal kitchens do you prefer the spun sugar lattice or the crushed almond crust?"

"The lilies, my lady! The High Septon insists on white lilies for the altar, but Queen Myriah suggested the red roses of Highgarden to match the banners—"

"The silk, Your Grace! We must choose between the heavy cream or the pure Valyrian silver threading for the train! The seamstress swears to have it done by tomorrow night"

The voices swirled around her like a flock of shrieking crows. Her private room was a disaster of satin ribbons, sugar samples, and heavy bolts of fabric. Six different maids hovered over her, shouting over one another, while a tailor tugged ruthlessly at the hem of her shifts, pinning the heavy fabric with impatient, biting movements. The scent of a hundred crushed flower petals filled the tight room, mixing with the heavy heat of the midday sun until the air felt thick enough to choke on.

Her hands clenched tightly in her lap, her knuckles turning a stark, bloodless white. Her chest felt tight, the walls of the room seemingly closing in on her with every passing second. Every voice was a hammer against her temples, vibrating through her skull. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. She didn't care about the cake, or the silk, or the damn roses.

"Enough," she whispered, but her voice was entirely drowned out by a heated argument between a seamstress and a maid over the exact length of her bridal veil.

"leave us."

The deep, booming command cut through the chaos like a broadsword.

The room went instantly dead silent. She blinked, pulling herself out of the suffocating fog to see Baelor standing in the doorway, his massive frame completely filling the entry. His dark brown & violet eyes swept over the crowded, messy room, taking in the scattered bolts of silk, the half-eaten pastries, her pale face, and her trembling posture.

The servants scattered like mice, bowing frantically as they gathered their silks and sugar platters, rushing past the Crown Prince out into the corridor. Within seconds, the heavy oak doors shut with a definitive thud, and the suffocating noise vanished, leaving nothing but a profound, beautiful silence.

She let out a long, shaky breath, her shoulders sagging as the tension drained from her spine.

Baelor didn't press her. He walked over slowly, his heavy boots making a soft, rhythmic sound on the stone floor. He didn't look at her with pity; instead, he pulled a wooden chair up directly opposite her, sitting down so he was completely at her eye level, his large presence instantly blocking out the rest of the messy room.

"You looked as though you were about to command your guards to throw them all out the tower window," Baelor said softly, a low, amused rumble in his chest.

A small, breathless laugh escaped her lips before she could stop it. "I was heavily considering it. They have been here since dawn."

Baelor smiled, reaching over to the small table beside her. One of the bakers had left behind a small silver platter of cake samples. He picked up a delicate silver fork, flaking off a small piece of a golden, honey-soaked lemon cake.

"They are trying to plan a wedding for the realm," he said gently, holding the fork out to her. "But this is your day. Forget the High Septon and the banners. What is it that you actually want?"

She looked at the fork, then up into his steady, dark eyes. The sheer, protective gentleness of the gesture made that familiar lightness stir in her chest, a sudden warmth that made her feel safe. Slowly, she leaned forward, letting him feed her the small bite of cake. The sweetness of the honey and the sharp tang of lemon burst across her tongue, grounding her.

"I want it to be quiet," she murmured softly, swallowing. "I just wanted something simple."

Baelor set the platter down, his expression softening with an immense, heavy tenderness. He reached out, his large, calloused thumb gently brushing a stray crumb from the corner of her lip. His touch was warm, lingering against her skin for just a second too long. "I cannot give you a quiet wedding, my lady. The realm demands a spectacle. But I promise you, once the vows are spoken and the lords are done cheering, the noise will stop. You will have your quiet. I will make sure of it."

She stared at him, her heart thumping a strange, erratic rhythm against her ribs. She was comfortable with him now just a little and the realization terrified her. He was giving her everything she could ever ask for in a husband, and she was letting him slip past her guard.

The Great Hall was ablaze with a thousand candles for the rehearsal dinner. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, rich wines, and the heavy perfume of the court lords and ladies. The noise was deafening, a roar of laughter and clinking goblets that echoed off the high stone walls.

She sat at the high table beside Baelor, dressed in a stunning gown of deep crimson. She forced herself to play the part, nodding politely to the passing lords, sipping her wine, and laughing softly at Queen Myriah’s gentle jokes. She was doing it. She was surviving, pretending that the days to come was just another court function rather than the end of her freedom.

Then, the heavy iron doors at the back of the hall swung open.

"Presenting Prince Maekar of House Targaryen, and his household!" the herald’s voice echoed through the rafters.

Her breath hitched. The wine glass in her hand trembled so violently that a dark red drop spilled over the silver rim, staining her fingers.

Maekar strode in, his face a stern, rigid mask of Targaryen pride. Behind him came the children. Daella and Rhae broke protocol, running forward toward the high table, their small faces lighting up with pure joy when they saw her, while young Aemon and Aegon followed at a more disciplined, princely pace.

And then, walking directly behind his father, trailing like a shadow, came Daeron.

The world completely froze. The music of the lutes died out in her ears, and the chatter of the court faded into a deafening roar of silence.

Daeron looked exhausted. His silver curls were slightly unruly, as if he had spent the journey running his hands through them, and his violet eyes were shadowed with dark circles, looking thoroughly broken. As his gaze swept the high table, his eyes locked onto hers. The raw, agonizing pain that flashed through his eyes was a physical blow to her chest, tearing down every single brick of the wall she had spent the last month building.

"Auntie!" little Rhae cheered, breaking her trance as the young girl reached the high table, reaching up to hug her around the neck.

She forced her hands to stop shaking, plastering a smooth, elegant, and completely hollow smile onto her face. She smoothed down Rhae's silver hair, her voice remarkably cool and steady as she spoke, though her throat felt like sandpaper. "Welcome to the capital, my loves. Did you have a safe journey?"

"It was long and terribly dusty," Daella complained politely, curtsying before her.

As the children crowded around, Daeron stepped up to the edge of the high table. He bowed, his movements stiff and mechanical, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the linen tablecloth rather than her face. He couldn't bear to look at her, and she could barely bear to look at him.

"Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials, my lady," Daeron said. His voice was completely detached, flat, and cool, the voice of a prince addressing his future queen, completely devoid of the boy who had wept into her neck in a wine-stained room a month ago.

"Thank you, Prince Daeron," she replied, her voice matching his perfectly. It was cold. It was polite. It was almost like a masterpiece of royal theater.

Beside her, Baelor placed a warm, heavy hand over hers on the table, a silent anchor of support meant to steady her. But the feeling of Baelor's skin against hers while Daeron stood right there was too much. It felt like a betrayal, a heavy weight pulling her down into a reality she wasn't ready for.

Looking completely devastated, she sharply pulled her hand away from Baelor's grasp, tucking her arms into her lap as her chest heaved.

Baelor glanced at her, a flicker of quiet confusion and concern crossing his dark eyes, but he said nothing as Prince Maekar gave his children a stern look, gesturing toward the lower tables.

"Come along," Maekar commanded softly, guiding the little ones away from the high table. Daella and Rhae offered one last wave before trailing after their father, taking their seats at the family table further down the hall. Daeron followed slowly, sitting beside his siblings without looking back.

She looked down at her lap, her hand clutched so tightly her nails bit painfully into her palm. She could feel Daeron's presence across the room like a physical ache, and as she sat in the heavy silence beside her future husband, she knew the trap had officially snapped shut.

[angelsworks]

Little Witch series

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

[angelsworks]

Hey can I request a time traveler x dark uthred where she tried to ran away but he caught her and forced her to marry her to bind him to him so she won’t leave him ?

A Time Travellers Promise Dark!Uhtred x time traveller!reader

About: Travelling through time lands you in the clutches of the Lord of Bebbanburg.

Warnings: Dark themes, women having little right and being treated as objects/property, mentions of rape,

Note: This has taken an embarrassingly long time to do and complete. Thank you so much for your ask and sorry it has taken so long. This is the oldest ask in my box that I am trying to work through.

You know you’re in a different time. In the modern world there is nowhere so green, so peaceful, so devoid of any life. It feels as though you could look around for miles and still find no one.

You look at the golden device in your hand. No larger than a pocket watch and looking hardly different to one, its larger hand ticked slowly as the smaller circles the face manically. It’s ticking sound increases and the watch grows hot. Your palm began to tingle with the heat now coming from the metal.

At once you drop it to the floor as you move to nurse your hand, now searing with pain. The device had effectively branded what you can only interpret to be a Wryd symbol on the palm of your hand.

As you look to the floor you see the device glowing red with heat. The symbol on the back of the metal clearly matching the branding on your hand.

The device reaches a heat so high it begins to melt. Leaving a pool of gold, springs and other miscellaneous scraps of metals in its place.

It was only a few weeks ago that your grandfather had sadly passed away. He was a man you loved dearly. You would often go and spend your summers with the man when you were able. Relishing in his Norse tales and Viking legends. Your grandfather had always been so knowledgeable and so interested in these tales. He would recite to you all he knew, their stories, their myths, their histories. From how he told it, it felt as if he had experienced it first hand.

Now as you stood staring at what you could only assume was some sort of time travel device, you wondered if that was true.

It came in the mail. A parcel adorned with his handwriting was delivered to you weeks later. The device came with a note that read I’m sorry.

All you did was press a button that you thought would spring open the watch. Only it sent you spiralling backwards through the sky. In a spinning motion through air as your eyes barely focused on the changing scenes around you.

You felt as if you had been falling for hours before you finally fell on the ground. Leading you to this moment, where you stood over your only chance of getting home.

With your chance for home now in a puddle on a floor, you started to walk. To where? You didn’t know. But you had to keep moving forward. The sun was starting to fall to the horizons end and your woollen dress, tights and boots would not keep you warm for long.

You followed a hardly walked path for a few miles. Passing tree after tree. Bush after bush and flower after…horse. Horses, horses tied to trees. Four of them. The sight catches you off guard and wakes you from your mindless daze.

You walk closer to the horses. Noticing that all four horses are saddled up with bags attached. Gingerly, you approach the darkest of the horses. One that stands tallest and broadest with a coat of darkest brown and mane of black. The horse chuffs as you touch it. Slowly warming up to your strokes against its hair.

Loud footsteps that break twigs and leaf alike pull you from your daze of petting the horse. You look up to find three men. Two are well build and muscular. They look the part of vikings or warriors. The other dressed in brown robes looks to be a monk or holy man.

“I think you might be lost lady and that isn’t your horse to touch.” The one with a beard tells you in an accent you decipher to be Irish.

You open your mouth but you can’t think of the right words. The gravity of the situation hits you and you realise that this time is far from your own. Women in this time didn’t exactly have as many right as you are used to. If these men wanted to cause you harm there was no one out here for miles. They could hurt you, beat you, or rape you and no one would come to your aid.

“What is a lady doing so far from town? Are you lost?” The monk asks you.

With wide eyes and your mouth slightly parted in shock, you nod slightly. Beginning to now make space between yourself and the men, letting go of the horse in the process.

“We can take you to the next town as we travel. What’s your name lady?” The monk asks again. It seems he understands he is the less scary of his group.

You tell them your name. As you do you see their eyes widen.

“Your last name lady?” The Irish one asks.

Again you tell them your surname and watch their eyes widen. It’s a new voice from behind you that startles you.

“My lady, I have waited many moons for you. You are more beautiful than I imagined.” You turn to the voice and see him.

You recognise him as the man from your grandfather’s painting. For years you had stared at him in the study. Whenever you asked about him, you were told it was just a painting. Something your grandfather had picked up relating to his top interest - vikings.

“I - who are you?” You stutter out as you try to back away.

The man doesn’t stop, he follows your back steps reaching out as he does. “He said you wouldn’t know me but he promised you would come. I knew Peter.”

“What?” You do little to hide your confusion. That was your grandfathers name.

“He helped me for many years. He was our oracle. Helped us through many wars with clear knowledge of the future and enemy tactics.” The man nods to the others in the group. They nod, eyes focused on you and your form.

“When he betrayed me, I took my blade to his throat. Before I could take my revenge, he made a promise. He promised that if I let him go, he would ensure one of his descendants would be mine.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The pieces start to come together. Throughout your childhood you’d been groomed for this, prepared for it. All those history lessons in your grandfather’s study, learning every bit you could about this specific time period, about the adventures of Uhtred, a Viking Dane and his friends.

The man you believe to be Uhtred steps towards you. Eyes dark as they focus on your form.

“I am Uhtred of Bebbanburg, and you are to be my wife.”

[nonpoppin]

WHERE THE HOLY DON'T WALK

Summary: You are a god-walker, you walk amongst them and with them, acting with their will. This time, the Gods lead you to Uhtred Ragnarsson and his merry band of heathens.

Warning (s): nothing... Yet, I think. Reader as always is described as a foreigner, do with that what you will.

Notes: this is part one I fear, I intend for this to be an Osferth x Reader but who knows what will change as I write. This is 2.6k words and sorta unedited.

9th-10 century, CRUGLAND (CROWLAND):

The smell of damp earth and shit does not fade or get better over time. Instead, the smell lingers, attaching to one's very being— you sniffed, nose aching from the smell and the cold. You couldn't ignore the smell either, not with the horses constantly shitting and the Saxons all but sleeping where the pigs lie.

Odd, how they call your people savages. Monsters to be wary of and yet, you have never seen a place so uncivilized— so unclean. You ache for a bath, a real heated bath filled with oils and flowers that smell sweet, a bath in a tub that is private and could hold heat for longer than twenty minutes. The Saxon's version of a bath gave you nightmares, barely boiled river water is just thrown in a wooden tub with pebbles and maybe fish in the middle of a doorless room— the innkeeper's wife had tried to joke with you when you pointed this out; you had looked queasy and the sight of fish swimming in your soon to be bath water while she looked amused, saying something of dinner and a meal. When you didn't laugh or crack a smile, she had dimmed a bit and fished the fish out with her hands.

You didn't ask what she'd do with them, you didn't want to know and by the time dinner rolled around, you avoided the freshly caught cod in favor of mutton cooked in a seasoned sauce. It nearly tastes of home and your mother's own cooking and in that moment, it was enough.

Still, as you watch the Saxons hustle about their settlement, you frown. You could do without the constant smell of shit but beggars can't be choosers and the many Gods did not favor those who whined— even if the whining came from the ones they blessed.

“The Thegn will not like you standing about, Lady.”

Your eyes flutter to the ever pale Clarice. At first glance she is a pretty sight, dark hair and bright green eyes with a shapely face and thin lips. But with days at her side, you had started to notice the illness that clings to her bones, the way her fingers shake around the handle of her water pail, her mouth waters and foams at the corners when she talks— as if she was constantly thirsty but always on the cusp of vomiting. When she moves, the Gods whisper and they warn of her death. But, she's a girl, a sweet girl who's only months younger than you and never blinked at the color of your skin or the accent that colored your voice and for that, you will plead with the Gods to spare her. They should, knowing you walk with them and carry out their will in a way no other could.

“I am no more a lady than you,” You reply, your tone playful. “And I don't care much for what the Thegn thinks of me. I fatten his pockets with my stay, he should be happy with that alone.”

Clarice gives a little hum, her eyes falling away from you and to the bustling streets. She regards her people with little care, a careful look of disinterest falling on her face. “He wishes to hump you.”

You scoff, disgusted. You push away the voice of the Gods and turn to the girl completely. “Guthlac can keep wishing, he will never touch me. He wants me because I am different and men like him are no more loyal than a badger.”

“I know.” She says, then pauses, eyes going back to you. Her concern shines bright as she speaks, “I only say so to warn you. There a whispers that he is to rob you of any coin you have and make a slave out of you. I have said this once, friend, and I will say it again, I do not think this is the best place for you.”

The whispers of the Gods come back tenfold. Though, you aren't sure you can call them whispers at this point. The sheer volume of their voices is defeating and you blink several times trying to make out what they say. Destined, Cursed. Priest-Slayer, Oath-Maker. Lord, Dane. Banished, Found.

Clarice calls your name, touching your shoulder but flinches when something sparks against the tips of her fingers. She gasps and it is as she can finally breathe for the first time since she was a child, a splash of color returns to her skin and she's left staring at her hand in surprise. The Gods had grown so excited, so desperate and eager to leave, they cured her of her ailment without a moment's thought. The message it sends however, is clear. They want you to waste no more time with the girl, they know you'd linger the longer she was sick and you did not have the privilege to do so.

The Gods speak and this time, you smell smoke. You see flashes of it, the whole of Crugland in flames because of Guthlac. He forced his hand and Uhtred Ragnarsson had turned to flames. The Gods hiss. As he often does. You see the fall of this land and smell the shit scented smoke it leaves behind, you can not bring yourself to mourn it.

“I must go.”

Clarice shakes out of her stupor, “What?”

“By the time night falls there will be no more Crugland.” You admit, ignoring her gasp. “I know you are of God and I need you to trust I walk with the one you believe. Go to my room, take the sack hidden under the floorboard that creaks the loudest. You will pack what you need and steal a horse if you must, but you need to leave before the moon is high in the sky.” You grip her hand, sliding the key between her fingers. You try to pull away but she holds you still.

“And what of you, friend?” She asks, “I believe you. I know I shouldn't but Lord preserve me, I do– but what will happen to you?”

You squeeze her hand and offer her your sweetest grin. The Gods have guided you this far, kept you safe and alive despite the odds, you wouldn't start doubting them now.

“I shall swear myself to a lord. A good lord, Clarice. Now go, pack your things. May we meet again.”

She searches your face for a moment before pulling your interlocked hands to her lips. They brush over your knuckles and she whispers something— she prays for you and your safety and it makes you warm inside. She is a sweet girl, deserving of life. She pulls away and gives you a sharp nod, smiling.

“Till we meet again, my dear friend.”

✞✞✞

You had not meant to lie to Clarice and technically, you haven't. You are for Uhtred Ragnarsson, you stand for and with him and if a sword should ever rise against him in your presence, you'd spill your blood to make sure he'd survive. But as you draw closer to the town's inn, the Gods begin their newest tirade, you know you are not meant to walk with him and his men, not yet.

You do not curse the Gods, you know better than to do that but you let them feel your annoyance. They knew this from the moment you were born and yet had you sail halfway across the world to do absolutely nothing. They whisper and you have no choice but to listen. Danes. Attack. Two-faced. Strangers. Wedding. Fire. Monk.

You blink at the last one, stopping in your step. A monk? As in just one or monk as in multiple? The God who said it does not answer the question but you know they are still there. Your teeth kiss your tongue. Bastard.

You dodge the falling pile of hay with a scoff. A petty bastard but one that can cause immediate action, you apologize. It's quick and bitter tasting on your tongue but the sunlight on your back as you enter the inn, tells you are forgiven.

You call out to the innkeeper's wife, squinting to adjust to the sudden darkness, your lips fixing to ask for another bath but the words die as a group of men turn and pin you with curious looks. Curious is good, curiosity is not disgust and you could work with that. You clear your throat, eyes sweeping towards the floor and you bow your head, the meeker and more feminine you look, the better.

“Apologies, I did not know she had roomed others.”

A man steps forward and Gods, he is a pretty thing. Pale green eyes watch you carefully but not because he sees you as a danger, no, his eyes dip to your chest and you feel yourself bristle. He sees you as meat, something to hump. He takes another step forward and you steel yourself not to take one back, your eyes snapping to his in annoyance. The Gods laugh, taunting. Uhtred Ragnarsson, The Dane-Slayer.

Bloody hell.

“It is no trouble, Lady.” He says smoothly, his voice mirthful. He takes another step and grasps your hand, pulling it to his lips. “I am Uhtred. Lord of Bebbanburg.” He lets your hand drop and you take a generous step back— it seems to amuse him greatly. “Do you work here?”

The smile that falls on your face is practiced and pretty, disarming yet sharp. You hold eye contact with Uhtred, letting the act of a meek traveler fall. “I will not hump you if that's what you intend to ask.”

The men behind him all but roar with laughter. A man with dark hair and a matching beard steps forward, clapping Uhtred on the shoulder and his voice thick with an accent. “Aye, she's a smart one, ain't she? Saw right through your bullshit.”

Uhtred huffs a laugh. “I mean no disrespect, Lady–”

“I am no lady and I am no whore either. You claim you mean no disrespect and yet, you laugh in my face.” The Gods whisper as you speak. They warn you to hold your tongue, they whisper of his curse and of the woman who did it. They tell you to swallow your pride and hump the great Uhtred, break his curse with your touch and you spit at their feet. You are no whore, blessed or not, you will not raise your skirt or drop your trousers just because the highest bidder demands it. You are to leave anyway, for a wedding and before fire sets. You clear your throat, “Now if you will excuse me, I have to leave.”

The men snicker as you skirt around them and Uhtred's Irish friend pats him on the shoulder. There is whisper shared between the two of them and you do not care enough to ask the Gods to hear. They will not try to make a whore out of you and be so easily forgiven.

A warm hand grasps your elbow before you can fully disappear. Monk. A God, the God says. He says no more when you turn, hackles raise, “Unhand m–”

The Monk gives you a pleading look, begging you to listen but it is not why you fall silent. Does Uhtred simply make it a mission to go around and gather pretty men to fight for him? The Monk dons the very same haircut all young monks do, though instead of curly haired boys you are used to, his hair is straight and a nice shade of red. His robes are a little dirty but no different from the brown garb they usually wear and his cross sits proudly around his neck and rests comfortably on his chest. A monk amongst heathens. No, the Gods whisper. A Monk who is a heathen. King's blood, bastard. Warrior. Monk.

The same God from before merely says. Yours.

“My lord truly means no disrespect, Lady.” He whispers, you open your mouth to disagree, you are no lady. Especially not here but he's already speaking once more, “And yes, I heard you. You are no lady but you look like one. You are pretty like one and I shall call you one.”

“Do not think me a fool, Monk.” You hiss. “You Saxons will never call me such. My skin isn't the right color and my hair is much too different, your words do not trick me.”

The Monk pulls you closer to him, only a breath away as he stares you down. There is no evil in his gaze as he smiles at you, the God seems to rejoice that he is so close. “My name is Osferth, lady. Not Monk.”

The inn has fallen horribly quiet and you look to see Uhtred and his men watching on in interest. Your skin crawls and you yank your arm free from Osferth, “I did not ask for your name.”

Osferth shrugs. “I give it to you, nonetheless.”

Your eye twitches. “I do not care for it.”

A full smile breaks across his face, “You wound me, Lady.” Then he takes a step back and bows his head, “I apologize for grabbing you, Lady. It was very unkind of me.”

“I…” You blink, once. Twice. Apologies are rarely given to you. Especially when you respond so harshly, Osferth has thrown you off guard and from the smile passed amongst the group. It is easily seen. You clear your throat— you seem to be doing that a lot nowadays, and nod. Eyeing him warily. “It was. You are… forgiven. Though, a word of advice? For both you and your lord.”

Uhtred, Osferth and his very Irish friend perk up at this. Uhtred is the first to speak, “You offer us advice, even after all the insults?”

“I fear for you if you think those were insults but yes. I offer you advice, Lord Uhtred Ragnarsson of Bebbanburg.” Any humor he holds drains from his face and you watch as his hand falls to his sword, his men do the same and you smile despite your thundering heart. “A curse cannot be broken with split blood. The one you seek is one you know, he is a snake in plain sight.” Your right eye aches and you see flashes of it, a King's mercy and pardon, a red hot poker and the smell of burnt skin. You cover said eye and it is as if the Gods speak from you instead of to. “Know this look, you will realize who slain your kin when the time comes.”

Uhtred bristles. “And what of you? Are you a seer? Another witch like Skade?” The way he spits the name tells you they are the maker of his curse and his molten gaze freezes you in place if only for a moment.

“I am neither, Lord.” You say. “Perhaps, I am nothing but a foreigner spouting nonsense. My words are meant not to harm, only to help. Ignore them if you wish.” You shake your head, the Gods could have warned you of his hatred for people who are blessed with such gifts. You would have gone about this much differently. “I must go now, Lord. Before you set the town alight.”

That shakes him from his anger, though his hand doesn't move from his sword. “I will do no such thing.”

You level him with a look. “You will. Guthlac and the Danes will force your hand and I must go before I am a casualty in your plight.”

You turn before any of his men could stop you and rush to your room. You'll leave through the window to avoid getting caught by them on the way out. Knowing the Gods, they will not stop it even if they have other plans for you. They favor Uhtred more than they should. Your efforts, for thinking ahead, are falling as you climb out of your window.

The Gods snicker.

[imnotcryingyouare1]

The plan

You and Gwayne come up with an idea to keep Daeron safe, you just hope your sister believes you. Targ!reader but not connected to my other fics as the dance doesn’t happen in them.

I wrote the majority of this over a week ago so ginger Daeron is canon in this, and of course you voted for the fic I was most unsure about posting☠️

“What are you thinking about?” Gwayne asks wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his head in your shoulder. You looking out into the gardens where Daeron is sat reading cuddled up with the dragons. The girls playing next to him while Baelor is sleeping in the nursery.

“What to do next.” You muse leaning into him. Wishing that this stupid war hadn’t started in the first place.

“How so?” Your husband asks kissing your shoulder.

“I want to stand with my sister.” You say, knowing she’d do the same for you. But not willing to risk your son’s life. “But Daeron will be a risk to her claim so I don’t know what she’ll do with him.”

“What of Aegon?” Gwayne suggests half heartedly, not liking his nephew’s. Him thinking them both the furthest thing from how prince’s should behave.

“You know as well as I he will be a cruel king, especially with Aemond by his side.”

“So we need to think of something that will keep all the children safe.” He says, voicing your thoughts. Also wanting to find a way Daeron will be safe from all possible harm.

“I have an idea, a terrible idea but an idea nonetheless.” You say turning around to face him, wrapping your arms around his neck. His still on your waist.

“What is it?” He asks up for any suggestion. The children meaning the word to him.

“We claim he’s ours.” You say quietly, not wanting to risk anyone possibly overhear your idea.

“What?”

“We say that the real reason he was send to ward was because I had him out of wedlock and Alicent and my father covered it up.” You elaborate, it being an incredibly risky idea.

“Everyone would think you a whore.” Gwayne rebuttals thinking it a good idea otherwise.

“They think that anyway.” You quip with a sad smile, your husband’s incredibly religious family having never liked you. “It would keep him safe.”

“We could ask your sister to legitimise him as our son.” He suggests, continuing on knowing you won’t change your mind.

“We can claim he’s is mine alone.” You offer, not wanting to affect Gwayne’s reputation.

“My love, I say this with all the love and care in the world.” He says with a smile, brushing some of your hair out of your face. “That boy is the spiting image of a Hightower, even removing the hair.”

“He does look like you and Alicent.” You admit reluctantly, normally loving how much Daeron looks like Gwayne. Now finding it inconvenient.

“Exactly, so I’m going to be necessary for this scheme.” He says, thinking of the next steps of your plan. “How are we going to get anyone to believe it?”

“I was sick.” You say in shock, remembering that you kept coming down with the flu that year. The maesters unable to find the reason, it clearing up not long after Daeron’s birth.

“What?”

“When Alicent was with child I was sick a lot.” You say in excitement never more grateful about being sick. “I was hardly seen in court and I was confined to my chambers.”

“You’re a genius.” Gwayne say softly, pulling you into a kiss.

“I’m only a genius if this works.”

-

“Come on Kepa is riding with Daeron on Tessarion.” You say to the girls one you reach the dragon pitts. You all having to sneak away in the night so Ormund can’t stop you. “You’re with me.”

“But I want to ride Skrykos!” Rosie pouts, not understanding why you’re leaving. Let alone in the middle of the night and have to be quiet about it.

“She’s coming with us but we need to leave quickly.” You say, adjusting the baby carrier you’re wearing. You youngest child sleeping against you.

“Why?”

“We just do sweetheart.” Gwayne says checking you’ve got everything. Helping Rosie and Lily onto your dragon. “We’ll explain once we’re there.”

“I’m sorry.” Daeron whispers to you while you give him a once over to check he’s alright.

“What are you sorry for sweetheart?” You ask, knowing he hasn’t done anything to warrant giving an apology.

“It’s my fault we have to leave.”

“We would have to anyway as I’m Rhaenyra’s sister.” You reassure him, cupping his face in your hands as you give him a forehead kiss. “Now just follow me and fly close, your father will pretend he’s not terrified but he hates flying so you’re in charge.”

“Ok muña.” He says a soft smile on his face. Grateful that you and Gwayne chose to raise him. Him aware Ormund was supposed to.

“I love you.” You say firmly, needing him to know.

“I love you too.” He responds pulling you into a hug, carful not to squish his brother, before going over to his dragon.

“Come on Rosie, lily hold tight.” You say to your girls before you take flight.

-

“Why are you here?” Daemon demands watching you and your family climb of your dragons. Rhaenyra and Jace stood behind him. Jace having grown so much since you last saw him.

“I’m here to speak to my sister.” You say stepping forward, ignoring Gwayne’s look of worry when you pass him your young son.

“You mean the queen.” Daemon corrects, not trusting you as you’re now a Hightower.

“I mean my sister the queen.” You clarify know how your uncle is.

“Sister.” Rhaenyra pushing past daemon, ignoring his look. You both meeting in the middle of your family’s. Gwayne stood infront of the children wary about the whole thing, having passed Baelor to Daeron.

“Rhaenyra.” You say softly, having missed your best friend and sister. Before remembering yourself and curtsying to her. “I mean your grace.”

“What are you doing here?” She asks softly, having been worried you would betray her.

“With the Hightower as well.” Daemon interjects glaring at your husband, Gwayne just rolls his eyes at the dig.

“I’m here with my husband and our children for asylum.” You say ignoring daemon and giving all your attention to your sister.

“What of the Hightower prince? Daeron isn’t it?” Daemon interjects once again, clearly desperate to be included in the conversation.

“That’s what I want to discuss, in private preferably.” You say giving your uncle a look before looking back at your queen. “Please.”

“Come.” She say wanting you to follow her back to the castle. “Jace can take your family to the throne room while we talk.”

“Rhaenyra.” Daemon hisses not trusting you.

“You have my protection, for the time being.” Rhaenyra says ignoring her husband.

“Thank you.”

“Come, we shall speak.” She says taking your hand to lead you away. Gwayne greeting Jace with respect. Daemon following you after threatening your husband.

-

“I have a confession.” You announce, once the doors shut behind you. Hoping this is the right decision. Allowing your anxiety to show on your face as you know it will help you.

“What is it?” Rhaenyra asks, scared you somehow had something to do with her being usurped.

“Daeron isn’t father’s son.” You say blurt out, not looking at your sister while you say it.

“So Alicent had a bastard.” Daemon laughs flopping into a chair after pouring himself some wine. “How has the boy got a dragon?”

“He’s my son.” You ‘admit’ playing with your wedding ring in discomfort. Praying they believe you.

“What?” Rhaenyra asks in confusion, never thinking that would be your confession.

“You remember that I was sick and had to be isolated in my chambers when Alicent was with child? That’s because she wasn’t, I was.” You explain, taking the wine your sister offers you before she sits downs in shock.

“Why does he look like Hightower then?” Daemon asks, the most untrusting of the two.

“Because Gwayne is his true father.” You responded giving him a look as though it’s obvious. “Do you remember that tourney? The one that was for Jace’s nameday that Gwayne competed in?”

“Why didn’t you marry?” Rhaenyra asks, unsure of why you didn’t drink moontea or marry to cover it up.

“He wanted to, he kept apologising for ‘stealing’ my virtue.” You say with a slight laugh, actually quoting your husband. Him having kissed you before your betrothal and then feeling guilty for it. “But father was trying to marry me off to the Lannister’s and Gwayne had to leave back to old town the next day. I didn’t know I was with child until it was too late, so father made Alicent pretend he’s was hers.” You explain, looking at the floor as if in regret. “And well, you know the rest.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” Rhaenyra asks, believing you. Having known how much you’ve cared for the boy since his birth. This being the best explanation for it as you never cared much for Alicent’s other sons, Helaena being different.

“Because it’s the best way to keep him safe.” You say, actually telling the truth. The realm viewing him as your son instead of your father’s would make him a lot safer. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” Daemon asks, believing you. Him knowing he’d to the same for his children.

“You don’t.”

-

“Muña!” Lily shouts running over to you when you enter the throne room after Rhaenyra and daemon. Her agreeing to declare Daeron as your true born son. You picking up your youngest daughter and giving Gwayne a nod, letting him know everything has gone to plan. “Baelor bit me!”

“Oh no, that not good.” You say knowing your girl is being dramatic as he doesn’t have teeth yet. “How was it with your cousin?”

“Fine.” She says resting her head on your shoulder. “He talk with Kepa for ages.”

“Is it true?” Jace asks his mother, having been informed by Gwayne what you’ll of been talking about.

“Is what true?” Rhaenyra asks, looking at your family with a smile on her face. Wishing she had gotten to spend more time together with you before all this started.

“About Daeron?” Jace clarifies, not sure what to think but having a feeling it’s the truth. Why else would you go through all this trouble?

“That he’s my sisters true son? Yes he is.” Rhaenyra confirms, noticing the confused look on your eldest’s face.

“What?” Daeron asks looking between you and Gwayne. “What is she talking about?”

“We’ll explain everything later darling I promise.” You say gently, knowing you’ll have to lie. Your boy being too kind and soft for deceit knowing he deserves better.

“You have pledged your loyalty to me, so you may go to the Vale.” Rhaenyra declares, knowing Jeyne Arryn will allow it given your dragons. “You’ll be safe there, on the condition you look after my sons and when I ask you fly back and fight for me.”

“As long as it’s just me, we have a deal.” You say not letting your son partake in war.

“Deal, I’ll write you a letter to give to lady Jeyne. She’ll accept you.”

“Thank you Rhaenyra, truly.” You say to you sister wanting to give her a hug. Her notacing your hesitation and makes the first move, pulling you into her arms and holding you tight. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too.” She whispers back, having missed you more than anything. “Thank you for trusting me.”

[porcelinee]

A Bitter Dawn

Chapter: 3

Kings landing

Summary of this chapter:

Baelor's kindness and protection break through the reader's walls. At a family dinner he’s defending her dignity against the King. Conflicted by her growing warmth for Baelor, the reader writes a secret letter to her sister, Dyanna, terrified that letting him in means betraying her love for Daeron.

The mid day sun beat down on the leather roof of the carriage, trapping a heavy, stifling heat inside.

They had been traveling for days, and the silence between them had stretched into something thick. Across from her, Prince Baelor sat with a thick, leather bound tome propped open on his knee, his multi colored eyes scanning the pages with disciplined focus. He hadn't pushed her to speak since their first day on the Kingsroad.

She kept her face turned toward the window, watching the rolling hills slowly flatten into the dusty crownlands. Her mind was far away, drifting back to the wedding she had spent years quietly planning in her heart. She had always wanted it to be simple. She imagined herself wearing a gown of light, flowing Dornish silk, with no heavy crowns or stiff velvet, and wild summer flowers woven carelessly into her hair. She had wanted to look beautiful for Daeron. She had wanted to see the exact moment his tired, purple eyes lit up when he saw her walking toward the heart tree.

"You have a very expressive face, my lady," Baelor’s deep voice suddenly broke the quiet, startling her. He closed his book, resting his large, calloused hands over the cover. "One moment you look as though you are a thousand miles away, and the next, your eyes light up."

She shifted slightly, her posture stiffening. "I was only thinking of the home I left behind."

"Summerhall is a beautiful seat," Baelor agreed softly, his expression open and entirely devoid of the cold authority he carried in court. She just smiled politely her head still elsewhere. He looked out the window for a quiet moment before speaking again, his voice dropping to a softer, more vulnerable register.

"I know what it is to be forced to build a life on the ashes of another. I still carry the memory of my late wife, Jena Dondarrion. When she passed, I felt as though the sun had permanently set on the realm. I never expected to hold affection for another, nor did I wish to."

She turned her head, looking at him fully now, surprised by the raw honesty of his words.

"I tell you this because I do not expect you to forget whatever—or whoever you left behind at Summerhall,"

Baelor said, meeting her gaze with a steady, compassionate intensity.

"Perhaps this is not the future you envisioned for yourself. But I will try to make it as close to a happy one as possible. You have my word on it. So what is your favorite thing about summerhall perhaps I could get you something of resemblance.”

A small, fragile crack formed in the wall she had built around her heart. She swallowed the lump in her throat, letting her guard down by a fraction of an inch.

"The gardens," she murmured, her voice barely louder than the turning of the carriage wheels. "And the children. I spent almost every afternoon playing with Aegon and Rhae. The palace always felt... alive."

Baelor smiled, a small, genuine curve of his lips.

"The Red Keep has gardens of its own, though mayhaps a bit more manicured than Maekar’s wild woods. And as for children, the castle is never truly quiet. My own boys, Valarr and Matarys, are always causing some manner of trouble in the training courtyards."

Hearing him speak of his sons who were nearly her own age brought the cold reality of her situation rushing back. She offered him a tight, polite nod and turned her gaze back to the window, but the air in the carriage felt marginally lighter than it had before.

A week later, the journey came to its agonizing end.

Before she even saw the towering red walls of the city, she smelled it. The wind shifted, and a rancid, suffocating stench flooded through the carriage window. It was the infamous scent of King's Landing, a vile, thick soup of human waste, rotting fish from the docks, and the putrid mud of the Blackwater. It smelled of absolute sewage and decay, so potent that it made her throat constrict.

Suddenly, a massive roar erupted from outside. The carriage was passing through the lower streets, and a mob of peasants pressed against the sides of the vehicle. They were screaming, cheering, desperate to catch a glimpse of the Crown Prince's new bride.

Panic seized her. The claustrophobia of the carriage, the terrifying noise, and the putrid stench threatened to drown her. She shrank back against the cushions, her breathing turning shallow and rapid.

Without a word, Baelor shifted across the carriage. His massive frame immediately shielded her from the window. He wrapped a strong, protective arm around her shoulders, pulling her firmly against his chest. The scent of leather, and the cologne he wore was heavenly to her nose, she clung to him instantly cutting through the horrific stench of the city.

"Take a breath," Baelor murmured near her ear, his hand rubbing comforting circles into her arm. "I have you. You are perfectly safe."

Instinctively, she clutched at his cloak, burying her face in his shoulder until the carriage finally rattled through the heavy gates of the Red Keep and the noise of the streets faded into the background. She pulled away from him rather quickly.

When the carriage came to a halt, Baelor stepped out first. He turned and offered his hand, his grip steady and firm as he helped her down onto the stone.

Waiting on the steps to greet them was King Daeron and his Dornish queen, Myriah Martell.

Queen Myriah stepped forward immediately, her dark, elegant eyes shining with warmth. Before the formal protocols could even be uttered, the Queen wrapped her in a firm, motherly embrace. The scent of sandalwood and sweet cloves clung to Myriah’s silk robes a sudden, beautiful wave of familiarity. Feeling a desperate longing for home, she hugged the Queen back, melting into the embrace.

When she pulled away, she had to face the King. Daeron stood with a polite, welcoming smile on his face, but as she curtsied, her eyes remained cold. She offered him a stiff, horridly tense greeting, her voice dripping with a barely masked venom. She hated- no, loathed him for breaking her original marriage.

Sensibly ignoring her hostility, the King merely nodded, and a flock of silent maids stepped forward to lead her away to her new chambers.

The rooms were grand, draped in heavy Targaryen silks, but to her, they felt like a mausoleum. The moment the heavy oak doors shut, she collapsed straight onto the barely made mattress, burying her face in the pillows, and surrendered to a deep, dark sleep that lasted an entire day.

"M’lady? M’lady, please wake."

A soft patting on her back pulled her from her dreamless slumber. She opened her eyes to find one of her handmaidens standing over her, looking anxious.

"The King has requested your presence at an intimate family dinner tonight, my lady," the maid whispered. "The King, the Queen, Prince Baelor, and his eldest son, Prince Valarr, are already gathering."

Her stomach instantly turned into a cold, violent knot.

The handmaidens hurried to bathe her and dress her, weaving intricate braids into her hair and lacing her into a gown of deep violet silk. Every step toward the royal dining hall felt like a march to the gallows.

When she entered the private dining chamber, the family was already seated. She took her seat directly across from Baelor. Almost immediately, she felt the weight of his gaze. Baelor was staring at her with an intense, unreadable look his eyes fixed on her face, completely unblinking. It wasn't threatening, but the intense admiration in his eyes made her feel utterly exposed and deeply uncomfortable.

"That color suits you beautifully, my dear, well why wouldn’t it, you are a Dyane." Queen Myriah said warmly, breaking the tension.

"Thank you, Your Grace," she replied, forcing a soft, grateful smile. For the first half of the meal, she clung to the Queen like a lifeline, finding comfort in their shared Dornish heritage.

To her right sat Prince Valarr. He was handsome, possessing the striking similar features of his father, and he was almost exactly her age. When he spoke to her, his voice was smooth and perfectly polite, though she could see the faint flicker of unease in his eyes. She went along with his polite facade, understanding fully how incredibly awkward it must be for the young prince to watch his father prepare to marry a girl his own age.

Then, the King spoke, his voice carrying the careless weight of a ruler.

"Indeed, she looks radiant. A healthy, young bride is exactly what this branch of the family needs. I expect we shall see a nursery full of strong Targaryen’s in the coming years."

The words felt like a bucket of ice water poured down her spine. She froze, her fork hovering in the air, the blood rushing in her ears as the suffocating reality of her biological duty was laid bare before the entire table.

"Father," Baelor’s voice cut through the air, sharp and unyielding.

The table went dead silent. Baelor set his goblet down with a heavy, deliberate thud, his dark eyes fixed firmly on the King.

"My lady has only just arrived after a grueling journey. She is a guest in our home, not a broodmare to be discussed over roasted fowl. I ask that you treat her with the respect she deserves."

King Daeron blinked, momentarily taken aback, before offering a quiet, apologetic nod. "Of course. Forgive me."

She stared at her plate, her heart hammering wildly, but a profound wave of gratitude washed over her. Baelor had stood up to the King, his own father just to protect her dignity.

When the dinner finally concluded, Baelor stood, offering his arm to escort her back to her chambers.

The walk through the quiet, torch-lit corridors of the Red Keep was different this time. The silence felt safer, more comfortable.

"I must apologize for my father's thoughtlessness," Baelor said quietly as they reached her door. "He sees the realm in chess pieces. I do not."

"Thank you," she whispered, looking up at him. "For standing up for me."

Baelor stepped a fraction closer, his eyes soft.

"I meant what I said in the carriage. I will protect you. I am truly looking forward to the day we officially wed in the Great Sept."

Looking up at him, she felt a sudden, unexpected lightness touch her chest. He was honorable, kind, and fiercely protective. For a fleeting second, she realized that her life with him might not be the miserable prison she had feared.

"Goodnight, Prince Baelor," she said softly, offering him a genuine, albeit small, smile.

"Goodnight, my lady," he replied, bowing low before turning to walk down the corridor.

Inside her room, her handmaidens quietly helped her out of her heavy velvet gown and slipped her into a soft, white silk nightgown. Once they were dismissed, the quiet of the room settled over her.

She still felt that strange, confusing lightness in her chest but beneath it, the ache of Daeron’s memory still lingered, a stubborn shadow that refused to leave.

Needing an outlet for the storm in her head, she sat down at the small writing desk in the corner. She pulled a piece of fresh parchment toward her, dipped her quill in dark ink, and began to write.

Dyanna,

They say you are in a better place, but tonight, I wish you were here in this shithole with me. I am in the capital. The city smells of rot, and the castle feels like a beautifully gilded cage. I met Baelor. He is not the monster I wanted him to be. He is kind, Dyanna. He protected me tonight, and for a moment, my chest didn't feel so heavy. But it frightens me. I am terrified that if I let his kindness in, I will forget the boy under the weirwood tree. I am terrified of losing the only love I ever chose for myself. Please hold a place for me in the quiet, wherever you are...

She watched the ink dry on the parchment, her eyes burning with tears, before folding the letter tightly and hiding it deep within the drawer of the desk, a secret confession to a sister who could never tell.

Tag list: @kitkat1690 @qardasngan

[noforkingclue]

Malcolm Bright Masterlist

By Any Means- complete

Malcolm x reader one shots

Flirting?

Auction

Coffee

The Rain

A Theft

Talking

Requests

Fluff

Dance With Me

Forbidden

His Own Person

Impressive

In the Classroom

Meet the Family

Sweet Heart

General

Be Seeing You

Fatherly Advice

Hurt/Comfort

Little Distractions

Only One Person to Blame

[porcelinee]

A Bitter Dawn

Chapter 2: The hooves

Summary: Reader says goodbye to her fantasy world of peace.

The packing of her life was a mechanical, hollow thing to witness.

In her chambers, maids fluttered about like anxious moths, folding silk gowns into heavy cedar chests and wrapping delicate trinkets in soft linen. She barely looked at them. The space already felt like it belonged to a ghost. Leaving the women to their silent work, she walked out into the corridor, her feet carrying her down the familiar path to Daeron’s room.

The scent of stale wine hit her before she even crossed the threshold. Daeron was completely unconscious, tangled in his sheets, an empty flagon resting on the floor beside the bed. He had spent the last few days trying to drown himself in drink, a desperate, pathetic attempt to numb the agonizing reality of her departure.

She didn't care who might see her, nor did she care about propriety anymore. Slipped into the dark, stifling room, she kicked off her shoes and lay down right beside him, curling into his side. She closed her eyes and let the heavy exhaustion of the past week claim her, drifting into a restless nap against his chest.

The thunder of horse hooves broke her peace.

Her eyes snapped open. The floorboards beneath the bed seemed to vibrate with the approach of a massive cavalry. Heart hammering against her ribs, she scrambled out of the bed and rushed to Daeron’s window, pushing the heavy drapes aside. Down in the courtyard, a sea of black and red flooded the gates. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen snapped proudly on the banners.

It was the royal escort. They were early.

A cold dread washed over her. Leaving Daeron to his heavy, drunken sleep, she slipped out of the room, quickly slipping into her flats, and hurried down the hall toward the children's quarters. She needed to see them one last time. In the sunlit solar, she found twelve-year-old Daella quietly braiding the hair of little Rhae, who was playing with a wooden doll on the rug.

"I came to say goodbye," she said softly, her voice straining against the lump in her throat.

Rhae immediately dropped her toy, her small face crumpling into profound sadness as she ran forward. Daella stood up quickly, her violet eyes wide and shining with unshed tears. "We thought you were staying," Daella whispered, wrapping her arms around her aunt’s waist alongside Rhae. "We thought you were going to be here forever."

"I know, my loves. I know," she murmured, burying her face in Rhae’s wild silver curls, her heart aching fiercely. "But you can visit me in King's Landing. The Red Keep is grand, and I will make sure there is always a place for you."

"A grand cage for a little star," a sharp, mocking voice drawled from the doorway.

She stiffened, looking up to see Aerion leaning against the frame, a cruel, handsome smirk plastered across his face. He looked entirely amused by her misfortune. "Grandfather certainly chose the perfect piece to replace the old queen. Enjoy your graybeard, auntie. I hear he’s a very dutiful husband." With a low, mocking chuckle, he spun on his heel and strolled down the corridor.

Ignoring his venom, she squeezed the girls tightly, kissing the tops of their heads before a frantic maid appeared at the door, breathless and bowing low.

"My lady, your chests are secured in the wheelhouse," the maid panted. "Prince Maekar requests your presence in the great hall immediately. Prince Baelor has arrived to escort you personally."

Her heart had just sunk. Baelor was here? She thought she would have the entire journey to prepare herself, to build up her walls before facing him. She had met the Crown Prince only once before, a blurred and miserable memory from five years ago at her sister's funeral.

Panic seizing her, she didn't go to the great hall. She ran back to Daeron’s chambers.

Thankfully, the commotion had finally roused him. He was sitting on the edge of the mattress, holding his head in his hands, looking thoroughly broken. When he looked up and saw the sheer terror in her eyes, he stood up, his unstable legs carrying him straight to her. She threw herself into his arms, and they held each other in a fierce, suffocating embrace. Neither spoke. The silence between them was heavy, filled only with the sound of their ragged breathing and the hot tears that spilled down their cheeks.

Slowly, Daeron cupped her face, his trembling hands framing her jawline as if she were made of spun glass. When his lips met hers, the world outside the room seemed to violently fall away.

For years, she had quietly dreamed of what this moment would be like. She had imagined it happening under a canopy of summer stars, on a night wrapped in the scent of pine and fireplums, right after they had spoken their vows before the living heart tree. She had saved the true depth of her devotion for a wedding night that would now never come.

Instead, she received it here—in a room smelling of grief and stale wine, born out of absolute desperation.

Yet, despite the tragedy of it, the kiss was entirely magical. It was a breathless, aching rush of everything they had never been allowed to say aloud. His lips were soft, moving against hers with a fierce, possessive hunger that tried to anchor her to him forever. It tasted of salt and sweet ruin, a private vow whispered in the dark. For a fleeting, beautiful second, the sheer warmth of his mouth made her feel alive.

Then, the devastating reality crashed back down. This was not the beginning of their life together, it was the eulogy. The magic bled into a crushing heartbreak as she realized this singular, perfect touch was the only one she would ever get to keep.

It was a beautiful ghost of a future that was being systematically murdered by a king’s decree. She clung to the lapels of his tunic, kissing him back with a quiet, weeping ferocity, trying to memorize the exact pressure of his lips, the heat of his skin, and the way his breath hitched against her mouth—knowing with absolute, suffocating certainty that she would never feel it again.

"I love you," he choked out against her lips when he finally pulled back, his voice raw and splintered. "This changes nothing. Never forget that. I love you."

She couldn't speak. She could only nod as he took her hand, forcing himself to stand tall as he escorted her down the grand staircase to face their fate.

The great hall was filled with the heavy presence of the court. Standing at the center, speaking quietly with Maekar, was Prince Baelor Targaryen. He looked every bit the legendary Breakspear—tall, broad-shouldered, carrying himself with the effortless dignity of a man born to rule.

When his dark eyes found hers, he bowed with absolute respect. "My lady," his voice resonated through the hall.

She looked at him, feeling entirely hollowed out, as if her soul had remained upstairs in the dark room. “Your grace.” Baelor offered his arm, she managed a stiff, mechanical nod, her hand resting like lead upon his sleeve. The exchange of greetings was a blur of polite, meaningless words. She walked beside him, a ghost in a silk gown, as he led her out toward the courtyard where the massive royal wheelhouse awaited.

Before stepping inside, she stopped, turning back to look at Summerhall one last time.

The image burned into her mind like hot wax.

Daeron stood near the steps, already clutching a fresh goblet of wine, his face a mask of miserable, drunken despair. Beside him, Maekar stood rigid, his light eyes filled with a profound sorrow he refused to let the court see. Little Rhae was openly crying, her small hand tightly grasped by Daella, who watched the carriage with a solemn stare and tears in her face. Aegon and young Aemon offered small, sad waves, while Aerion stood off to the side, entirely unbothered, twirling a dagger in his fingers.

But it did bother him that the only person close to remind him of his mother was leaving.

Baelor handed her up into the carriage. The heavy wooden door clicked shut, cutting off the sights of the only home she had ever truly loved.

As the wheels groaned and the carriage began its slow, grueling journey, she stared blankly at the velvet cushions opposite her. Baelor settled into the seat across from her, adjusting his cloak before looking at her with a gentle, questioning expression.

"It is never easy to leave the place you love," Baelor said softly, attempting to strike up a conversation to ease the suffocating tension. "But I hope, in time, we can make the capital feel like home for you."

She looked out the small window, watching the jagged horizon of Summerhall fade into the distance, and offered him nothing but silence.

Baelor shifted slightly, the fine dark wool of his riding cloak rustling in the quiet of the carriage. He didn't seem angered by her coldness, if anything, his expression softened with an understanding that only made her resent him more. He was a man accustomed to the heavy burdens of duty, and he clearly recognized the weight crushing her.

"Your silence is permitted, my lady," Baelor continued, his voice low and remarkably patient. "I do not expect you to smile, nor do I expect your affection to be bought with a few kind words. A crown is a heavy thing to place on anyone's head, let alone so suddenly." He paused, looking down at his own calloused hands before meeting her gaze again.

"But I meant every word I wrote in my letter. You will have a protector in me. Whatever grievances you hold against this match, let them fall on me, not on the life we must build."

Every word he spoke was a masterpiece of honor, a perfect display of the noble prince the realm adored. It sickened her. She wanted him to be cruel, she wanted him to be a monster so that hating him would be easy, so that her anger could have a proper target. Instead, his decency only made the trap feel more secure.

Outside, the distant, muffled calls of the guards and the steady rhythmic clatter of horse hooves signaled their final exit through the outer gates. The air of Summerhall was officially replaced by the dusty wind of the Kingsroad. Clenching her jaw, she kept her eyes fixed firmly on the passing trees outside the window, deliberately ignoring the Crown Prince's watchful, steady gaze as the carriage carried her further and further into the dark.

[englandscallingme]

ormund hightower fic recs

still updating

whore

vamprie hunter!ormund

targaryen witchy!reader

headcanons

scent kink

headcanons

forgiveness

drabble

home in three days do not wash

black beauty

light the hightower

there will be blood

what a man longs for

green with envy

let me pray my way

prayers he forgot

headcanons

in the light of the seven

[lovebugism]

CONTRITION. (DARK!ORMUND HIGHTOWER X SEPTA!READER)

“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to want,” you confess through a sputtering laugh from your mouth, all watery and ashamed. You trail off, then, so quietly you can barely hear yourself. “I think… I think I only want someone to— to tell me what to want, what to do.”

The candles gutter along the altar, though no draft has moved through the sept. The words cling so ardently to the incense-thick air between you that you wish so desperately that you could reach out and pull them back into your mouth again — suddenly terrified that you’ve given away far too much of yourself.

Ormund steps forward, close enough to smother you with the warmth radiating from his towering form. He plucks the leather-bound scripture from your hands, closes it with one broad fist, and lays it back upon the altar without once looking away from you. You try to will your hands to stop shaking at your sides as you peer at him from beneath lashes clumped wet with tears. The man spends a long moment staring down the bridge of his nose at you.

When he speaks, the words come out low and steady from his mouth — far gentler and far more certain than any god has ever been to you before.

“Then kneel.”

COMING SOON. (PUBLISHED HERE!)

p.s. i don't do taglists (other than my @bugfics account) but feel free to leave a comment here if you'd like to be notified when the fic drops!

[awearywritersworld]

now and always

ormund hightower x reader summary: ormund learns of the whispers that plague his wife, the second eldest targaryen princess. w/c: 1.6k tags: fem!reader. targ!reader. hurt/comfort. angst to fluff. not canon compliant - ormund's first wife and child die during birth. likely ooc ormund. hints of suicidal ideation from reader. references to canon typical violence. set mainly in oldtown. hotd masterlist

from the very first time he saw you, some vision of otherwordly beauty and grace, ormund hightower found himself enamored with the younger of the two targaryen princesses.

fate would deign your paths to cross many times throughout your youths.

he can still recall quite clearly the time he bid you to dance at an early summer feast. you smiled up at him, all warm and radiant, as you placed your hand in his.

or when you offered him your favor at a tournament, and how madly you blushed when he told you his victory was yours entirely.

you had written back and forth throughout the years, but he knew he could never presume himself worthy of your hand. when he wed his first wife, your correspondence stopped entirely.

some time later, you heard she and their firstborn died in the childbed. you prayed very hard to the mother that night, that she might grant all three souls peace.

after a few years had passed, he received word that your sister made off to dragonstone and his uncle was to return as hand of the king.

he began thinking of you again. often.

you had remained unwed and in the capital, the purported whim of dying, foolish king.

viserys failed to see the reality that laid before you, but it was nauseatingly clear to ormund— one in which his family took advantage of your position, or threw you in the black cells, or worse.

so he conspired with his father and uncle.

"were she to be a lady of oldtown, it would bring further greatness to our house, solidifying our blood with dragons and royalty."

truthfully, that was of no concern to him. not in any meaningful way.

"⁠in the name of the mother, i charge you to defend the young and innocent. in the name of the maid, i charge you to protect all women"

those vows are what mattered, and you were the one he desired to prove it to most.

at first, you were unspeakably pleased. he was the charming knight you remembered so fondly, and oldtown was a beautiful city.

but as viserys' health continued to decline, whispers traveled the halls of the tower, stares of disdain weighed heavily upon your heart, and your safety felt less and less assured.

you came to realize you may have been naive.

ormund is in the middle of a meeting with oldtown's most important officials when your handmaiden enters. "begging your pardon, my lord."

she whispers in his ear, taking care not to let anyone else hear. his eyes stay trained on the table before flitting up to the door.

"very well."

he clears his throat before addressing the others in the room with a wave of his hand. "that will be all for today."

he doesn't wait for them to leave before he makes his way to you, long strides carrying him in the direction of your shared chambers.

he finds you out on the balcony, sitting on the stone wall with your legs dangling freely over the far side. your hair is at the mercy of a strong sea breeze, a sure sign that a storm approaches.

he steels himself against the anxiety that arises in his chest. just one wrong move...

"wife."

"husband."

"far be it from me to ruin your amusement, but i must beseech you come down from there."

you sigh. "my last handmaiden understood discretion much more aptly."

"she was simply concerned for your well being."

you let out a laugh, entirely humorless. "a rare concept these days."

"oh? and what of me? have i not proven my care for you?"

of course you have.

but what if it's easier to pretend otherwise? to paint this impending war in black and white (or more appropriately, black and green). after all, his betrayal is inevitable. right?

"deceit is unbecoming of you, husband. you care not for me, but the leverage your hostage grants."

"you and i both know that to be un—"

"besides, i am a dragon. can dragons not fly? such heights are scarcely of consequence." you lean forward and peer down at the earth below.

"scarcely of consequence?" he repeats, dumbfounded.

taking a hurried step in your direction, he stops short, lest he startle you right over the edge.

"please come back here, princess. you will be the death of me, i swear."

"perhaps i should like to see that— my one and only contribution to the war your family insists on waging against my own."

"you do not mean that," he contends definitively.

"no." you look back and meet his eye for the first time. "i suppose i do not."

"join me for a drink, then. won't you?"

he finally approaches you, intent on ensuring your return to safety.

"if you insist."

as you swing your legs over the ledge, his hands find your waist, firm and careful. you bat them away despite yourself. "i am quite capable on my own."

when your feet meet the ground, he follows behind you and pulls out your chair. moving to sit across from you, he tops off your half empty wine glass before pouring one of his own.

his gaze holds yours as he takes his first sip. "now, what has gotten into you?"

you scoff before averting your eyes. "there is little more to do in this prison, than take to drink and stare at the sea."

he raises a brow. "you needn't remain in our chambers. i seem to recall you used to walk the gardens most every day."

"you would have me bear the hateful gaze of those who dwell in this tower, so that i might quell my boredom? i'll spare myself the agitation."

"of what do you speak?" he asks, confused. "has someone treated you unkindly?"

"the suspicious disregard would be poison enough," you answer quietly. "but one hears whispers."

his expression darkens. "what whispers?"

you'd been under the assumption he was aware of the murmurs shared among servants and noblemen alike. cursing yourself, you attempt to downplay the situation. it would be most unfortunate, were he to deem your presence more trouble than it's worth.

"nothing more than cynical folly, i am sure."

he fixes you with a stern expression. "folly would not have you so perturbed. tell me what troubles you."

"i... i cannot speak it."

"please, wife. i must insist."

you study his face, a fine portrait of concern and something too complicated to name.

"t-they say that they feel sorry for you."

"go on."

"for it is only a matter of time... before you... before you must take my head."

the next few moments of ormund's existence are marked by a ringing in his ears and the constricting of his throat. to you, it's as if he's frozen in time.

perhaps that would be best— to stay here forever, alone with him, rather than face the coming war.

then his expression shifts, and all that lies before you is pain.

in the blink of an eye, he appears at your feet, his knees meeting cruelly with stone. "why have you kept this from me?"

"i... i thought you knew. i thought you—"

his pain turns to agony. "no. i... never. i would sooner fall on mine own sword. you must believe that."

panic blooms in his chest when he realizes that you doubt him. "who spoke such unfounded blasphemy?"

you shrug. "the words belong not to one person alone."

he growls in frustration. "if i hear a word of this, i care not from who, i will lay their head at your feet. i swear it."

"should that be, i fear you may find yourself without an army."

he rises to his feet, pulling you with him. calloused hands find your face, holding it gently like one does something priceless.

"you are my wife. mine. i will lay down my life before i let you be taken from me. tell me you know this to be true."

when you don't answer him, your name passes his lips in a quiet plea.

"what of duty to your house? what of honor?" you question.

"protecting you is the most honorable endeavor i should ever hope to undertake." his voice is full of a fierce earnestness that makes you tremble.

he searches your face, and he detests the tears that have sprung in your eyes. detests that he is the cause.

your tone is laced with uncertainty. "ormund..."

"kiss me," he murmurs. "kiss me and then tell me you doubt me still."

you give into him, leaning into his broad frame and allowing yourself to feel the comfort of his warmth.

his lips meet yours in a sorrowful sort of way— wretched and precious all at once.

large hands move to your hips, gripping your flesh and pulling you closer as if he fears it may be the last time he ever has the chance.

a small groan escapes him when he finally feels your body relax in his grasp.

"i love you," he promises against your lips.

"and i you," you return.

he pulls away only an inch or two, and there's an air of resolution about him.

"then put your faith in me, sweet girl. i will take care you, now and always."

you offer him a small nod, and he wastes no time in pulling you against his chest with crushing strength.

burying his face in your hair, he breathes deeply, inhaling your scent. it's faint, floral, and more effective at easing his nerves than any tonic the maesters could brew.

"now then, shall we take a stroll in the gardens together? the flowers have been lackluster of late— lost, no doubt, without your exemplary beauty."

[sunkissedjedi]

i am TRULY at a loss for words over this fic; MY GOODNESS !!! 🥺😭💜💜💜 (i shaded purple the text that - just hit me so in the feels!)

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡

if I were an artist - the way I would draw this part !!! it's like a painting through words!! 💜💜💜

then his expression shifts, and all that lies before you is pain.

in the blink of an eye, he appears at your feet, his knees meeting cruelly with stone. "why have you kept this from me?"

"i... i thought you knew. i thought you—"

his pain turns to agony. "no. i... never. i would sooner fall on mine own sword. you must believe that."

no words. like how? MY SOUL 💜🤍🤍🤍

he rises to his feet, pulling you with him. calloused hands find your face, holding it gently like one does something priceless.

"you are my wife. mine. i will lay down my life before i let you be taken from me. tell me you know this to be true."

"protecting you is the most honorable endeavor i should ever hope to undertake." his voice is full of a fierce earnestness that makes you tremble.

and this part?? I am an emotional MESS 🥺

"kiss me," he murmurs. "kiss me and then tell me you doubt me still."

you give into him, leaning into his broad frame and allowing yourself to feel the comfort of his warmth.

large hands move to your hips, gripping your flesh and pulling you closer as if he fears it may be the last time he ever has the chance.

and are you kidding me?!! MY HEART 😭🤍🤍🤍

"i love you," he promises against your lips. and i you," you return.

he pulls away only an inch or two, and there's an air of resolution about him.

"then put your faith in me, sweet girl. i will take care you, now and always."

you offer him a small nod, and he wastes no time in pulling you against his chest with crushing strength.

burying his face in your hair, he breathes deeply, inhaling your scent. it's faint, floral, and more effective at easing his nerves than any tonic the maesters could brew.

[samthegreenapologist]

A/N:im so sorry to the anon who sent this in but again I started it in a draft that wasn’t a respond to your ask. My bad! Drabble Masterlist

Lenient

Ormund Hightower X F!Wife!Reader

Prompts: jealousy, bath sex

WC: 1.1k

“leave us.”

“m’lord you requested a bath be made up” the woman was carrying in a bucket of the soaps and oils that were used when you got cleaned.

“leave.” He reiterated to the maid, his eyes not leave you for a moment.

“Ormund,” you sighed as soon as the door to your shared chambers was closed. The feast had been uncomfortable for basically the entirety of it. Ormund shifting in his seat, eyes glaring your direction. He made conversation with anybody but you but the moment you attempted to stand to go join some of the dancing he had laid his palm across your lap. The messaging was clear. He wanted you to remain sat beside him. “I bathed this morning, my skin will grow dry.”

Lord Ormund Hightower, the man you’ve been wed to for close to four namedays now paid little mind to your concerns about skin irritation. Much larger concernes plagued his mind.

“I see now that I’ve been far too lenient.” He stood before the bath and tipped in a few vials of oil.

“lenient?” You almost laughed at that word choice. It felt like a scolding. That word hadn’t been directed at you since you were ten and two and your septa had been disappointed in some mostly innocent quest you’d gone on.

“I must be a better husband to you.” He continued and that made you frown, he was a fine husband. A entertaining and thoughtful one infact. Your hand touched his back and your brows furrowed.

“you’ve not done anything incorrectly husband-“ you began to assure him but he turned swiftly and his eyes sealed to your shoulder, collar and chest.

“I was not clear enough with you, nor firm enough.” You swallowed and your hands rose up to hold to your shoulders crossing over your chest as well, blocking where he was looking. Unease trickling down your spine.

“galavanting though my halls in something fit for a courtesan? I’ve let your humiliate yourself infront of the entire court!” His voice raised and you startled a bit.

“it’s a gown Ormund! It’s not anything proactive-“

“you do not see how they look upon you. What filthy thoughts they have about lady Hightower while you sit beside me, while you assure people they will be in your prayers on the morrow!?” You attempt to pull back from this entire confrontation but Ormund grabs your hip pulling you easily until your legs are flush to the large soaking tub. “Do you know what they think?” He growls into your ear from behind.

“I liked the color…the lace.” You reason.

“they imagine you knelt in that sacred space, bare in nothing but your veil while their name rolls off your lips.” It felt like a very specific depravity to be imagined.

“That is what you think of husband-even my collarbone startles you so?” You challenge looking over your shoulder at him. He clearly had been effected by the gown, by you specifically within in. Perhaps the dress was a bit less modest than normal but you did not think it was so shocking that lords were gawking at you?!

“I have already admitted my fault.” His hands were undoing your gowns laces, watching as it slipped down inch by inch until you had nothing but smallclothes on.

“which is?” You shive because his hand had wrapped around your waist and is currently drawing up towards your neck from your midsection.

“not controlling your beastly tendencies, letting you run about my city putting things on your body for you desire and allowing it because of mine.” His voice was deep and you felt warm in your stomach. Back leaning against him slightly. “I will cleanse you…so we might severe the gods and realm as intended.” His hands steadied over your shoulder once you were bare. He was notably still completely dressed. You assumed because whatever he was going to do if he became undressed at the same time as you would not serve the realm.

“I’m not a whore.” You sigh, slightly offended still by these dramatics. His seamstresses made the gown, it wasn’t as if you went to the markets and found some unwarranted style.

“And it is my duty to see to it that you never become one, never are perceived as one.” He nodded down to the water and waited for you to step into the tub and sink down before he went about rolling up both his sleeves. “Now,” he knelt beside the warm water and his hand touched your cheek first. “Allow me to look after you as a husband should…” he ticked on and he took up the soap and a cloth scrubbing them together and then moving it across your shoulders.

“they are too enticing to be seen by all.”

Your eyes lifted to look at his focused ones. “The gods warn against selfishness to Ormund.” You remind him knowing the next thing that was going to fall out of his mouth was going to be that only he shall see them moving forward.

You eased back until your back was against the edge of the tub and your legs were stretched out in the water, a hand holding the side so you wouldn’t drift about as Ormund made all your exposed skin sudsy.

“did you like my gown?” You ask softly when his hand dragged the cloth down the valley between your breasts. Which were bobbing in the water a bit, the occasional exposure to the cold air making your nipples bud.

“I’ve made my passion clear, have I not?”

“Yes, on others seeing me in it. But did your eyes enjoy it?” Your fingers let go of the tubs lip and your damp fingers wrap around his upper arm.

Ormund Hand lost focused and somewhere near your hips he dropped the drag. His eyes closed and brow struggled to remain stern. He had truly meant to be strict about this matter.

“you minx.” He huffed while leaned over some to meet his lips with yours. You kissed him back, small little pecks and giggled when his tongue probed for more. He was bold for alluding to your wanton-ness when he was now persuading you physically.

“Mm-I thought I needed c-cleansing?!” You gasped because his large hand settled over your mound and his fingers expertly found your clit between kisses.

“hush wife,” he growled into your neck sucking a mark roughly into the flesh there. One you’d need to cover, it was in a spot that would ensure your necklines were more than modest! “This is what you wanted?” His thumb took up position over your clit and two of his long fingers pushed down into your core. The water sloshed some, wetting his sleeve and you arched your hips up nodding.

“yes, gods yes.” You agree voice already fluttery. He knew just how to please you. “Ugh-“ your knees drew up and an arm shifted to hand around his head. He wasn’t kissing your neck any longer, he was simply just savoring feeling your pulse against his lips and inhaling the warm scent of you.

“I feel that…” he grinned and his fingers curled more. “Let go for me,” he urged and you nodded nails digging into the back of his neck. “Go on wife, get your fix so we might behave like civilized people for the rest of the night.”

You came with a gasp and when he saw you were about a give out a shout he pressed his mouth over yours.

“Will you wear that gown again?” He asked as you started to settle, limp and floaty in the tub.

Your head shook softly. “No…not if you keep making me feel like that.” You smiled softly blinking up at him.

“you are truly a test sent by the gods.” He sighed, shaking his head but the warm charmed smirk told you how much he loved this, how much he loved you.

[darktargslut]

MASTERLIST

AN: My fics are meant to be x-readers, friendly to all skin colors. So, if I accidentally describe something that can only be applied to one race, DM me or inbox me so I can edit and fix it.

When I write that the reader blushes, it's not because the characters can see her blush; it's because she is biologically, physically blushing. All skin colors can "blush"; it's just more/less noticeable in some skin colors.

DARK FICS ONLY

Fandoms:

AKOTSK: Valarr, Aerion, Daeron, Baelor

HOTD: Gwayne, Ormund, Jacaerys, Cregan, Rhaenyra

If requested on Kofi i'll write for other characters too

GOT: Robb

A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS

Check out the tag "Dark *insert character*" for drabbles

Valarr Targaryen

The Blackfyre whore part one

The Blackfyre whore part two

The Blackfyre whore part three Feat. Baelor

The Blackfyre Whore part four

Choices, Consequences (ft. Aerion)

Memories

Popstar (tba)

The prince and the childhood friend (tba)

Aerion Targaryen

The prince's whore

Baelor Targaryen

Prima nocta

The Prince and The Septa (tba)

The prince and the childhood friend (tba)

Daeron Targaryen

Love at first dream

Love at first dream: Ashford part 2

Love at first dream: The Life (tba)

Ser Duncan The Tall

The Princess And The Knight (tba)

Ormund Hightower

Princess!Reader: The hair The marriage debt Whore sex positions kinks forgiveness you get me so high sin Faults The Ick As My Lady Commands The Letter Switchin for you (team black ending)

Bobby franklin

Are You Real

------

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[rhaenyras-crown]

HOLY PURPOSE ormund hightower x targaryen!reader

summary. rumors of the bond between you and your twin-brother daeron begin to swirl amongst oldtown, your uncle, ormund, does not appreciate it one bit and decides to confront you about it

word count. 7.1k

warnings. mdni, dead dove do not eat, targtower reader, dub-con, ormund is a hypocrite, oral (f receiving), set pre-dance, english is not my first language!

a/n. family tree by ethel cain. go listen to it!

highly inspired by this post.

The bone comb slides through your hair, smooth as silk.

In the polished silver of the looking glass, the long strands caught the morning light filtering through the high arched windows, gleaming a pale, shimmering silver-white. Around you, your handmaidens fluttered like a flock of nervous sparrows, whispering their soft awes and marveling at the plain view of your Valyrian ancestry.

You had been in Oldtown for almost as long as you could remember yourself.

The Red Keep of King’s Landing was nothing but a collection of half-faded memories. The faces of your lady mother, Queen Alicent, and your other siblings—Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond—were remembered only in fleeting glimpses, through a sort of thick and hazy mist. You knew they all much resembled yourself in looks, with the same pale eyes and silver-gold locks.

But they were distant princes and princesses of a court you barely knew.

The only other person who resembled you so closely, but one whom you knew all too well and held dear to your heart, was your twin brother, Daeron.

The maesters at the Citadel loved to recount the tale of your quickening to the young acolytes. It was said that when he came wailing into the world from Alicent’s blood-slicked womb, the Grand Maester had no idea there was another.

The old man had wiped his brow, thinking the labor done, and only when he saw the Queen’s birthing was still taking place, her screams echoing through the chamber anew, did he realize a second babe lay within.

Alas, you were no less welcome, appreciated, or celebrated than your brother.

So when the time came for Daeron to be sent south to the Honeywine to serve as a squire for your mother’s family, the Hightowers, it had been decided that it would be best if you went along too.

That is how, for most of your life, even as a princess of the Crown, you have called Oldtown your home, raised amidst the scent of salt, tar, and the tolling of the bells from the Starry Sept.

“It is so beautiful, my princess,” Miriam spoke softly, her voice hushed with the reverence usually reserved for the Mother’s altar. She gently carded the bejeweled golden comb through the long strands of your hair. “Like pale moonlight on the water, or the morning mists on the morrow…”

Through the silvered mirror, you could see her eyes wide in awe, and you could feel the extreme caution of her touch. Her fingers did their work ever so gently—not daring to snag a single knot or cause the slightest pain to the princess.

“Thank you, Miriam,” you replied with a gentle, practiced smile. You were much used to being showered in compliments by the household, and equally used to replying to them with the appropriate courtly courtesy.

“Which dress, princess?” another of your maids, Cathy, chirped up. The other girls helped her hold up two different garments, their faces eager for your choice.

Your eyes followed the trail of the first; a gorgeous, sweeping gown made of quality red silk from the Free Cities, flowing like fresh-spilled blood and intricately embroidered with black thread along the bodice.

The other was a gown of Hightower green, fashioned from the softest Myrish wool, its collar carefully decorated with seven-pointed stars stitched in silver thread.

It was a silent, but obviously heavy choice—the colors of your father’s house against the colors of your mother’s kin.

Before you could make your choice or offer a reply, two rapid, thudding knocks sounded on the door. Before any of your maids could bid entrance, the heavy oak thing was creaking violently on its iron hinges, banging hard against the dressed stone wall as it all but flew open.

The girls around you instinctively flocked closer to one another, forming a kind of protective half-circle with their bodies, their eyes cast down toward the rushes on the floor. One of the household servants entered first, his eyes fixed stiffly ahead of him, not daring to spare any of the women the slightest glance.

“The Lord Hightower, my princess,” he announced, his voice tight with formality.

Before you could catch your footing, find a robe, or even question what was happening, your uncle was already stepping foot inside your private chambers.

You were wearing nothing but your thin linen shift, and the maids seemed to notice your state of undress as they nervously began jittering their fingers, shifting from foot to foot.

Ormund stepped into your room as he stepped into any other room in the city—like he owned the very stones beneath his boots (because in truth he did).

He was wearing a simple but finely cut doublet of dark green velvet, the color he preferred frequenting the most, slashed with silver satin. His sharp grey gaze swept across the flock of trembling girls once before settling entirely on you.

“Uncle—” you began, straightening your back and lifting your chin, attempting to summon the dignity of a Crown princess while clad only in your night-smock. Miriam took a hasty step backward from your side.

“Leave us.” he commanded the maids, his voice a low, resonant baritone that left absolutely no room for disobedience.

You could see almost all of them squirming under the cold scrutiny of his gaze. His tall, broad-shouldered frame and strong, unyielding jawline inspired absolute reverence and fear in many a young maiden in Oldtown. Alas, you were not just one of many; you were blood of the dragon.

Your jaw tightened quietly. “Your princess commands you to stay.” you firmly countered, your voice ringing clear against the stone walls.

The girls seemed paralyzed. Entirely confused, frozen in place, caught in a web of divided loyalties. They looked between their princess and their Lord, not entirely certain whose orders they should be following.

You thought Ormund’s eyes would flash with fury at the defiance, but instead, what you found on his face was a dark amusement. A sly, mocking grin threatened to spread across his features at your antics.

“Your Lord commands you to leave us at once.” he repeated. His voice carried a tone of absolute authority, carrying no hint of the amusement that danced in his eyes.

At the sheer severity of his command, the girls finally broke. They scampered out of the door one by one like frightened mice, nodding their heads in hurried acknowledgment and leaving you alone with your uncle.

A sharp sense of quiet betrayal began to unfurl within your chest.

These are my girls, you thought bitterly. They should be loyal to me. They should be listening to my commands, not his.

The only comfort, the only thing you would look upon later with a touch of gratitude, was Miriam.

Just before stepping foot through the heavy oak door, the girl looked back, her ashamed eyes searching yours for an answer, a silent plea for forgiveness. You nodded ever so slightly, letting her know she was dismissed, and the girl quickly took her leave. At least someone in this castle still recognized your royal authority.

The door creaked shut behind them as a household guard pulled it closed from the hallway, and the servant stepped outside, leaving a heavy silence in the room.

You turned your back on your uncle, returning to your vanity.

It was a magnificent piece imported from Lannisport, a gorgeous bone-white wood crafted with intricate star designs and inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

It had been a gift for your fifth nameday, and you had been in love with it ever since, even if for the first five years it had been far too grand for a child to use.

Your fingers picked up the bone brush Miriam had dropped and continued the work; alas, your movements were far less gentle and much more forceful than the maid's. You yanked the bristles through your silver-white hair, your eyes fiercely refusing to meet Ormund’s in the reflection.

Once again, you could hear him shuffle his boots against the rushes, and a soft air of laughter escaped him at your stubborn antics.

“Is this how you greet the Lord of Oldtown?” he began, stepping closer to where you sat in front of your vanity, his shadow falling over your shoulder. You still refused to meet his gaze or give him the satisfaction of an answer.

“Have I not raised you with better manners, niece? A princess of the crown should know how to behave appropriately in front of Great Lords. Hm, tell me, what would your lady mother say to this?”

“I would not know, my Lord,” you countered through gritted teeth, venom dripping from every syllable. “I have not exactly been privy to my lady mother’s thoughts or her presence. After all, I was raised here in Oldtown.”

His thick eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. “Yet still… she is the Queen… and you her daughter, a princess of the royal blood.”

“A toothless princess, or so it would seem,” you muttered bitterly. “When not even my own handmaidens seem to follow my commands.”

Ormund let out a low chuckle, a sound that rumbled deep within his chest. He stepped directly behind you, placing a firm, calloused hand upon your bare shoulder, his fingers slowly caressing the pale skin.

A sudden prickle of goosebumps rose along your flesh at the unbidden contact. He leaned down, tilting his head until his lips pressed against the delicate, pale shell of your ear. His warm breath fanned over your skin, sending a cold shiver down your spine.

You watched it all through the silvered glass of the vanity—his sharp, predatory gaze watching you like a deer through the reflection.

“Ormund.” you began, your knuckles turning white as you clutched the bone hairbrush tighter.

“Uncle.” he corrected softly, his voice a low, commanding murmur against your skin.

He shifted his lips down to the crook of your neck, pressing a firm, lingering kiss into the hollow there.

“What are you—” You tensed, attempting to wrench yourself around to break free from his suffocating proximity, but his hands on your shoulders kept you firmly locked in place.

“Is it true that Tessarion has mated with Starfyre?” he questioned suddenly, as if to catch you off guard, an accusatory glint entering his grey eyes as he spoke of your magnificent beast.

Starfyre had been your very own hatchling, born from a precious clutch laid by Dreamfyre herself. He was a breathtaking vision, clad in shimmering silver-white scales that caught the light like polished armor, with wings that glittered like crushed diamonds when he took to the sky.

Though he was already considerably larger than Tessarion, Starfyre carried himself with a fierce, regal majesty— his long, serpentine neck beautifully akin to Prince Daemon’s dread mount, the Blood Wyrm, Caraxes.

“What—” Your brows furrowed in sheer bewilderment. “What? Yes, it is true… they are dragons, Uncle. They nested together in the outer pits—what did you expect them to do?”

He shushed you quietly, raising a sharp finger to cut off any word or attempt to speak. Not that you had any defense to offer… nor any way to justify the ways of your beast. Dragons were creatures born of fire and blood, and you possessed no true, godlike power over them, despite the grand illusions of Targaryen superiority that the smallfolk and highborn alike reverently believed in.

“The most concerning of… rumors have reached my ears, sweet niece… and this unfortunate discovery has only sharpened them.” He announced, straightening his spine, before reaching down and taking a single lock of your snow-white hair between his thick, calloused fingers and slowly coiling it around his digit like a pale ribbon.

“Rumors…” You parroted, attempting to turn your head to face him. But his heavy hand tightened upon your shoulders, staying your movement. His fingers dug painfully into the soft flesh beneath your thin linen shift, but you bit down the wince threatening to escape you. You swallowed hard instead, forcing your voice to remain level. “Words are wind, uncle.”

“Words are wind. Indeed.” he hummed in acknowledgement, his eyes remaining locked onto the strand of pale hair wrapped around his finger. “Alas— even the foulest wind carries a scent. And the most rumors have at least a crumb of truth buried within them. Or would you care to differ?”

“I—I do not know what you mean.” You stammered. A cold sweat began to break across your brow then, even as goosebumps rose along your arms.

It was a queer, conflicting sensation—the dragon blood in your veins made your core feel flush and hot with ancestral fire, yet Ormund's unexpected intrusion left you shivering with an icy dread.

“Oh, stop playing the fool!” He snapped at last and the suddenness of it made you physically recoil from his touch. His voice boomed against the high, vaulted stone ceiling of the chamber like a heavy war drum. It was a sound thick with agitation, sharp and aggressive.

“Ormund—” You pushed yourself to your feet, standing up to face him. Your voice shook—far shakier than a princess of the blood royal should ever sound—and you hated yourself for the weakness of it.

You needed to be strong. You needed the iron will of your house. Your lady mother, Queen Alicent, would never waver or tremble before a man's anger, you thought.

“You will stay silent and listen to me.” Ormund jabbed a thick thumb toward his own chest, his gesture sharp, almost manic. The raw authority in his command left you with little choice but to obey.

Your knees felt weak, and you sank back down with a dull thud onto your wooden stool.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, drawing in a long, slow breath as if mentally gathering his patience before exhaling it into the quiet room. When he spoke again, his voice came out far steadier, though the quiet malice in it sent a renewed chill down your spine.

“Oldtown is the seat of the Faith, niece, as all the folk in the Seven Kingdom know. It is no place for unholy and sinful people.” He began, his tone unyielding. “The mere fact that you carry the blood of the dragon does not exempt you from the laws of gods and men, nor does it shield you from the judgment of the Seven. Not you nor your brother.”

What in the names of the gods was he talking about? Your mind raced. Desperately searching for meaning, but you could simply not fathom his intent. Still… you had learned your lesson well enough this morning; you knew better than to speak back and stoke his fury.

“You think the eyes of the Hightower do not see?” He finally spat, a look of pure disgust twisting his features. “You think I and everyone else in this castle do not see how you and Daeron look at each other? How you touch one another?”

At those words, you felt your heart drop like a stone into a well.

Daeron was your twin. He was your other half, the right part of your own soul. He understood you as no lord, lady, or maester ever could. You had shared a womb; you had been cradled together in the same nursery. It was only natural that you felt entirely comfortable in his presence. That you laughed at his jests and relished the warmth of his embrace. He was your brother, by the grace of the Seven.

“He is my brother.” You stated, standing your ground. You were proud of the sudden firmness and steadiness that returned to your voice.

Finally, the blood of the dragon was answering, and you were gaining back your footing.

“Your brother, yes…” Ormund spoke the words with a soft, mocking sneer. “And the lot of you—my royal cousin’s kin—have notoriously queer customs indeed. The abominations of Old Valyria may fly about free in King’s Landing, but Oldtown and the Faith do not tolerate such queerness.”

A bitter, breathless laugh escaped your lips before you could stop yourself. “You are out of your mind, uncle.” Through the silver looking glass, you watched as another dark storm of fury began to coil behind his eyes at the audacity.

“Out of my mind, she says.” Ormund sneered, a strange, ugly twist curling his lips. Before you could gather your senses or summon your dragon-pride, his hand shot forward. His fingers clamped around your forearm like an iron manacle, gripping the flesh so fiercely that a sharp gasp of pain caught in your throat. By sheer, unyielding strength, he dragged you to your feet, jerking you forward until you stood scarce an inch from his chest.

“Yet it is you, and your whore of a half-sister with her bastards, and your rogue of an uncle who bring abomination into the realm.” He hissed, his breath hot against your face. “And my own cousin is no better… wedding her two children to one another like beasts in a paddock.”

Any other man would have lost his head for such words. It was high treason, spoken aloud in the light of day, but here in the Hightower, Ormund was king in all but name. What defense did you have? Who would believe the word of a lonely princess over the Lord of Oldtown?

“She brings nothing but shame to the Seven and the name of House Hightower.” He spat.

You writhed against his grasp, trying to twist your arm free, but his hold only tightened, his fingers bruising the pale skin. “You are hurting me!” You cried out, squirming in his grip.

Ormund merely cocked his head to the side, rolling his eyes with a cold, mocking amusement, as if your protests were nothing more than the theatrics of a spoiled child.

“Come,” he said, pulling at you. But you dug your heels into the rushes, your body locking in place. He let out a dark, raspy snort. “Move your feet, niece, or by the Smith, you will make me drag you across the stone.”

You opened your mouth to scream, to protest, but he was already hauling you toward the far end of the chamber. Your bare feet stumbled clumsily over the floorboards, tangling together as his iron grip remained locked upon your forearm. He pushed you roughly into the secluded alcove of the solar, where the handmaidens had prepared your morning bath.

It was meant to be your sanctuary before the day's dressing, a quiet ritual interrupted by his brute intrusion.

The great tub was fashioned from fine, polished oak. Wide and deep, its rim decorated with simple, carved waves. When first poured, the water had been scalding hot—a heat that would leave any ordinary mortal blistered and weeping, but to the ancient blood of Old Valyria, it was a comfort.

Now, however, the thick blankets of steam had faded into the high ceiling. You swallowed hard, your throat dry, as he shoved you toward the lip of the tub, finally releasing his bruising hold on your arm.

“Undress.” He commanded.

Your head whipped around with sudden, fierce indignation. “What?” The word stumbled from your lips, breathless and broken.

Ormund sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, deeply displeased at having to repeat himself. “I said,” he began, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low register, “undress.”

He nodded toward the water, his grey eyes fixed on you as you stood frozen, refusing to comply. “You reek of dragon.” He spat. “I assume you went riding at first light?”

“Last evening.” You clarified, your teeth chattering slightly despite the heat of the room.

He hummed, a low, rumbling sound. “And you did not think to bathe afterward?”

“I did.” you said defensively.

“And yet you still smell of those… wretched beasts.” He spat the word beasts with a charring venom, as if the very thought of the dragons fouled his tongue. “Why must you be so difficult at every turn?”

With a heavy sigh, he whirled you around. Before you could leap away, his thick fingers caught the collar of your linen shift. With one brutal downward jerk, he pulled the sheer material down your arms. You reached towards the garment, desperately trying to catch the fabric, but his hands were too strong, his movements too practiced and unyielding.

You felt the linen slip from your body, pooling around your thighs and ankles in a breathless rush. The cool morning air hit the bare skin of your belly like a sudden winter storm. Instantly, you crossed your arms over your chest, curling inward in a desperate attempt to shield your nakedness from his searching eyes.

“No… no…” he whispered, his voice suddenly thick. He reached down, catching your wrists and pulling your arms away from your body by force. “You will not deny me this, sweet niece.”

You turned your head away in profound shame, your cheeks burning. Under the chill of the solar, the rosy points of your breasts hardened, and a fresh wave of goosebumps broke across your skin.

Ormund stepped closer, entering your space until the heavy green velvet of his doublet brushed against your bare flesh.

He brought a rough hand up to your face, his fingers cupping your chin with a firm, unescapable grip, forcing your head back up. You hated the treacherous instinct of your own body—how you naturally leaned into the warmth of his hand for a fleeting second—but you hated what came next even more. Through the coarse cloth of his breeches, you felt the rigid, swelling hardness of his manhood pressing aggressively into the soft flesh of your thigh.

“You must understand,” he whispered, his breath smelling faintly of sweet wine and incense as he leaned over you. “I do not blame you for what you cannot control. You cannot help it, poor child. This savageness… it is bred into your very bones. It is in the blood of the dragon. You are stained by it. Dirty. It is a disease.”

A hot liquid welled in your eye, spilling over your lashes. You felt stripped of all your royal dignity—embarrassed, ashamed, and consumed by a helpless, raging fury. Your teeth clenched so tightly your jaw ticked.

“But do not fret, sweet niece,” he murmured. He leaned down, pressing his lips to the wet track on your cheek, tasting the salt of your tear. “I will cure you of it. I will be your guiding light, and free you from this monstrous burden.” A slow, unsettling smile spread across his face.

“Now. Get into the water.” His voice was quiet now, almost gentle, yet it carried the absolute weight of a battlefield command. Once a general, always a general.

With no stones left to throw and no shields to raise, you had no choice but to comply.

Lifting one trembling leg and then the other over the rim of the wooden tub, you descended into the water. Most of the vapor had long since vanished, and the water had cooled to a dull, bearable warmth. As the ripples closed around your chest, you were only glad for the dark water, fore it did something to shield your naked form from his hungry, predatory gaze.

Ormund hummed in low contentment. For a single, fleeting moment, as he turned his back to you, your heart unclenched. A desperate, foolish hope flickered in your chest that he might finally leave you to your privacy.

He did not.

Instead, he marched with heavy, deliberate steps over to the cedar cabinet where your handmaidens stored the various scented waters, crushed herbs, and rare oils meant for the bath.

He pulled the drawer open with a forceful, impatient tug that made the wood groan. Instinctively, you drew your knees up to your chest, curling into a tight ball within the water, trying to minimize what he could see.

From the safety of the tub, you could only see his broad back and the dark chestnut curls of his hair as he bent his head over the drawer, examining the glass phials nestled inside.

“Which one shall it be…” you heard him murmur under his breath.

He lifted a slender glass tube to his nose, pulling the stopper to sniff the contents. A low hum of approval escaped him. “They received the new Lyseni order I made for you. Good.”

You sank deeper into the water, until it lapped just beneath your chin, wishing the oak tub would swallow you whole.

He rummaged through the collection for a few moments more. In the quiet clinking of glass, you almost found a strange, twisted peace inside the intimacy of the act. Then, his fingers closed around his prize.

“Aha.”

When he turned back around, he held a glass phial filled with a thick, pinkish-orange liquid that gleamed like a captured sunset in his large hand. He slammed the wooden drawer shut with his free hand, the sound echoing sharply against the stone walls.

“This will do perfectly.” he murmured.

As he walked back to the edge of the tub, you could see the dark dilation of his pupils, the tight clenching of his free fist at his side. You knew that look. This was not the first time he had looked at you so, nor was it the first time he had forced his way into your sacred spaces. Far from it.

You and Ormund had done things in the shadows of the Hightower that the Seven would make you repent for every single day for the rest of your lives. The septons would call it an abomination, a wicked stain upon your soul. Yet, staring up at him, a treacherous warmth began to bloom in your belly. You hated how much you wanted him in these quiet hours. You lusted for his touch, desired his strength, and craved the very danger he represented.

The worst part of it—the part you loathed most of all—was how quickly the guilt began to evaporate once the lust settled into your blood. The betraying slickness between your thighs had been there from the very moment his iron grip had clamped onto your forearm.

Let him think you are afraid, the dragon blood whispered inside you. You were far too proud, far too much a princess of the realm, to ever admit how much his rough handling truly pleased you.

“A special Lyseni bathing oil,” Ormund explained, kneeling down upon the heavy stone floor beside the wooden tub. Even on his knees, his towering frame loomed over you, leaving him almost a head taller than your sunken form in the bath. “It is exceptionally strong, but it leaves behind a pleasant, gentle aroma. Rosemary and sharp lemon—concocted from a special batch originally meant for a wealthy Magister’s wife.”

You merely hummed in quiet acknowledgment of his words, your eyes tracking his movements. With a sharp pop, he loosened the cork stopper with his teeth, tilting the glass phial so the oily, sunset-colored liquid began to drip lazily into the water around you.

The scent hit the air instantly, thick and intoxicating. The sharp, bright aroma of lemons mixed with the earthy, pine-like fragrance of the rosemary herbs, completely overtaking your senses.

Ormund closed his eyes, inhaling the rising steam deeply. The harsh lines of his brow finally unfurled in pure pleasure. “There now.” he whispered, his eyes opening to pin you with a heavy gaze. “This will rid you of that dreadful dragon stench.”

Your muscles gradually uncoiled as the sweet, sharp vapors of the Lyseni oil worked their way into your senses, eliciting a soft, involuntary sound of contentment from your throat.

Through hooded eyes, you saw a surge of possessive satisfaction cross Ormund’s dark gaze. He rolled the heavy velvet sleeves of his doublet up past his thick, hair-darkened forearms, reaching for a dry linen washcloth before dipping it into the scented water.

He wrung the cloth once with his thick, powerful fingers. You watched the warm water cascade down his digits, back into the tub in heavy droplets, hating how effortlessly your mind trailed to darker, more treasonous thoughts about those very hands.

Beneath the opaque, oil-slicked surface of the bath, your thighs squeezed together. You breathed a silent prayer of thanks for the dark water that shielded your body's betrayal from his sight; you knew precisely how smug he would be if he caught even a glimpse of the effect he still held over you.

He brought the wet linen to your skin, tracing your collarbones with a strange, quiet reverence. He began to scrub away the nonexistent dirt and the invisible scent of the dragon, working with a meticulous precision.

He handled you as though you were his most prized treasure—like a man polishing a sacred family heirloom, or the dark, rippled edges of Vigilance— the Valyrian steel greatsword of House Hightower.

The only other time you had ever witnessed your uncle display such haunting gentleness was when he cleaned that very blade.

You remembered the story Daeron had told you, fresh from the courtyard. Ormund had just taken a rebel lord's head, the steel dripping with crimson, and your twin brother had been too young, too trembling, to know how to properly wipe the Valyrian steel clean. Despite Daeron's high position as his squire, Ormund had not cursed him. Instead, he had taken the oil and the rag, showing the boy personally.

“A squire does not serve because the knight is incapable,” Ormund had told your twin that day, his voice steady over the dead man's blood. “He assists so the knight may look to the horizon, where the heavier duties lie.”

Now, those same hands traced the pale skin of your arms, sliding over your shoulders and down your back. Gently, silently, his knuckles nudged your knees apart, smoothing the cloth over your chest.

In the heavy, lemon-scented silence of the alcove, your mind drifted to forbidden shores.

You found yourself imagining a world where the two of you were wed in the Starry Sept, a world where you would legally become the Lady of Oldtown. You imagined your belly swelling with his highborn seed, envisioning a dozen children—some with the dark chestnut curls of the Hightowers, others with the striking silver-white hair of the dragon—running and shrieking through the echoing corridors of the castle.

But even as the thought bloomed, a bitter taste rose in your mouth. You knew it was nothing more than a fool's dream. An ugly, poisonous fruit that presented itself as sweet, only to choke you the moment you bit into its flesh.

Your lady mother, Queen Alicent, would sooner see Oldtown reduced to ash before allowing such a scandalous match. And Ormund, for all his dark lusts, would never disgrace his house or his standing in the eyes of the realm by taking his royal niece to wife.

And besides, the Lord of the Hightower already had three trueborn children of his own to secure his lineage.

With a low hum of approval, finally pleased with his work, Ormund tossed the sodden rag onto the floor. It hit the dark stone with a heavy, wet squelch, the spilled water staining the grey masonry an even deeper, bruised shade of black.

He leaned closer, his shadow completely consuming you.

His bare hand, still damp from the water, caressed your collarbone before trailing down, down, down…

His fingertips tracing the curve of your breast and the slope of your waist, until finally they settled over your sweet mound. Your breath hitched as he gripped your cunt. You hated how instinctively your hips arched into his palm, the bathwater sloshing softly against the wooden tub.

He began to trace his fingers along the sensitive folds of your cunt. He was teasing you—deliberately rolling the tender flesh between his fingertips, his thumb pinching and applying a slow, agonizing pressure to the bud of it.

“Do you let him touch you like this?” he whispered, his voice dropping into a dark, demanding register that made your heart hammer against your ribs. “Do you let him look at you, hm? Do you give him this right?”

You shook your head blindly, your silver hair dragging wetly across your shoulders.

“Words, niece,” he commanded softly, his grip tightening just enough to demand total submission. “I require words.”

“No.” you managed to choke out, the syllable catching in your throat.

“I need to hear it plain.” Ormund murmured, his eyes flashing with a savage, predatory glint as he watched the burning crimson rush to your cheeks. “Do you let Daeron into your bed? Into your cunt?”

The shame of it washed over you in a suffocating wave. To be pinned beneath his hold, naked and defenseless in the water, while he spoke the name of your twin brother—it felt entirely depraved, a twisted game born of the dark shadows in his mind.

Yet, beneath all the humiliation, that treacherous lust in your blood stirred, confusing your senses until the line between fury and desire blurred entirely.

“No—I do not let Daeron touch me,” you managed to whisper, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as the sheer intensity of his fingers working you apart overwhelmed you. “Only… only you.”

He laughed at that—a genuine, unrestrained bark of amusement leaving him, though the tension between you was anything but light. Pressing deeper, he joined two more fingers with the first, curling them inside your slick heat in a heavy, beckoning motion.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your thighs parting wider as your head thudded back against the rim of the wooden basin.

“Maybe you are not so unmanageable after all,” he hummed, his gaze tracking the rise and fall of your chest. “Spoiled, without a doubt. But not entirely beyond locking into place.”

Your chest tightened at his words, a strange, hollow warmth blooming inside you despite the insult. You bit your lip so hard the taste of copper threatened to burst forth, your knuckles turning white as your hand gripped the edge of the tub for dear life.

Ormund’s eyes flickered down to your straining fingers. With his free hand, he reached out, interlocking his thick, calloused digits with your own, anchoring you to him.

He brought your laced hands up to his lips, pressing a cold, lingering kiss onto the back of your hand, all while his gaze remained locked onto yours. He searched your violet eyes for any sign of true distress or displeasure. He found none.

For a time, the chamber held only the lewd squelching sounds of his fingers moving within you, slightly muffled by the water, the gentle sloshing of the bath, and occasionally your own heavy, breathless heavy sighs.

The damp white baby hairs clung to your forehead, slick with sweat and the rising mist of the bath, the bottom of your locks completely drenched.

Unable to bear the distance any longer, you leaned forward blindly, catching his lips with your own.

He groaned as your lips crashed with his own, his wine-laced breath mingling with your own. His free hand tangling into your silver locks tils your head, pulling you flush against the wood of the basin until you were facing him entirely within the cramped confines of the tub.

Your mouths clashed in a desperate rhythm as your tongue intruded past his mouth, beneath the water his fingers quickened. He moved faster, driving deeper as your inner walls constricted around his hand, your pleasure threatening to spill over the precipice.

Ormund always knew when you were reaching your peak. Your body grew restless, shifting against his touch and you became squirmy, your hand blindly clamping down on the wrist that wrought such havoc upon you.

“Yield to it, niece.” he whispered against your bruised lips, his voice a commanding growl that left no room for retreat. “Let me see it.”

With a breathless, unrestrained cry, you obeyed his command and let go, the world spinning away into a blinding haze of colors as he held you through the wave.

Only when the tremors finally subsided and he deemed the deed finished did he slowly withdraw his hand, leaving you to slump back weakly against the curved wood of the basin, completely undone.

Ormund rose to his feet, exhaling a heavy breath as his hands moved down to adjust the tight laces of his breeches. But before he could take a single step away from the water, three rapid, echoing knocks thudded against the heavy oak door.

He froze, a dark groan of frustration escaping him, as the blood in your veins instantly turned to ice.

If anyone were to find you in this scandalous compromise with the Lord of Oldtown, you would be absolutely doomed.

A princess of the Blood Royal caught in such a depraved state would bring ruin to the realm and shame to the High Tower. Yet, to your absolute horror, Ormund did not falter. He did not hide. Instead, he cleared his throat and called out to the door with a booming, careless command:

“Come in!”

“Ormund!” you hissed in a frantic, terrified whisper.

You scrambled to stand up in the oak tub, desperately looking around for a linen robe or a dry sheet to cover your nakedness, for there was no denying he was inside your private chambers.

But the bottom of the basin was slick with the Lyseni oils. Your foot slipped on the smooth wood, and you stumbled, your heart leaping into your throat as you barely caught yourself on the damp rim of the tub. The water sloshed dangerously against the sides.

Ormund marched with long, confident strides to the other end of the solar.

With a rough, heavy yank, he pulled the thick brocade privacy curtain shut, cutting off the alcove from the rest of the room. Thank the Gods, you thought, pressing your back against the wood. He was reckless, but he was not utterly insane.

You heard the heavy oak door creak open at that exact same moment, followed by the soft shuffle of boots upon the floor rushes. You caught your breath, freezing like a hunted doe, trying to keep the water completely still so it wouldn't make a single sound.

Your blood ran instantly cold when you heard the first word spoken from the solar.

“Uncle.” It was Daeron’s voice.

You all but shrank into the water, wishing you could disappear into the copper depths. Your naked form left you feeling utterly vulnerable, stripped of every ounce of your royal dignity.

“Nephew.” Ormund acknowledged curtly. You heard the heavy thud of his boots as he shifted closer to the doorway to block the boy's path.

Daeron cleared his throat. You could not see him through the heavy curtain, but you could picture him perfectly: clad in the deep green fabrics of your mother's house, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen worked in silver thread upon his leather belt. His pale brows would be creaked in confusion, his young face puzzled as to why the Lord of Oldtown was standing in his sister’s private solar. Alone. The reality of it stung like a whip.

“I wish not to… intrude, my Lord,” Daeron said, his voice carrying the polite, practiced cadence of a well-bred squire. “But the Septon has been awaiting your presence at the Starry Sept for almost the entire morning.”

He had easily slipped into the dutiful role expected of him, and you hated how natural it sounded.

“Ah,” Ormund managed, his tone dripping with a feigned nonchalance, as if the holy matters of the city had completely slipped his mind. “Indeed. The hours slip away far too treacherously.”

“I kept him company in the courtyard and assured him that you had urgent, pressing matters of the estate to attend to.” Daeron explained, trying to look out for his master.

Ormund cut him off by placing a heavy hand upon the boy's shoulder.

It was a hand that was still completely drenched in the bathwater—slick with the sweet, musk-scented evidence of your recent release. You heard the distinct, wet slap of his palm against the fine velvet of Daeron's doublet.

The droplets clung to the fabric, immediately soaking into the cloth and staining his squire's garment with the very nectar Ormund had coaxed from your body only moments before.

You burned red with a sickening, paralyzing embarrassment. Gods, you thought, closing your eyes in agony. Your own twin brother was standing a mere few feet away, unwittingly bearing the scent of your sin upon his clothes.

“Thank you, Daeron,” Ormund said, and you could hear the smug, insufferable smirk in his voice. “You are a most dutiful squire. You will make a great knight one day, I am certain of it. You might even surpass your uncle Gwayne one day…”

You knew the Lord's arrogance wasn't born from a genuine desire to compliment the boy, but rather from the thrilling, twisted pleasure of the secret he held right behind the curtain.

“Uncle—is everything alright?” Daeron wondered aloud. You heard a slight shift in his footsteps, as if he were tilting his head to peer over Ormund’s broad shoulder, trying to catch sight of your vanity.

But Ormund kept him firmly locked in place, his grip unyielding. “Of course everything is alright, boy. Why would it not be?”

Ormund countered the question without an inch of doubt, lying straight through his teeth while his royal niece sat naked, shivering, and thoroughly ruined just on the other side of the silk hanging.

“Now, be a good squire and ride ahead to tell the Septon I am arriving.” Ormund patted the boy's cheek with an affectionate, patronizing hand, sending him off.

Daeron opened his mouth one last time, squinting a pale brow. His lips formed a shape as if to call out your name, wondering where his sister had vanished to on this morrow, but under the heavy gaze of his Lord, he relented.

“As you command, my Lord.”

The heavy oak door banged shut behind him, the latch clicking into place with a definitive thud.

An invisible weight lifted from your chest, and you finally managed to let your shoulders drop, exhaling a long, shaky breath that you had been holding for what felt like an eternity.

You stood up from the tub, the cooled water cascading down your pale thighs and clinging to your skin as Ormund drew back the privacy curtain.

He stepped into the alcove, his dark eyes sweeping over your dripping form one last time. His gaze was entirely silent, unreadable, and devoid of the warmth that had filled it moments before.

He gave you a single, curt nod of his head, turning on his heel without a word. The heavy door opened and closed once more, leaving you alone in the quiet solar—aching, profoundly confused, and shivering in the sudden cold.

©RHAENYRAS-CROWN: I DO NOT APPROVE OF MY WORKS TO BE TRANSLATED OR COPIED ANYWHERE WITHOUT MY PERMISSION.

gif credits: @baelcrtargaryen

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tags:

[lovebugism]

CONTRITION ─── ormund hightower

summary: you come to oldtown as a novice seeking sanctuary in the seven, you find ormund hightower instead. (9k)

characters: dark!ormund hightower / fem!reader, daeron targaryen

contents: novice!reader, slow burn, strangers to lovers, mutual pining, angst, hurt/comfort, religious imagery cw for power imbalance, obsessive behavior, gaslighting, spiritual manipulation, barely proofread, smut 18+ (MDNI): ormund has a scent kink, mutual masturbation, m!receiving oral, thigh riding, dubcon due to manipulation (but everyone is kind of a perv here so it balances out), this is a pretty dark fic so please heed the warnings!!!

( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )

Sometimes you think you were unforgivably damned from birth.

You had been born, as far as anyone could tell you, on no particular night in no particular place to no one in particular who cared enough to claim you. You belonged to nothing more than whatever poison you’d inherited flooding your veins, and the years of constant isolation that had drawn an invisible line between you and the rest of the world.

Everywhere you went, you tried to copy what you understood was expected of you, but humanity had never come all that easily to you. You spent most of your life, instead, feeling like a gown turned inside out, with all of your seams and soft parts showing.

First, it had been the other orphan girls you were raised with in childhood, rows and rows of flocking sparrows in matching tatters of grey and navy. Then it was the septry in the Riverlands, where you’d spent the bulk of your teenagehood; and then it was the handful of minor households you served, scattered along the coast from Storm’s End down to Sunspear. After that, it was Septa Enith — who had known you since you were small enough to be lifted onto a washing stool to reach the basin — who sent a raven to the sept keeping you for the season, imploring you to come to Oldtown. 

“Lord Ormund Hightower stands in need of a tutor to assist in his nephew’s instruction,” the letter wrote in the old woman’s perfect script. “If the Mother grants it and your present duties permit, come to Oldtown with due haste, and the Seven may yet make some purpose of you.”

So you had gone to Oldtown the way you had gone to every foreign town throughout your childhood. A ghost wandering a half-gone graveyard, a stranger let loose in another man’s sanctuary — hoping, always hoping, that someone might finally decide you were something worth keeping. 

When the city rose finally before you in tiers of sun-bleached stone, with a towering lighthouse crowning its center like a great white candle, you believed that you had only traded one kind of nothing for another — as you had done your whole life.

Septa Enith leads you through the corridors of the tower with her habit whispering faintly behind her. You follow a few paces back with your eyes downcast, dressed in a gown of plain wool that marked your status — lesser, unfinished, a novice still — lacking the septa’s seven-pointed veil you had not yet earned, and allowing your hair to hang loose behind you.

“Septa Enith,” Lord Ormund greets from further inside his office upon her entrance. The room is warm with early-morning light, turning motes of dust aglitter where they drift through the tall stained-glass windows. The air is sweet with the scent of pine logs smoldering low in the hearth, where a young boy lingers — Daeron, you figure, still soft-cheeked with the last days of childhood.

His uncle rises from the great oak desk, full of organized letters and ledgers. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and handsome to the point of devastation. He comes around the desk, boots padding softly along the cobblestone. 

“This must be the girl you wrote me of.”

You sink into a small, practiced curtsy with your gaze fixed on the cobbles. Septa Enith introduces you like a woman would present her own handiwork — that you were traveled and well-taught; a little green yet, but still diligent and pious beyond most girls your age.

But you were not devout, in truth. Not really. The gods were like your parents in that regard: neither one was coming to look for you now. And in the few times you had sunk low enough to beg the gods for mercy, they only seemed to shove more suffering down your throat to keep you from crying out again. But devotion was never the point — a girl so alone in the world, with no dowry and no kin to speak of, had precious few paths laid before her. The grey wool and the seven-pointed star was, perhaps, the only one that would ever choose you back.

With your eyes still lowered, you see only Lord Ormund’s polished boots enter the narrow scope of your downcast vision.

He lingers before you, close enough for you to catch the scent of him — leather, incense, and musky bathing oils. He waits with a polite grin for you to lift your eyes, and raises his brows to his hairline when you don’t. 

He ducks his head instead, made of short, dark-auburn curls, trying almost playfully to catch your gaze from below — the way a young boy might peer beneath a table to startle someone hiding there.  He leans closer then, enough for you to hear the soft pull of breath he draws in through his nose.

You flinch involuntarily at the nearness of his warmth, before willing your body back into its practiced submission once more.

“Rosewater…” Ormund mutters, almost to himself, as if he were solving some sort of riddle. “And something else beneath it— orris root, I’d wager.” 

He straightens then, satisfied with his guess, and waits again for a response from you that never comes. 

It was always easier to be quiet, you found, after so many years spent in the company of high lords and ladies who cared not if you lived or died. You had learned to stand so still in a room that you all but vanished from it, refusing to give away even the smallest, truest piece of yourself.

Ormund’s grin grows wider at your silence. His deep, melodic voice is coated in amusement as he quips, “Septa Enith hasn’t sent me a silent sister, has she? I’d hate to think my nephew’s new tutor has sworn off speaking entirely."

“No, my lord,” you answer finally, though the words are swallowed back down again almost as soon as they leave you.

“She speaks!” Ormund chuckles, the sound ringing through the quiet expanse of his office. “A voice like a mouse, yes, but a voice all the same.”

Still, though, you fail to lift your eyes to meet his own. You’re grateful when the man doesn’t press you any further for it, though you can feel a tension that suggests he wants to — like the glimmering heat off a flame. There’s something strangely gentle in his palpable restraint; a simple courtesy that costs him nothing, though he seems to take a private pride in offering it nonetheless.

“You needn’t be frightened,” he tells you, gentler now. “You’ll be treated kindly here. Enith keeps a fair house, as I’m sure you know, and Daeron is no great trial— are you, boy?”

He glances over his shoulder towards the hearth, where Daeron stands with his hands folded behind his back and his eyes watching the exchange with an attentive, green-eyed stare — a future knight in the making no doubt.

“No, uncle," Daeron answers, firm but gentle, and with a deep voice that still fractures slightly with the remnants of boyhood.

Lord Ormund's pink mouth curves into a pleased grin. “Well, what do you think, then? Shall we keep her?"

He poses the question lightly, as if you were a piece of livestock being brought to market. You suppose he means it in jest, or at least, as something far more light-hearted than the words truly sound, but it strikes you deep in the chest anyway.

“If it please you, uncle,” Daeron responds politely. 

Lord Ormund turns back to you then, still sporting the same polite grin. His brows bounce with amusement as his pale gaze sweeps your form in a slow, daunting pass.

“Then yes…” he hums to himself. “I think we shall…”

Your days, for the first time since childhood, take a shape that feels almost permanent. 

You rise each morning before the sun, kneel through your morning prayers alongside Enith and the other septas in the hush of the sept, break your fast on stale bread and watered wine, and then report to the small, sunlit chambers where Daeron takes his studies. Septa Enith watches every day from her chair by the window, tending to her needlework while you lead the young prince’s lessons, and correcting you only rarely.

Daeron, as you had come to find after weeks within the Hightower keep, was a perfect pupil. He was quick, attentive, and always very sweet. He minds his histories well and his prayers even better, and only rarely drifts his attention out the window toward the training yards where the squires train with blunt swords. But you had been a child once, too, even though it felt a very long time ago now — and you deign to crack his knuckles with the pointer stick the way your teachers had once done to you.

“We’ll start easy,” you say from across the low table, where a scattering of parchment lay between you. “The Hightowers of Oldtown."

“‘An old, just, and true line,'" Daeron recites the text easily, with his eyes fixed out the window and his finger drumming with a boyish distraction. “‘Keeper of the light, guardian of the Citadel and the Faith.' Words: We Light the Way."

“Good,” you hum. “The Tyrells of Highgarden?”

“Words: Growing Strong. Their sigil is a… a golden rose on a green field. They hold Highgarden by right of the Gardener kings— though they were stewards once, not lords."

“The Lannisters of Casterly Rock?"

“Words: A Lannister always pays his debts—”

“A common phrase, yes, but not their true words,” you correct gently, lips pursed to keep from smiling. “Try again.”

“Words…” he trails off, wrinkling his freckled nose in thought. “Hear Me Roar. Their sigil is a golden lion on crimson. They say they're the richest house in the Seven Kingdoms, though Septa Enith says rich men are always saying that about themselves—”

“That was not meant for you to repeat, boy,” the older woman scolds without looking up from her stitching. Daeron ducks his head with a grin pursed to the side of his mouth, and you allow yourself the smile you’d been holding back all lesson.

A steward arrives in that moment, rapping twice along the door frame to announce his presence. “Begging pardon, Septa,” he says with a polite bow of his head, just before his eyes find you. “Lord Ormund has requested your presence in his office.”

“Oh—” Your eyes widen as you glance back at Daeron, then to the half-done lesson laid out before you, and then to the lanky man across the room. “I— We’re still at our studies, ser. Might I come after we’ve—”

“Girl,” Enith snaps, her voice cutting through the room like a whip. All eyes turn to her in an instant. Her wise, watery gaze hardens at you. “Lord Ormund does not wait on the patience of novices. You will go to him now, and you will be grateful he thought to send for you at all."

Heat crawls up your neck from the high collar of your woolen dress. You swallow through the distant shame of being scolded before your own pupil, as if you were a child of Daeron’s own age, and rise with a murmured apology to no one in particular. You follow a few paces behind the steward with your eyes fixed on the floor. 

Ormund’s office, you find, is washed in beams of silver-gold from the morning light spilling through the high windows. He stands within the rays with his strong hands clasped loosely behind his back as he gazes out over the tower's long descent to the river below. 

The sound of the door clicking shut behind you draws his attention. He turns his head, and the light catches in his sheared curls, turning them a richer shade of auburn. 

“There you are,” he greets with a kind smile, motioning to his desk in the center of the room with a broad hand. “Come in. Sit, if you like.”

You do not move from your place. You remain just inside the door, with your head bowed and your hands folded obediently in front of you, the way you had been taught. You say nothing in response until he asks.

“How does my nephew’s lessons fare?”

“Well, my lord.” Your voice comes out smaller than you mean it to, trembling at the edge of each syllable despite your attempts to steady it. “He’s very smart. He’s very clever, too, as I’m sure you already—”

“Come closer, won’t you?” he interjects suddenly, though not unkindly. “I can hardly hear a word from you all the way over there.”

Your slippers pad along the cobbles as you near him with small, hesitant steps, and with your breath caught somewhere in your throat. You stop an arm's length from him before the great stained-glass windows — Ormund closes what little distance remains himself, smothering you in his warmth and the incense clinging to the silver pomander hanging at his sword belt.

His wide hands lift to rest along the outsides of your elbows without warning. You’re perhaps more startled by the gentleness of his touch rather than the touch itself — you can feel the warmth radiating from his palms even through the thick sleeves of your dress. He dips his head the same way he had the first time he met you, trying once more to catch your downturned gaze.

“You needn’t be frightened of me,” Ormund tells you softly, though it did very little to loosen the perpetual knot in your chest.

“I am not, my lord,” you tell him, half-strangled, and wonder distantly if a lie is still a sin if it’s meant to spare someone else the trouble of you.

Ormund says nothing for a long moment. When you dare to lift your eyes, you find that he’s already leaning in — the way he had that very first day. Your pulse falters a beat when you hear him draw a slow breath beside your temple. You go very still, like a trapped animal going quiet in the hope of being spared.

“Lavender,” he muses to himself. “And… beeswax.”

He straightens once more, pleased with himself, and smiles down at you again. 

“The motherhouse must be running thin, if you've had to make do with the castle's plain milling,” he quips with an attentiveness that feels borderline intrusive. “I’ll have something better sent along to you at once.”

You say nothing. There is nothing to say to that, you think — nothing that wouldn’t feel like spurring on his kindness, which has started to feel like comes with a debt you didn’t agree to owe.

“Well,” he says in response to your silence, dropping his hands to his sides. The warmth in his strong face returns again, with the negligible tenderness of a lord dismissing one of his middling servants. “I won’t keep you from your duties any longer. Go on back to my nephew— I imagine Enith's grown fond of her needlework again, now that she's free to listen to you instead.”

You drop into your usual curtsy with a“yes, my lord,” murmured beneath your breath. You rise again and turn to go, but Ormund catches you before you can. 

He ducks down and presses his mouth to yours in a parting kiss that a great lord might bestow on any woman of his household. His lips are soft and light against your own, but lingering nonetheless — long enough that the peck turns from well-mannered to borderline indecent.

You go rigid at the shock of it, too stunned to do anything more than stand there with your hands clenched into fists at your sides until he pulls away from you again.

“May the Seven be with you, sister,” Ormund says with a kind, untroubled grin, as if nothing strange had passed between you at all.

“And with you, my lord,” you manage through the invisible hand still wrapped around your throat. 

It takes the length of the corridor outside for you to remember how to breathe again. You feel the ghost of his mouth on yours for hours after he’s let you go.

Something about Ormund sticks in you like a splinter under the skin. The thought of him grows on you like ivy on cobblestone — quiet and quick and everywhere. It was his unwavering tenderness, you think, or maybe the way his eyes always seemed to linger on you a beat longer than courtesy required, which left something raw and unfamiliar in its wake. Like what little you remember of love in your girlhood, a childhood infatuation that was usually very fickle but always very intense.

It was this same constant turning-over of him in your head that made it so easy to suspect him when your slips began to disappear.

It was a small thing at first — a sliver torn from the edge of your thin linen, leaving the hem pulled and frayed. A rat, you assumed, gnawing for fabric for its nest; or a splintered edge, maybe, from where your trunk had snagged it. And when a second strip vanished, this time cut clean from the chest, you believed it had been a rat then, too.

But then an entire slip had disappeared outright, gone from the wicker basket of unwashed linen, and no amount of searching your small chamber seemed to turn it up.

Septa Enith called you mad when you told her of your suspicions, but you knew what kind of man Lord Ormund was. 

You had felt his breath along your temple, heard him murmur rosewater and lavender and beeswax against your skin with the quiet reverence typically reserved for prayer. And, thus, the thought crept into your skull unbidden, shaped like that same warm breath along your skull. Try as you might to laugh it off as foolishness — the overactive fancy of a girl raised with gossiping novices, forever seeing shadows where none existed — the thought did not leave you. And after a time, you understood it would not leave you until you knew if it was true.

And so you lie.

You tell Septa Enith that you were feeling poorly and asked if she could take Daeron’s lessons herself that day. You bore her subsequent scolding with your eyes down and your hands folded — that you ought to have more of a backbone than to let a little queasiness keep you from your duties; that a septa's calling was not so easily set aside as that. You had already memorized the prayers of contrition you would say for it later, kneeling before the Mother to confess the small sin honestly.

But for now, you spend the rest of the morning in your chambers — sitting first upon your bed and then, when that grew tiresome, at the writing desk by the window. You watch the morning light drift across the ancient floorboards and feel more and more foolish by the minute. By midday you’ve nearly convinced yourself that you’ve wasted a perfectly good lie on nothing, and that the missing slips had simply been misplaced; that Lord Ormund had far better things to occupy his time than a novice septa's undergarments.

Then you heard his voice in the corridor, exchanging some brief word with a passing servant outside — “See that the eastern rooms are aired before the Citadel men arrive,” he says.

It would have meant nothing to you at all if it hadn’t been drawing nearer to your bedchambers. Your heart lurches wildly in your chest as you scramble from the desk and into the small adjoining bathing room — easing the door shut until only a hair’s-breadth crack remains. You press yourself against it, scarcely daring to breathe.

A knock comes at your door a moment later. It’s soft and courteous, two sharp raps against the wood, as if to make certain that no one at all was behind it. The heavy door creaks open without invitation. You hear the scuff of boots against the floor and the click of the door easing shut, just before Ormund comes into view.

Through the crack in the door, you watch the man move slowly through the narrow confines of your quarters. The late morning light catches the auburn flecks in his curls as he passes the window by your writing desk. He lingers there for a long moment, studying the things scattered across its surface as if he were already well acquainted with them. 

He lifts the smooth river stone you’d kept since childhood, somehow already knowing where to find it, and runs his thumb mindlessly over the smooth edge. As he does so, he dips his head to skim through the parchment scattered there — clumsy sketches, scant prayers, and miscellaneous writings of dried ink.

Ormund touches nothing else. He only looks, cataloging the smallest parts of your life with his eyes alone.

He sets the small stone down with a quiet thud and crosses to the hamper of unwashed linens tucked beside your washstand. He peers inside and, without hesitation, plucks one of your slips from the pile.

Your heart goes still but very loud all at once as you watch the man bring the linen up to his nose to inhale the scent of you upon it — of rosewater, soap, and faintly of sweat. His strong chest rises beneath his emerald doublet as he takes a slow breath in. His eyes fall shut on the long, lingering exhales that follow. 

You see only the profile of his broad form from where you stand. He goes quiet and still thereafter with something that seems almst peaceful.

When his hand moves into his trousers, with the linen slip still caught in his fist, you do not move from the doorway. You stand frozen in disbelief while his hand disappears in his pants, while the rest of your slip hangs lazily at his thigh. You scarcely breathe — because your heart has moved so far up into your throat that you cannot, maybe; or because you long to hear the man’s grumbled groan as he works himself hard with his fist.

His adam’s apple bobs in his throat when he tips his head back. His moan comes from the very back of his throat, sounding like distant thunder as it rolls across the quiet room. The pleasured sound feels like a hand between your thighs, where a strange throbbing has started to settle — an ache that longs to be smoothed out.

“Yes…” Ormund groans to himself through a jaw clenched tight. 

And, as if spurred on by his own words, you feel your hand reaching down to lift your skirts — and to shove your fingers where the dull pulsing has settled. 

Your pointer and forefinger slot wet between the velvety folds of your cunt. You pierce yourself with them slowly, the way it had been down to you by a young knight somewhere between The Twins and Riverrun in your girlhood. 

You remember the way he attempted to pleasure you with his fingers, dragging them in and out and in and out of you. And even though you failed to orgasm then the way the knight said you ought to have, you fight now to chase that pleasure warming in the very pit of your stomach now.

You brace yourself against the doorframe with your free hand and watch the man stroke himself with a lidded gaze — with the same violating scrutiny he always seems to watch you with. 

You’re no different than he is, a cynical voice screams in the very back of your head. The two of you are made out of the same kind of sin. But even still, you find yourself hunting the feeling simmering in your stomach; a knot pulled tight and threatening to snap.

Ormund tenses in place, bracing himself with a strong hand along your bedframe as his towering body quakes with the tremors of his orgasm. His knuckles go white around the ancient wood, gripping there hard enough to splinter it. 

His moan sounds like thunder in his chest — “Fuck…” he grumbles lowly. “Fuck, yes…” 

He reaches his pinnacle before you do, and when the aftershocks have subsided and his limbs have stopped shaking, Ormund pulls your dress from his trousers. Something sticky darkens the pale fabric where his fist had held it. You catch only a sliver of the stain before he tosses it back into the basket of unwashed linens.

Your heart slams against your ribcage; hard enough that you worry he might hear it through the door as he slips back out of your bedchambers, just as quietly as he had come in.

You remain in the crack of your own bathing room door long after the sound of his footsteps has faded down the corridor. 

You wonder how many times Ormund has let himself into your chambers while you attended your lessons and prayers each day. You wonder how many times he’s pleasured himself using your garments as a rag, and how many of those garments you must have washed without noticing his pleasure stained upon it. 

You wonder, even more so, if you should feel more violated by the thought than you do — if it would be such a sin to take pleasure in the thought of being so carnally desired.

You drag your fingers, finally, from the depths of your pulsing confines. The pads of them have started to prune with the slick gathered upon them, shiny with honey and slightly stringy when you separate your middle and pointer finger from one another.

What are these hands supposed to do now? the voice berates you still, while your loins tingle with a lingering pleasure. Because they are certainly far too stained now to pray.

You need a mother to comfort you; a father to shield you; someone older and wiser to cry to, because the skies are empty and no god has answered you yet. 

Your attempts to tell Septa Enith what you’d seen had failed you entirely. You had gone to her that afternoon, before the courage could leave you, and found her in the small garden off the sept where she typically took her afternoon needlework. You told her what you had witnessed (and nothing of what your own fingers had done to yourself while you witnessed it). 

Her needle stilled mid-stitch. For a moment, you thought she might believe you, as her wrinkled face twisted in shock at your confession. But when she finally spoke, her voice came flat with something closer to anger than alarm.

“So you lied to me this morning?” she asked after several moments of daunting silence.

“Yes. I did,” you answered honestly from where you knelt beside her chair, with your hands clasped in your lap like a penitent child. “And I do mean to repent for it, Septa, for however long you think fit. But I saw him. With my own eyes, in my own chambers. I saw him take my—”

“Oh, enough of that,” she grunted, as if she were dismissing a child mid-fancy. Her face screwed with annoyance as she berated you. “I have known you since you were a girl of seven years. Sniveling and friendless and full of stories that were never true; stories you told yourself to escape the real truth of things. I remember it. The other septas remember it besides.” 

You cowered at her words. Her mouth thinned into a tight seam; her watery blue eyes hardened in a way that you had not seen since your earliest, clumsiest days under her instruction — when you were still learning which lies got a girl a slap and which got her days of confinement.

“And now you would have me believe that Lord Ormund — a kind man who has shown you nothing but courtesy since the day you set foot in this tower — has been sneaking into your chamber to steal your smallclothes and use them to… pleasure himself like a lovesick stableboy?"

“I saw it," you repeated, voice cracking with a desperation to be believed. You blinked away the haze of tears burning at your waterline as you begged her. “Septa, please—"

“Enough,” she shoved your pleading hand away and stood, smoothing out her skirts with hands that were not quite steady. “I’ll not hear any more of it. You'll do your penance tonight as you've promised, and you'll pray besides for honesty — and for gratitude, perhaps, that a house such as this took in a girl with no name and no prospects and gave her some purpose at all.”

You stayed where you knelt as the woman moved towards the tower, heavy with the sinking feeling that she was moving to Lord Ormund’s solar to carry your confession to him herself. 

“I’d have thought you'd grown past your stories by now,” she scolded without looking back at you.

The summons, which you knew was inevitable, doesn’t come until the sun has dipped low over the horizon — turning the cloudless sky into a mixture of deep orange and dark lavender. A steward knocks at your door and does not meet your eyes when he tells you that Lord Ormund awaits your presence in the castle sept. You had lain through the afternoon anticipating exactly this, but your stomach still flips in spite.

The sept is empty and quiet with the remnants of evening prayer. The air is stale and thick with the scent of burning incense and glowing candles. What little light remains falls through the stained glass in slanted beams of color across the ancient wood — deep red where it touches the Warrior’s carved shield, soft green pooling at the Mother’s feet, and jewel-blue catching the folds of the Father’s robes where he stands in eternal judgment above the altar. 

You find Lord Ormund standing near the front with his back to you, and with a leather-bound copy of the Seven-Pointed Star in his hands. His voice is low and even as it carries through the empty nave, reading aloud to no one at all: “…And the Crone raised her lantern, saying: truth is the light by which the righteous find their road, while falsehood is a mist that leads only to darkness.” 

He speaks the words as if he knew precisely when you would arrive, and had arranged the moment accordingly to catch you in some sort of trap.

Ormund does not look up when your slippers pad along the narrow aisle. He lets you linger there instead, like a stupid lamb walking itself to the slaughter. The silence grows too suffocating to bear. You feel the weight of the sept pressing down on either side of you — old wood and candle-smoke and the watchful, carved eyes of seven gods who had never once troubled themselves to answer your prayers.

“Septa Enith came to speak with me this afternoon,” Ormund says in lieu of a greeting when he turns finally to face you. His smile is thin-lipped and gentle, if not a little disarming. “She tells me you’ve become… distressed.”

It takes you a long moment to find the courage to speak. The words well up into your throat like bile but refuse to come out, lingering bitterly on your tongue instead. The candles crackle in the silence you leave behind.

“I— I only told her the truth, my lord,” you tell him. And though your voice does not waver, your folded hands start to tremble despite your effort to keep them still.

“The truth…” he echoes, as if he were tasting the word on his tongue for the first time. He saunters down the steps of the altar with the leather-bound book tucked beneath his strong arm.  “You believe, truly, that I entered a novice’s chambers without invitation? That I used her garments for something so sinful? That I’ve been… stealing pieces of her garments for my own keeping?” 

A laugh leaves him then, warm with amusement.

“Surely, you do not think so little of me as that.” 

“I only know what I saw,” you answer and hold his gaze until it feels like a little rebellion. It’s the first time you’ve ever offered him your eye contact so freely, to be sure, and it feels like it costs you something to do it.

“Would you swear it?” Ormund asks, approaching you like a hunter would a prey animal caught in a snare. The candlelight catches in the strong curve of his jaw and the blue of his eyes, carving him out of flickering gold and shadow. “You would swear it before the Father himself. Invoke His judgment upon your soul, should you speak false."

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water until you find the breath to answer. “I… I would never lie before the Seven, my lord.”

“No,” the man hums with a shake of his head, studying you still from a few paces off. Something in his chiseled features turns gentle, or seemed to besides. “I do not believe you would.”

You think the words are meant to comfort you. 

They do not.

“But I do believe something else," Ormund continues without his gaze straying from yours. “I believe loneliness makes strange companions of the mind. Wouldn’t you agree?”

You stiffen from where you stand before him, bracing yourself for his following words, which you know are bound to find you like a rod to the thigh.

“You grew up without mother or father. Without kin of any kind, as I’m told,” Ormund rambles with all the tenderness of a man delivering some sad, gentle truth. “A child left alone in such a place learns to invent reasons for the things she cannot understand, does she not? It is not a fault in her, to be sure. It is only what loneliness does to a mind left too long to its own devices."

“I am not a child,” you try to argue, though the words come out more strangled than you intend.

“No,” Ormund grins, devilish enough to squint the edges of his eyes. “But perhaps some distant part of her lingers in you yet."

Your hands clench into fists. Your dull nails bite crescent shapes into the delicate skin of your palms. “I saw you—”

“You've always had a fondness for stories, haven’t you?” he interjects, almost fondly so. “Septa Enith told me as much herself— said that you used to… frighten all the other girls with tales of dragons in the rafters, of shadows that moved on their own in the dark.”

“I was a child then—”

“She said you often mistook the wind for voices; and shapes in dark corners for things with faces,” Ormund continues with a grin, tilting his head until the candlelight pools in the hollows of his eyes. “So tell me, sister, and weigh it honestly, as the Seven would have you weigh it… What is more likely— that a lord of this tower crept into a servant's chamber to steal her smallclothes like a common thief? Or that a girl who has spent her whole life inventing stories has done so once more?"

His words close around your throat like a pair of cold hands. You search desperately for a response but find nothing immediately waiting. Your voice has sealed itself shut around whatever truth you might have offered him, choking instead on the smothering weight of his.

Ormund steps closer and holds the Seven-Pointed Star out between you. His voice comes out sterner this time as he commands, “Read. I’ve already marked the page for you.”

“My lord—"

“Read."

Your hands tremble when they reach for the book he motions towards you. You find the leather still warm from his palms and impossibly heavy between your fingers as they fumble for the scarlet ribbon tucked inside. The thin pages turn heavily, until the inked words swim finally before you, blurred at the edges with time and something hot building behind your eyes.

“Aloud,” Ormund presses at your silence.

Your voice is scarcely more than breath when it finally comes to you.

“False witness is… is a wound upon the soul. For the tongue that fashions lies… distances itself from the light of the Father— and the Mother turns Her face from deceit until repentance is sought…” you swallow hard through a tight throat, fighting the tremor in your voice. You press on before you lose the nerve, and pretend not to notice the weight of Ormund’s stare fixed upon you.

“Let he who bears false tales examine his own heart before… before casting stones upon another. For the Crone's wisdom teaches that the eye deceived is— is no less guilty than the tongue that speaks the falsehood aloud—”  You cut yourself off with a shake of your head, a stubborn refusal at Ormund’s plain attempt at manipulation. “I cannot.”

“You can,” the man nods, warm and almost encouraging. “Continue.”

Your voice cracks in two, but you obey regardless — because some well-worn part of you never learned how to do otherwise.

 “…And let the penitent seek not to defend his pride, but to humble himself before the Seven. For truth asks no champion, and innocence need fear no judgment,” you continue, voice thick and wet with unshed tears, breath hitching occasionally in your throat. “Bow thy head before the… the Father, confess thy trespass before the Mother… and the Smith shall make whole— that which falsehood hath broken. So shall mercy be granted— unto the contrite, but the stubborn shall… shall dwell in the Stranger's shadow… until the last of their days—”

By the time you reach the passage's end, your vision has dissolved entirely into tears. They burn hot and humiliating down your cheeks and chin until one strikes the page before you could catch it. It blooms dark against the old vellum. You scrub at it with your sleeve, as though you might undo the stain before it set.

“I—I’m sorry," you stammer — to the book, maybe, or to Ormund, or to the Seven watching from their carved and unmoving faces. 

The man says nothing for a long while. When he finally speaks again, the sternness has slipped entirely from his voice — replaced by something that sounds, almost, like kindness.

“You’ve carried a great deal on your own, haven’t you?” Ormund wonders suddenly aloud. You peer up at him with your eyes still glittering like stained glass. His hardened face has softened slightly, because of the tears clouding your vision maybe, or perhaps due to a newfound warmth.  “You've spent your whole life learning to survive on what you need. But tell me, my girl— What do you want?"

You don’t realize until then that no one has ever asked you that before — not once, in all your years of learning to be small,  useful, and no trouble to anyone who might otherwise have turned you out into the cold. The question moves through you like a key turning finally into an old lock that’s long rusted shut.

“I…” you try hard to speak, but your breath catches somewhere in your throat before you can. “I don't know, I… I’ve never…”

You trail off, shaking your head. Ormund ducks down to catch your gaze when it falls away once more.

“Tell me,” he presses gently, brows softly furrowed. “Speak true.”

“I’ve… I’ve never belonged anywhere, my lord,” you confess for the first time aloud. “I don't remember my mother's face. Nor my father's. No one’s ever… ever chosen me before. The only reason the sept took me in was because there was nowhere else for me to go, I… I think that— I’ve always been in… in someone's way. I don't— I don’t even know what I’m supposed to want.” 

A laugh sputters from your mouth, all watery and ashamed. You trail off again, so quietly you can barely hear your own voice over the pounding of your heart. 

Your face screws into a pained sort of look as you admit to him, “I think… I think I only want someone to— to tell me what to want, what to do.”

The candles gutter along the altar, though no draft has moved through the sept. Your words cling so ardently to the incense-thick air between you that you wish so desperately that you could reach out and put them back in your mouth again — suddenly terrified that you’ve given away far too much of yourself.

Ormund steps forward, close enough to smother you with the warmth radiating from his towering form. He plucks the leather-bound scripture from your trembling hands, closes it with a resounding thud in one broad fist, and tosses it blindly to a pew just beside him without once looking away from you. The book hits the wood like a door slamming shut. Your shoulders jerk as the sound echoes through the quiet sept.

You try to will your hands to stop shaking at your sides as you peer at the man from beneath lashes clumped wet with tears. He spends a long moment staring down the bridge of his nose at you, chest rising and falling with even breaths beneath the clasps of his doublet.

When he speaks again, his words come out low and steady from his mouth — far gentler and far more certain than any god has ever been to you before.

“Kneel,” he commands plainly, needing no further adornment to carry the weight of the word.

You stand frozen before him for several long moments thereafter. 

The last color pooling from the stained glass thins now as the sun sinks somewhere beyond the windows — crimson bleeding to rust, green fading to a negligible yellow, blue fading to the color of an old bruise. Above the altar, the Seven look down upon you with nothing but judgment. They offer you no counsel, no rescue, no sign that they had ever been listening to all your years of prayer.

Then, with your cheeks still wet with thick streaks of tears, you clasp your hands tightly together and lower yourself to your knees. They meet the cold wood with a quiet thud, and the chill of it climbs up through your skirts. 

Your lowered gaze lifts slowly to the man towering above you. You find no comfort waiting in his strong features. There is nothing behind his light eyes except the flickering candlelight and the same coldness as the Father looking down from his stone alcove — as if Ormund, too, felt owed something you had not yet given.

“There can be no absolution without obedience…” he says without taking his eyes off yours, even as his hands reach for the buckle of his sword belt. 

The gold clinks faintly together; the leather hisses faintly when it’s pulled through. At first you think he means to spank you with it — bend you over his knee, lift up your skirts, and whip you bruised. Your stomach twists with excitement at the thought. 

A mixture of dread and self-deprecation consumes you a moment later, when he tosses the scabbard aside and reaches for the tie in his trousers instead.

“…Show me the second,” Ormund continues, this time with his fist hidden in his pants, massaging himself there the same way he had in your chambers. “And perhaps I’ll be gracious enough to give you the first.”

Your mouth waters like a starving hound when he frees his cock from the confines of his slacks, tucking the hem beneath his balls. It’s heavy and half-hard in his fist — a shade paler than the rest of his skin, and glowing a faint pink color at the tip. This one is far bigger, far prettier than the cocks you’d seen throughout your teenagehood — when high lords and lanky knights would pull it out for you, “c’mon, just kiss it,” they’d beg, right before berating you when your face screwed in disgust instead.

All that repulsion seems to leave you now. Your mouth parts without further command from him, as if an unconscious part of you had longed to wrap your lips around his cock and taste the glittering spend he’d buried into your slip that morning. Your tongue darts out in a soft kitten lick to collect the pearls drooling from the tip, more salty than sweet.

“All of it now. C’mon…” you hear the man coo above you, like a parent urging their child to finish their supper. 

You abide him willingly and take the rest of his cock into your mouth. Your eyes squeeze shut as your hands ball the fabric of your dress into fists, fighting back the gag that rises in your throat as you force yourself to take the entire length of him — if only to prove to yourself that you could, that you would lay the whole of your obedience at his feet for the smallest word of praise from his lips.

Ormund’s head tips back. A mixture of a laugh and a moan rumbles in his throat when the tip of your nose buries in the coarse thatch of brunette hair above his cock, smelling of sour sweat and musky bathing oils. Tears prick at the backs of your eyes like burning embers. His wide hand splays along the crown of your skull, more gentle than forceful, and it feels like an act of clemency.

“The gods weren’t enough for you, were they?” Ormund says, a lazy grin audible in his voice, as his thumb smooths over your hair. “No, you needed someone real to teach you, didn’t you? Someone real to belong to…”

His words make you nauseous. 

You feel the urge to puke, but stronger still is the urge to make him feel good. You want to please him and murder him — you want to be obedient to him alone; you want to make him smile; you want to make him proud; you want him to forgive you and hate you and desire you all at once. You want to kiss him all over, and then beat him for making you so unholy, and then kiss him so more, and then let the hounds consume his sin to the bone.

You let him cum in your mouth instead.

“Take it all. There you go…” he praises in murmured slurs, keeping you pressed against him while he tenses above you. You nearly gag when the first drop of his spend stains your tongue, heavy and slightly bitter. “Take it all, and I’ll make you holy again,” Ormund babbles, almost to himself, as he shivers against you. “I promise… I promise…” 

He pulls you off him with his fingers twisted tight in your hair, though not quite hard enough to hurt. He stares down at you with lust still swimming in his glassy blue eyes, and you wonder what you must look like from his perspective — on your knees, swollen-mouthed, heavy-eyed, wearing a mixture of cum and saliva down to your chin. The statue of the Father looms just behind him. You pretend not to notice.

“Open your mouth,” Ormund commands before you can swallow. 

You do as you’re told, careful not to let the pearl-colored spend drip off of your tongue when you show it to him. Ormund’s chest heaves at the sight, as if it had snatched the breath from his lungs entirely. And then, before you can blink, he kneels before you — holding you by the chin with the hand not knotted in your hair, and kissing you hard enough to swallow you whole.

His tongue swipes against yours to collect his own cum and sighs hard through his nose at the taste of it, a mixture of himself and you. You can taste the ale on his lips and the lemon dessert from his dinner right before he pulls away from you; still close enough to run the tip of his broad nose over the bridge of your nose.

“Have you ever done that before?” he whispers, breath fanning warm against your mouth. You shake your head against him, too breathless for words. “Good…” he hums, then wonders aloud with all the sheepishness of a young boy. “Has anyone ever made you cum before?” 

“They’ve tried,” you confess.

A smile curls slowly on his lips at that, pleased by your answer.

Ormund drops his hand from your chin to your dress skirts. His palm is warm and calloused as it creeps up the hem. You hold your breath in anticipation, waiting to feel his fingers slip into your cunt the way yours had done when you watched him pleasure himself. They slip around your thigh instead, digging into the skin hard enough to leave bruises when he drags you suddenly into his lap.

You brace yourself on his broad shoulders at the sudden shift in position, reminding yourself to breathe when the newfound proximity forces him to lift his chin to look at you properly. He keeps one hand on the back of your head and his other on the swell of your ass. His whisper fans across your jaw as he says, “If absolution is what you want… Then claim it.” 

Before proper reasoning can take over, you grind your hips up and down his strong thigh, chasing the same pleasure you’d been so close to giving yourself earlier that day. 

With your dress skirts now pushed up to your hips, your cunt is able to press fully to his trousers — the delicate skin parts along the fabric with every pass, exposing your sensitive clit to the merciless rhythm. You can already feel the wet spot you’re leaving on him there.

Your broken whine of pleasure and embarrassment echoes throughout the empty sept.

Ormund grins wider at the pathetic sound. “It’s okay, my girl… Take it… You can do it…” he praises lowly, helping you rock your hips up and down his thigh with his free hand. “There is no sin here that I cannot pardon for you. Leave your guilt to me and let go. That’s it… Let it go.”

Your hips lose their rhythm, hopelessly chasing the warmth swelling in the pit of your stomach — a rope pulled tight and fraying, bound to snap at any moment. 

“You’re so needy for it now, aren’t you? After you couldn’t pleasure yourself with your fingers earlier? Hm?” he whispers in your ear, then smiles wider when you falter. “No, don’t stop now. Keep going. There you go.

You bury your face in his shoulder and twist your trembling hands in his shirt, choking on the pleasured moans welling in your throat. You feel dizzy and half-disgusted with yourself, as your heart hammers harder with every word from his mouth.

“You thought I didn’t notice, did you?” Ormund hums with an audible grin. “I could hear you whimpering behind the door… You liked watching me using your dress to make me cum, didn’t you? …Hm?”

You nod wordlessly into his neck, and feel the rumble of his laughter there as he chuckles to himself. 

“I knew you would… I knew the kind of girl you were when you stepped into my office— the kind who mistook her loneliness for devotion…” he mumbles against you, helping your hips move up and down his thighs when your own rhythm falters. “The kind who prayed for guidance and got only silence in return… Well, the gods might’ve abandoned you, my girl— but I will not.”

You peer at the altar ahead with teary eyes, where all the eyes of the Seven look down upon you as you unravel in your sin. You cum with a fragile whimper in your throat a second later, trembling in Ormund’s lap and holding onto him like a raft while your sensitive cunt drools on his thigh.

“Yes…” the man praises in your ear, smoothing his nose across your temple just before he presses his mouth to the burning skin there. “There it is… Give me all of it, my girl. I can take it...” 

Ormund continues his sweet murmurings until the aftershocks have passed – until you’ve gone lax on top of him, with your body heaving enough to melt against his. You want to be soldered to him, just like this, with his cheek against your cheek and his hands in your hair and your cunt to his thigh. Perhaps this was your purpose, you think to yourself, as the last of your pleasure drips onto his thigh. Perhaps the gods sent you here to find religion in the crooks of his body, and Ormund in the crooks of yours.

“Am I forgiven now?” you ask in a small, teary voice. Though whether the question is meant for the gods staring down at you from their alcoves, blurred now by the unshed tears clouding your vision, or for the man holding you through every wave of pleasure and guilt — you cannot say.

“Yes,” Ormund answers instantly, soft mouth brushing the shell of your ear as he smooths your hair from your temple. He feels your body slacken with a breath of relief against him, as if some unbearable weight has finally been lifted from your shoulders. “You will always be forgiven, my girl… So long as you remember that you must kneel to me to ask for it.”

You close your eyes at that, distantly ashamed of the relief blooming in your chest, unable now to tell where the comfort ended and the feeling of captivity began.

[silkaurum]

ALL WISHES COME TRUE

pairing: ormund hightower x wife.ᐟreader

summary: you watched your husband and son train, and you couldn't help but feel your heart ache with longing. your firstborn was already holding a sword so firmly, and you missed the time when he was just a helpless little bundle with rosy cheeks. you had always dreamed of a daughter, and so had ormund. but lately, the thought had become too persistent. do those who pray well to the gods get what they desire? or do those who pray well to their husbands get what they desire?

word count: 3.2k

tropes: married couple ⋆ established relationship ⋆ soft dom husband

warnings: 18+ audiences only ⋆ smut ⋆ breeding kink ⋆ oral sex (fem .ᐟ receiving) ⋆ p in v ⋆ unprotected sex ⋆ creampie

a/n: i'm addicted to ormund hightower, and also to the idea of him and his wife having a breeding kink. the reader is ormund's first wife, and honestly it's a little sad to know that the fourth pregnancy of lady hightower ended badly... but let's not think about that for now

You were still clutching the skirts of your dress, caught in some strange state. Your fingers gripped the fabric with desperate intent. Unspoken words froze on your lips. Your maid looked at you with the most timid gaze, like a sacrificial lamb.

"M'lady, is everything alright? You don't like the dress? You're staring at it so strangely..."

She timidly handed you a small mirror of polished brass. The girl smiled encouragingly.

"Look how pretty you are!"

Though the maid was visibly flustered, melting before her mistress, she still insisted on her words. Her voice trembled, but the conviction with which she mumbled her praise could not help but stir gratitude in you. You smiled at your reflection in the metal surface.

"Our Lord Hightower is smitten with you," the girl declared, her cheeks flushing.

You nodded slightly, knowing perfectly well that your husband found you dazzling whether you were in a dress or not. The second option was probably far more preferable to him.

You sighed again, barely hiding the slight frustration that had taken hold of your thoughts. Your maid fussed around you, adjusting the sleeves of your emerald-colored gown. Mentally, you kept returning to the image of your husband gripping his sword tightly. Ormund looked so resolute and proud as he watched your firstborn deftly dodge his strikes. Your son beamed just as brightly. He looked like a polished knight's helmet. Fortunately, he was still too young to wield a real dangerous and sharp weapon, but Lyonel was no longer the little boy who trustingly pressed against your side, seeking protection from something he didn't understand. You missed those times when his cheeks were still plump and pink like roses from the bushes. He was your tiny baby, following you everywhere and flinching at the sudden sound of a bird taking flight. Now Lyonel no longer needed your care as fully as before. At his age, he already considered himself grown, or at least approaching adulthood. Young Hightower probably had no idea how deeply he wounded his mother's heart when he dismissively waved off your advice. Now he clung to his father more and more, eagerly questioning him about the burdens of being head of the house. Your other two boys were also growing rapidly. It had been a long time since any of your children with Ormund had knocked on the heavy doors of your chambers in the dead of night. No one jumped into the parental bed, trembling and occasionally feigning fear, swearing about a monster they'd encountered under the bed. Martyn now considered it his duty to tease his younger brother for his cowardly complaints, and Garmund would impatiently lunge at him with his still-fragile little fists, almost growling with frustration. Now their squabbles occupied them endlessly. Garmund would catch his brother's gaze and lower his blue eyes in shame. Your gut told you that your youngest was torn between the need for maternal tenderness and the need for brotherly acceptance. When he so sweetly asked you to sing his favorite lullaby, you could barely hold back tears of emotion. For you, each of them, your three troublemakers, was still a baby, even with newfound ambitions worthy of their father's character.

But on the other hand, when you recently, in the heat of play, scooped up your two youngest sons, you felt that those little bundles with wrinkled faces had changed. They were so sturdy and heavy. Gods, those boys seemed to be filled with cast iron. All three took after their father in the most shameless way, inheriting all his features. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't spot even a trace of yourself in them. Little copies of Ormund Hightower. It sometimes made you uneasy how your eldest smiled at the master-at-arms' daughter. Lyonel had inherited his father's charm and used it expertly, it was unclear when and where he had acquired this experience.

So absurdly, you had recently prayed to the gods that your eldest son would be obedient and steady, that his head would be cold as ice, and that no frivolous thoughts would cloud his heart. The way he made eyes at that awkward girl did not let you rest. Then you prayed to the gods for the well-being of your husband and your other sons, and lastly, you left one final cherished wish. Fervently, tenderly, you begged the Seven to grant your house a little Lady Hightower, your daughter. Perhaps a little vanity had taken hold of you when you thought about stroking the silky hair of your little angel, whose curls would be exactly like yours.

Your thoughts were interrupted when the maid, with some apprehension, shook your shoulder. She always seemed a little afraid of you for some reason. There was no clear reason for it, but it didn't bother you much. She performed her duties well, almost nimbly.

"M'lady, are you unwell? You seem like a different person."

You smiled reservedly, touching your heavy earrings attached to your earlobes. Your husband never stinted when it came to jewelry. You, in turn, considered it a great honor to wear his gleaming gifts every day.

"I feel wonderful, I just got lost in thought about a few things."

The maid straightened up, burning with curiosity, but her lips were tightly sealed, as if any careless word could cost her her head.

"But it's none of your concern," you added sternly and quickly. "Better bring me that new nightgown of mine."

The girl was first confused and looked at you as if you were mad, since she had just fully dressed you, preparing you for the promised walk. The sly squint of your eye said much more.

"I need a private meeting with Lord Hightower," you licked your soft lips, mentally encouraging yourself to carry out your cunning plan. "Now don't just stand there. And bring the jasmine oil."

Your fingers were already buried in your hair, untangling the knots with newfound agility. You sincerely and fiercely wanted to get what you desired, and that pushed you to decisive action. Your husband might call it strategy, and it was. You knew perfectly well that he loved that scent, enveloping your body in the sweetest embrace, making Ormund openly want to devour you.

A little temptation, a little negotiation, and a little fulfillment of a cherished desire. The plan you had conceived was crystal clear and simple, and you had no doubt that Lord Hightower's restraint would burst the moment he found you in that silk nightgown with a little bow on your chest. You looked like a promised gift, which Ormund would unwrap without delay and perhaps without proper tenderness.

The maid closed the door behind her, wearing an understanding and supportive smile on her face, but you didn't need her blessing. You knew perfectly well the power you possessed. Your husband went weak in the knees simply because you smiled.

A few days ago, you had asked to be given separate chambers from Ormund. You had argued not too seriously, but perhaps a bit of drama guided you when you gave that capricious order. For a few days, both your bed and his had remained empty. Only stubbornness kept you from speaking again. You had even planned your walks so as not to witness their training, but then you secretly watched the whole scene from the window of your cold chambers.

You glided through the castle corridors as if floating on a glass lake, your nightgown billowing behind you. Some would have called you a vengeful ghost. Such was your determined gaze. Others, the most charming swan, because it was hard to look away. You moved swiftly, unable to avoid the cold biting your bare feet.

Your hands gripped the forged rings firmly attached to the wooden door, reaching up to the ceiling. You snorted in annoyance. You didn't quite like that the doors didn't open on their own. And frankly, you were a little angry at your husband for not being the first to visit your chambers.

What you saw stole your breath away. Ormund lay in a copper bath, bathed in morning light, sprawled out like a lion in the sun. A servant poured water over his tired, knotted shoulders with a ladle. Your husband didn't even raise an eyebrow when he saw you at the threshold, your chest heaving and your eyes burning dangerously. Lord Hightower barely smiled with the corner of his lips and closed his eyes, as if silently saying, "I knew you'd come." The servant, in turn, dropped everything. The rough sponge fell to the floor as the man bent into a frightened bow.

"Get out," you snapped impatiently, hastily covering your chest with your palms.

Only now did you realize how absurd your plan was, one that in no way included this poor servant. You nearly pressed yourself against the wall by the door, watching him hurriedly retreat from your chambers faster than the wind.

Ormund chuckled quietly, deeply, as if pouring velvet. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with a tired but satisfied look.

"If you wanted a memorable entrance, I can guarantee our servant will never forget it."

He turned his gaze to you, slowly, leisurely, his eyes traveling over your body. His tongue darted out slightly, moistening his lower lip. When he waved his hand, rebellious drops of water fell straight onto the stone floor, creating a tinkling melody.

"But I would kindly ask you, on your next visit, to spare the poor man's heart, for the neckline of your very innocent nightgown carries utter ruin, my dear wife."

Ormund laughed again, this time louder, his laughter echoing off the walls of the room. Pulling your hands away from your chest, you clenched them tightly into fists.

"If there's something to show, why hide it?" you thrust your chest out proudly.

You stepped carefully on the stone, returning a detached expression to your face. You deliberately swayed your hips, knowing this mischief would have an effect on Ormund and wipe that insolent smile off his face. Your hand touched the strap of your silk nightgown, letting it fall gently, as if the wind had licked the fabric, shifting it a few inches. Your garment was already semi-transparent and left nothing to the imagination, every curve was clearly defined. The circles of your nipples peeked playfully, hardened from the cold.

His face soon changed. His wet fingers gripped the edges of the copper bath. Lord Hightower's jaw tightened with tension. Inside, you rejoiced as you spotted that familiar, unrestrained, hungry look. You knew you didn't need much, just to fan the fire a little more so it would blaze intensely.

You brushed the second strap aside, so the nightgown hung at your hips, but then coyly covered your bare chest with your hands.

"Or should I hide it?"

Ormund swallowed audibly, already ready to curse you and your damn games.

"Why hide what belongs to your husband?" he rasped impatiently, his hands already reaching for you, his whole body tensing and rising to meet you.

Drops of water raced down his torso too beautifully and slowly, capitulating as they fell. Your eyes gleamed with desire, no less than Ormund's.

"Come here," he said with authority in his voice, but seeing you back away slightly at the command, he softened. "Please, my love."

You chuckled softly. He always obeyed, without question, whispering his "pleases" like a puppy. But as soon as you were close enough to be caught, his demeanor ceased to seem at all pitiable. Ormund pulled your hands away from your chest demandingly, hungrily. Without a moment's hesitation, his large, hot palms covered your breasts and squeezed them firmly. He rubbed your nipples with his thumbs and index fingers, teasing cruelly. His hands felt so masculine, slightly rough from holding not just your soft female body but also rough steel.

Your moan was a loud, mewling sound when he caught your pearl-hard nipple with his lips. His hot tongue traced the bud, playing with it. You grabbed his head, pressing him to you imperiously. He tended to each of your breasts carefully, kneading them and biting the tender skin, reminding you who you belonged to and how unbearably desirable you were in your games.

His hand made its way, roughly pulling down the nightgown. The luxurious garment let out a pitiful squeak, tearing slightly, already clearly unwearable for the wife of Lord Hightower. Ormund wrapped his arm around your waist tightly and lifted you off the ground effortlessly, even though he himself was sitting in that damn bath, smelling of some kind of pine. You squealed and panicked, grabbing his shoulders, but very quickly the room was filled with a different sound, one that treacherously escaped your lips.

Ormund kissed your pussy with his open mouth, wetly and greedily. He couldn't wait any longer. You exuded that sweet scent, teasing him to his limit. He licked your folds with such pleasure painted on his face. His tongue became flexible and firm as it circled your clit and struck it, making you push into his face. The water in the bath sloshed, creating stormy waves in the copper giant. You called his name, not knowing what you expected from your husband, who consumed you with such appetite. Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs from the flood of emotions this intimacy in the narrow bath, certainly not designed for two, gave you. Your thighs trembled with a humiliating ache. Your knees barely held you up. This position was not comfortable at all, as you stood slightly bent over, while your husband looked like a feasting man, submerged in warm scented water.

Ormund's fingers plunged into your dripping pussy, curling inside you, stealing the most obscene, unrestrained sounds from your mouth. Your lashes were wet with the strain of the orgasm that was so close. You were ready to scream his name when he pulled away abruptly and lifted his head to look at your face.

Lord Hightower shamelessly licked your moisture from his lips. His chin still glistened, not letting you forget the intimacy so ruthlessly interrupted.

"Should I continue, or have the kitten's knees gotten tired?"

You wanted to hit him, but all your limbs were trembling and weak as rags. The next thing you wanted was to scratch his face, to paint red, stinging lines across it to remind him how unkind it was to anger your mistress. But you did none of those things and simply sank slowly into the water. Your hair clung to your neck and the back of your head, your cheeks burned with nervous excitement.

"I want a child," you blurted out, frustration settling all over your face. "A girl who will trust all her secrets only to me, her mother."

You pushed his chest with your foot, not hard, or perhaps Ormund simply didn't show it.

"I'm tired of begging the gods for a child."

Lord Hightower ran his fingers along the rib of your foot, sliding it off his body elegantly but gently.

"My love. The gods are merciful, but I think we don't need their blessing. We do just fine together."

Ormund smiled slyly before standing up. The water rushed away from his body in protest. His muscles were solid, firm, as if carved from marble. They rolled under your hungry gaze.

He didn't cover himself, and it would be a ridiculous lie to say that his erect cock wasn't noticeable. The head glistened, and his entire flesh seemed to ache, demanding to be wrapped around your soft body.

Ormund climbed out of the bath languidly, not even bothering to dry off. He offered you his hand like a gentleman, as if he hadn't villainously robbed you of your orgasm a few minutes ago. Your nightgown lay orphaned on the floor, hardly resembling its former seduction. Drops falling from your husband's body landed right on the silk. You looked at that garment and thought that his defiance had defeated your cunning.

Defeated, you offered your hand. Your husband helped you escape the copper bath, dragging you along. You collapsed onto the bed heavily. The fabric clung to wet skin, but that was nothing compared to how your bodies clung to each other. All grievances drowned the moment your lips met in greedy, unending kisses. You bit his lips as he kneaded your skin with his fingers. Your thighs hooked around his waist desperately as he guided his cock, running it through your still-sticky folds. He gathered the moisture that seeped from your desire.

"Do you want this? A child?" Ormund asked softly, touching your lower lip with his thumb, pulling it back slightly.

You whimpered and nodded, rubbing your thighs against his groin, making him hiss from the restraint that overflowed.

"Wouldn't a good husband do this for his sweet wife?" he whispered, wetly kissing your temple.

Lord Hightower couldn't wait another moment. He pushed into you softly before filling your greedy cunt gradually, almost tenderly. You gasped, moving sharply to meet his hips.

"Are you a good husband?" you asked in a strained voice, biting his earlobe.

"If coming in my wife's pussy makes me a good husband, then I suppose yes," he growled, thrusting deep into you.

You clung to him helplessly, surrendering to the passion of his movements, and couldn't tear yourself away from your husband's lips, whispering sweetly and tearfully.

"Then do it. I want this. I want this."

It was hard to describe your state when the peak hit you so suddenly, roughly, taking all your strength. You clenched all over, unable to let go of your husband. Your pussy spasmed, contracting around his cock.

Ormund stopped, but only for a moment, looking into your eyes, his palm stroking your cheek tenderly, caringly. His hips slapped against yours with less force. His movements took on a softer, more loving tone.

You buried your face in the curve of his neck, feeling him come deep inside your pussy, spilling hotly. His breath tickled you as his lips touched your ear.

"There's nothing more pleasant than coming in a wife who begs so sweetly."

Ormund didn't pull out right away, and you both savored the aftertaste of your love, the warmth that spread through your body, or rather, in the pit of your stomach.

"We'll keep trying. One attempt is probably not enough, my love," he whispered with a soft laugh, stroking your lips with his. "And you should come back to our bed. I get a little lonely without my sweet wife and her sweet outfits."

You hugged him as tightly as you could, forcing your husband to press you down with his not-inconsiderable weight. You didn't want him to leave, and you couldn't stop thinking about how intimate you were right now. His cock was slowly softening, and his seed trickled down the inside of your thigh. But in the end, he rolled off, still afraid of simply breaking you. Ormund's palm spread across your still-empty belly. His fingers traced small circles. And something inside you told you that your desire had been fulfilled.

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