HIS TAMED DRAGON !
𐔌 ⠀⠀𓂃 ࣪ ִ⠀⠀ormund hightower x sweetling reader !
contains ᦸ smut toxic dynamic in a marriage typical ormund hightower warnings not dialogue heavy blood hair pulling choking cumming inside and tysm my sweet @pinkdoeweirdo for beta reading for me 🤎 ٫٫ 4.4K
❛❛ you must embrace what seeks to break you…
The bedchamber was quiet, lit by the soft glow of sunlight filtering through the stained-glass windows—bleeding green and gold across the stone floor. Your husband sat motionless in his high-backed chair, tunic discarded on the table, revealing his broad expanse of chest usually hidden beneath layers of formal attire. Only his trousers remained, loose at the hips. His arms rested loosely on the chair’s carved sides; he was like a man carved of stone.
Unusually compliant for a man who commands obedience like breathing.
He watched you closely with those deep-set eyes, calm on the surface but simmering beneath like embers under ash. The silence between you wasn't empty; it hummed with something unspoken, something thick as summer air before a storm. Your body was warm and still on top of him, knees pressing into the cushioned seat and nightgown bunched up around your thighs.
Ormund did not speak as you carefully worked. No commands issued from him now, no reproachful words about duty and your disgraceful blood. His breathing was deep and even…almost meditative. There was a strange intimacy to this—him bare-chested before you as if he were a sacrifice laid upon an altar only the two of you knew existed.
You could hear his sharp tone in your head and feel his strong grip on your face as he chastised you for thinking such blasphemous things. You didn't have to imagine the feeling of your knees aching from being on them in the sept for hours on end, repenting and praying to a faith you didn’t believe in—it’s a feeling you’ve come to know well in the few years of being married to the lord of Oldtown.
Your husband's chest rose slowly beneath your palms. You weren’t praying now. This wasn't penance or a ritual; there was no septon to witness it, no sept bells tolling for sins committed in secret. You were simply tending to him.
He didn’t move away from your touch—no, he relished it. Having you so close to him, so pliant in his lap despite everything he’s done, despite everything his family has and continues to do to yours. And here you were, a sharp blade in your hand that you could easily kill him with—you were a smart girl; he was sure you would find a way to sneak off to your beast of a dragon and find your way back to your mother.
But no, you continued to delicately glide the blade across his chest with reverence usually reserved for saints or dead men. He had molded you so perfectly into the perfect wife, into the perfect Lady of Oldtown. He made sure your life as a Targaryen princess was long forgotten; it was a title that only brought ruin.
The blade glides—kissed by his warm skin. Ormund exhales through his nose, a sound that sounds too much like satisfaction. His pecs flex subtly beneath the precise drag of your movements—a man who allowed this, who let you believe you were doing this out of the kindness of your sweet soul.
His hands remain where they are: one on the armrest, the other resting lightly against your thigh where it brushes your skin. Not gripping, not claiming yet—just there, as if it were a silent reminder that this closeness exists only because he permits it.
The silence continued to stretch on until Ormund finally spoke—low, softer than usual, stripped of its commanding edge. “You’ve always had such gentle hands, wife.”
Not praise, not quite, he rarely praised you, not unless he could use it to his advantage. No, it was more like an observation, something he noted with quiet intensity. He noticed everything about you; you were his after all. So beautiful, so fragile.
His hand near your thigh moved closer, unbeknownst to you. His thumb moved then—not suddenly or rough like you were used to from him—but slowly tracing the side of your thigh through the thin fabric of your nightgown. His touch was so soft it must have been a mistake, but it lingered, too deliberate to be accidental.
The contrast between his usual iron grip and this featherlight touch sent a shiver through you—something so tender was hard to believe came from a man like Ormund. Words didn't come to your tongue.
He didn't speak again. Just watched you with those dark eyes while his fingers continued their quiet path upward along your thigh, not rushing or demanding anything yet. The blade in your hand stilled mid-motion as you tensed slightly under his unexpected caress. Was he…comforting you? Or was this another form of control—lulling you into false security with power disguised as affection? A test perhaps? To see if you’d pull away? If you’d flinch at such unexpected gentleness?
You did not wish to know.
His breathing stayed even but slower now, more controlled as though he were savoring every second of this rare closeness, savoring how he could feel your thighs tremble around him. His other hand lifted slowly to brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear with shocking delicacy before settling at the nape of your neck.
The moment his fingers curled gently at the nape of your neck, you froze completely—like a lamb caught in the mouth of a wolf. His thumb pressed softly into that sensitive spot just beneath your hairline. His other hand remained on your thigh, warm and heavy but unmoving now. Ormund’s fingers at your nape were warm and heavy, not pressing down, but holding.
There was no hunger in his eyes, no predatory gleam that usually appeared when he looked at you with desire or anger—he was hiding it so well. This was something else entirely, quiet contemplation edged with something almost affectionate? It unsettled you more than any reprimand ever could have.
You didn't pull away; you didn’t want to. Then slowly, he leaned forward, and his lips met yours.
The kiss was not like the others. Not possessive, not claiming, not harsh or demanding as they usually were. This one was soft, tentative almost. He didn’t deepen it immediately—just held there for a heartbeat or two as if testing whether you would reject him (you wouldn’t), whether you’d tense up (you did). He pressed again gently, coaxing your lips to part beneath his with slow pressure rather than force.
One hand stayed cradling your nape while the other slid up higher on your thigh, still careful not to rush it; a gentle hand with you could make things easier. A part of you wondered if this was some kind of trick…if he’d suddenly grow tired of such gentleness and turn it into something rougher. His kindness never lasted, and it was never for nothing.
You knew that, but you couldn’t help but melt into the patiently sweet and slow kiss.
The sharp sting of the blade nicking his skin—barely a scratch, really—was instantaneous. His entire body went rigid; in an instant, his tenderness shattered like glass as his expression darkened. A low growl rumbled in his throat as he yanked your hair back by the grip at your nape, forcing you to break the kiss with a pained gasp as tears immediately filled your eyes as you realized what happened.
Without warning, he wrenched the razor from your trembling grip and tossed it aside where it clattered against the stone, your body flinching harshly at the echoing noise. You didn't dare to look him in the eyes, but you couldn’t fathom seeing the small bead of blood forming on his chest. Guilt and fear clawing at your throat.
“You dare to draw my blood?” He snarled through clenched teeth; the venomous anger in his voice cracked like thunder across the quiet chamber. You whimpered involuntarily at how quickly tenderness had turned to rage. You didn't move, despite your body urging you to, as he gripped both sides of your face harshly.
Your voice cracked as you blurted out your apology, frantic and desperate, before he could even demand one. “I’m sorry—Please, I didn't mean to! I swear, My Lord!” Tears spilled freely down your cheeks now, hot with shame. You knew better than this—knew how fast his wrath could ignite over something so small.
His grip tightened painfully on your face—his fingers digging into the delicate skin and bones of your cheeks. That simmering rage was barely restrained behind a mask of cold control in his eyes. Your hands flew up instinctively to clutch at his wrists, where he gripped your face like a vice; you weren’t trying to pry him off, but just holding on as if that could soften the storm raging in his eyes.
The blood welling from the tiny cut stood stark against his pale skin—a single drop of crimson that looked more monstrous than any wound could. It glistened under the stained-glass light, so tiny but made Ormond seethe with outrage. He hated imperfections. You hated yourself for it instantly. This was your fault.
Ormund’s fingers tighten for a fraction of a second longer, his knuckles white against your skin, before he let out a heavy, ragged exhale that signaled he was trying to calm himself. He did not pull away entirely, but the predatory fury in his gaze softened into something more complex—a dark, simmering disappointment that hurt more than his grip.
“Control Yourself.” He commanded you. The words cut deeper than any slap. Not shouted, not screamed—but spoken in that lethally quiet tone he used when truly furious. The kind of voice that made even his most loyal men fearful.
Control yourself.
A direct order—one laced with disgust at your clumsiness, your carelessness, the sheer indignity of it all; drawing blood from him by accident while performing smoothing you’ve done countless times before. Tears still streamed silently down your face despite your biting down on your bottom lip to stop them. You didn't dare speak again—not after this latest failure in obedience.
Your husband studied your tear-streaked face, the way your lips trembled beneath his displeasure. You have always been such a pretty crier. The silence stretched, long and suffocating, before he finally released you with another sharp exhale through his nose.
The shift in the air was instantaneous, thick with tension. Ormund’s gaze dropped to your tear-stained lips, then dragged lower—down the curve of your body still seated on his lap. The anger in his expression didn't vanish entirely, but it morphed into something else. Something far more dangerous.
He reached out and gripped the fabric of your nightgown near the hem with one large hand, giving it a single sharp tug upward, just enough to make you understand what he wanted without needing words. A whimper nearly escapes your lips at the feeling of heat pooling in your belly at the implication.
“Lift your dress,” Ormund ordered lowly, voice lethal and gravelly from barely restrained hunger rather than rage now. There was a pause where you could hear nothing but both of your breathing before he added sternly, “You will make it up to me.”
“Or would you rather bleed for me instead?”
His threat was wrapped in velvet cruelty—a true Hightower ultimatum where refusing always ended badly for those beneath them. You knew what he wanted, what he wanted from you, and maybe there was a time you would have hated yourself for this—but you wanted it too.
You lifted yourself on your knees. Your hands trembled slightly as you obeyed, gripping the hem of your nightgown and slowly pulling it up over your hips. The fabric bunched around your waist, exposing your smooth bare skin to the cool air, as Ormund watched your every movement with those heavy-lidded eyes filled with burning desire.
Ormund didn't waste any time. His large hand was moving between them—those fingers that had just moments ago gripped you in fury were now working with an efficient tug at the laces of his trousers, pushing both his trousers and underclothes down just below his hips with a quick lift of his hips.
His arousal was already evident—a thick length straining against restraint from earlier, tension between anger and desire warring inside of him until lust won. He exhaled sharply with gritted teeth at finally being free. His cock stood proudly, flushed at the tip and twitching in anticipation. The veins along his length pulsed in time with his heartbeat—strong and angry. Your breath hitched, and your mouth watered at the sight. Ormund gripped himself firmly at the base before looking. Back at you expectantly without saying anything else, he didn't need to.
His hand remained wrapped firmly around himself, not stroking yet, just holding possessively while he waited for you. The message was clear: you would take what he allowed.
This wasn’t about affection or tenderness anymore; this was punishment disguised as pleasure—your obedience could be rewarded, or withheld entirely based on how well you took him. And Ormund expected nothing less than perfection from his wife right now.
You swallowed hard; your pulse was hammering in your ears as you shifted on top of his lap. Ormund wouldn't dare to help you, no guiding hands or soft words to ease the way. You had to do this yourself, just like everything else with him: prove yourself worthy of forgiveness through sheer effort. Prove that you weren’t just a spoiled princess like he thought you were.
You didn't hesitate to lower yourself onto him—he hated when you hesitated—his heat and hardness pressing against your inner thighs first before slowly pushing inside. A choked-out gasp escaped your lips at the stretch; he was always large and a demanding stretch. Your body tensed instinctively around the intrusion but gradually relaxed as more of him filled you up, your legs trembling after days without intimacy. The tension between anger and arousal made it feel even more intense than usual.
Ormund’s jaw locked tight at the sensation, a low groan rumbling through his chest as your heat enveloped him completely. Both of his hands settle firmly on your hips, fingers digging into your soft flesh hard enough that it would bruise later. One of the many reminders of this moment you would feel for days. A whimper escaped your lips despite biting down hard on them to stay quiet. This wasn't the time for noises of weakness; you did not wish to displease him further.
When you finally bottomed out against his hips, you had to stop your head from resting on his shoulder, tears filling your eyes from how full he made you feel.
The moment you settled fully against him, Ormund’s nostrils flared, his breath slipping past his lips heavier now. He didn't kiss you, didn't caress your face or stroke your hair like a husband might do to comfort his wife during such an intimate act. No, he just stared into your teary eyes with that unreadable intensity, part fury still simmering from earlier, part primal satisfaction at having you exactly where he wanted—filled and claimed by him.
“H-Husband!” You cried out in pleasure, slowly lifting yourself just until the tip remained inside, before sinking again. Not too fast because you knew he preferred controlled movements, but not too slow—laziness was unacceptable. The lewd sound of your wetness filled the room; you were too blinded by pleasure to feel humiliated.
His fingers flexed against your hips at the sounds you were making before one large hand softly gripped the back of your neck, forcing you forward until your forehead rested against his, his core clenching from your movements that only seemed to get faster. His breath fanned hot over your face as he stared at you for another tense moment—loving how fucked out you looked on his cock already—before finally crushing his mouth into yours in a searing kiss.
It was claiming, punishing. His teeth nipped at your bottom lip hard enough to sting and have you whine against his lips before his tongue slid past, demanding entry without asking for permission. You were his; he didn't need to ask. One of his hands moved from your hip as he wrapped his arm around your waist, while the other kept a firm hand on your nape. Keeping you close.
The kiss was all teeth and tongue, dominant, hungry, and tasted like fury and lust tangled together. Ormund kissed you with the same intensity he used to command his men, his mouth moving against yours with ruthless dominance while his arms around your waist squeezed tighter to keep you pressed flush against him as you rode him.
Every rock of your hips sent sparks of pleasure through both of your bodies; the heat between you was almost unbearable now, and when he finally broke the kiss to breathe, it wasn't far; just enough space for air before pulling you back into one. He pressed on the base of your spine firmly, pressing you down harder against him. You couldn’t stop the moans and whines from leaving your lips and pouring into his.
The satisfaction in his chest was burning hot.
You could feel every rigid muscle in his torso and chest, tensing beneath you where skin met his—his chest rising and falling fast under yours—as pleasure coiled tight inside of him. The sound of their skin slapping echoed through the bedchamber. Ormund was too caught up in the pleasure to care about anyone overhearing.
The sound that escaped your husband's throat wasn't just a moan; it was deep and guttural, almost pained in its pleasure. Rare of a man who prided himself on complete control—especially with you—but was teetering on the edge now because of you. His fingers tangled roughly into your hair, which drove him mad, a reminder of your cursed blood. He tilted his head back slightly to watch you, the way your body moved above him with desperate devotion, the look of pure pleasure.
“Show me, wife.” His voice came out rough with lust but still carried that commanding edge through his clenched teeth. His words weren’t gentle or romantic as he continued, “Show me how remorseful you are.”
A test. A demand wrapped in sinful temptation. He wanted proof of your penance, not just through apologies and tears anymore, but through this. Flesh and fire. Through every desperate roll of your hips against his lap, begging for his forgiveness without words. Through the way sweat beaded at your temples, chasing both punishment and reward simultaneously inside this heated embrace between husband and wife. Owner and the owned…
Oh, gods, how you want to obey him perfectly.
And so, without hesitation, driven by that desperate need to please him after drawing his blood. You wanted to be his good wife, so you obeyed with fervor. Your movements grew faster now, not just riding him but rolling your hips like a prayer. Each rise and fall of your hips had his hands gripping harder into your plush skin at the feeling of you squeezing around him as he pushed up into your wet heat from below.
Breathless gasps and moans tumbled from both of your lips between stolen biting kisses. Your hands braced on his shoulders for leverage—the only part of him he would allow you to touch—nails digging lightly into his muscle. His hands slid down to grip the plump skin of your ass, guiding your rhythm exactly how he liked it.
His jaw clenched as he felt your nails dig into his shoulders, pain mixed with pleasure. He tried to stay silent, not wanting to reward you with the sounds of his pleasure, but even he couldn’t stay silent forever—not when every drag of your tight heat around him threatened to unravel his restraint. The pretty noises you were trying to hold in didn’t help ease it.
The bedchamber was filled with the sounds of your shared passion at the feverish pace your bodies were moving at together, skin slapping, ragged breathing, and the occasional moan or whimper that slipped through. Ormund was losing himself in you; each exhale was hot against your lips as he watched you with hooded eyes. The sight of you unraveling about him—the way your face was twisted in pleasure, the moans leaving your parted lips—sent a possessive thrill through him.
Ormund’s fingers kneaded your ass possessively as he helped guide your movements to match exactly what he craved—the perfect punishing rhythm that made his hips jerk up instinctively to meet yours. Every time you came down hard on him, a low groan of pleasure rumbled deep from his chest. His upward thrusts were taking your breath away and had your thighs shaking; he was always precise when he fucked his wife into repentance.
His voice was a growl, dark and thick with need. “Faster.” He commanded, his hands squeezing the plush flesh of your ass harder as he lifted you slightly, only to slam you back down on him faster. Ormund’s hips snapped up sharply beneath you, the sudden change in pace and him filling you deeper than before, moans and slurred words of pleasure leaving your lips.
Ormund’s lips crashed against yours again, this time rougher and hungrier. His tongue claims your mouth with the same dominance he used to claim every other part of you. His teeth nipped at your bottom lip again before dragging down along your jawline and neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses and bites. Marking you all over your collarbone, each one stung sweetly, reminding you who you truly belonged to.
His breathing had turned uneven now, sweat glistening along his forehead and the defined lines of his chest that were pressing against yours. He could feel himself building fast, the coil in his stomach winding tighter with every slick slide inside you. You took him so perfectly; he molded every part of you to submit to him. He could feel that you were close, feel how your thighs trembled as you tried to keep up with his thrusts, your body nearly going limp in his arms from exhaustion.
“Look at me,” Ormund orders sharply as one of his hands abandoned its grip on your flesh to cup your neck roughly, forcing eye contact as he continued to fuck up into you. When your tear-filled eyes met his stormy gaze, a smirk spread across his face as he squeezed just enough to have your pace faltering. His voice was thick with desire and the twisted satisfaction of having you fall apart on top of him, “I want to see those pretty eyes when I make you fall apart.”
Ormund’s grip on your neck tightened just enough to make you gasp, his thumb pressing into the frantic pulse beneath your hot skin, a silent threat that if you looked away, there would be consequences. He gave you a command, and you didn't dare disobey. His dark eyes burned into yours, unrelenting, as he watched the tears spill over your lashes and soak his skin. Your expression was a perfect mix of overwhelmed pleasure and submission.
Each snap of his hips hitting that perfect spot inside you sent white-hot pleasure searing through your every nerve. Your lips parted around silent moans, but they soon turned into broken whimpers when the pleasure was too much to handle. He could feel the way you were clamping around him, how your grip on his shoulders got harder—more desperate, how your sweet moans got more pitchy. He could see how you controlled yourself until he gave you permission. Just like how he taught you. Good wife.
He nodded once, and almost instantaneously, you succumbed to the pleasure.
“Ormund!” A broken moan of pleasure tore from your lips as your peak crashed over you like a wave of pleasure so intense that your tears spilled freely down your cheeks once again as your body clenched around him, feeling dizzy from the overwhelming ecstasy coursing through your body. All you could think about was him, chanting his name in your head like a prayer.
Ormund’s hips nearly stilled at the feeling of you squeezing him tighter than before; a guttural groan ripped from his chest at the sight of how perfectly ruined he had made his wife look. Your burning skin covered in sweat and marks from his mouth, trembling limbs clinging to him, tear-stained face twisted into pure bliss because of him.
He watched intently as your peak overwhelmed every inch of you, your body begging you to stop and let the pleasure lull you into contentment. Your lashes fluttered, but you forced them to stay open at his command. Your body was trembling even worse now; overstimulated but still chasing that sweet feeling of gratification that only he could give you by blessing you with his seed. And gods did it please him—to have such control over you.
He didn’t close his eyes; no, he kept them open just like he demanded of you, drinking in every twitch of your face as ecstasy wrecked through both of you.
The moment Ormund came, his entire body tensed, every muscle locked in pure ecstasy. A low, desperate moan escaped him that had rarely been heard before—a man so composed and controlled unraveling completely because of you. His Sweet wife. His fingers flexed against your neck as his peak slammed into him, his seed spilling deep inside you with hot pulses that made your oversensitive walls flutter around him.
For several heartbeats, neither of you moved. The world outside your bedchamber ceased to exist; there was no talk of wars brewing beyond Oldtown’s walls or political intrigue at court—just sweat-slicked skin pressed together and shared breaths slowing gradually. Ormund didn't close his eyes; he kept his intense gaze locked on you as he drank in every detail—your sweat-glistening skin, the way your lips parted as you caught your breath, how utterly spent you looked from riding him so devoutly.
Then slowly, Ormund exhaled through his flared nostrils before pressing an unexpected kiss to your forehead—a rare gesture so soft it didn't feel like him. Not dominance or punishment this time, but something quieter: Satisfaction? Affection? It lingered only for a second before he shifted beneath you, enticing a small whimper from you.
He had to stop himself from smiling at the babbling thank-yous leaving your lips.
His hand on your bottom moved up to smooth down your spine while the one on your neck lifted to brush your damp strands of hair away from your face. His calloused fingertips gently brushed your wet cheeks with tears and sweat before he gripped your soft cheeks with his thumb and index finger, your lips pressing together in a cute pout.
If you weren’t so utterly fucked out, you might have seen the small glint of pride in your husband's eyes from how well you took him, how you submitted to him so beautifully once again. He would tell the cooks to make your favorite tonight. He didn't allow himself to linger in such feelings before he was commanding you once again, ”Go clean yourself, wife.”
His tamed dragon.
┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…sweetling mlist & main masterlist ❜❜
Იᰍ holy yap session this was, I had 2 redbull’s and a dream. i hope you enjoy this one bunnies, it was fun but very different to write and i enjoyed it, ormund has really enchanted me wowza 😻 please tell me your thoughts , ideas, and opinions, they are very important and wanted !! comments, reblogs and feedback is very welcomed !! 🐇
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