Ormund finds a filthy book in your chambers, and has to punish your indecency while reminding you of your gods given purpose.
cw: smut! uncle x niece incest, extreme power imbalance, twenty-ish year age gap (I’m thinking reader is Daeron’s older sister, so at least 18), guardian x ward, misogyny, religious abuse, religious psychosis, toxic relationship, spanking, fingering, p in v, praise and degradation, breeding if you squint
Vigilance, the Hightower’s ancestral Valyrian steel sword, weighed heavy in the strong hands of Ormund Hightower as he polished the coveted blade in his chambers, the man cherished the quiet moments he took to care for the sacred weapon, taking the time to admire the holy image of the Warrior etched in ivory at its hilt. As the eldest son of an eldest son, it was his holy charge to wield their house’s most precious sword - an honor that he appreciated to its fullest extent. His worshipful, reverent contemplation was interrupted by the expected knock on his door.
“Come in,” he instructed cooly, pulling his eyes from the blade to gaze up at his visitor. He watched as you, his niece and ward - and more formally, princess of the realm, pushed open the heavy wooden door of Lord Hightower’s private chambers and slid inside, letting the door fall shut behind you - leaving the two of you encased in his chambers alone.
“Uncle,” you greeted, performing a gentle curtsy, eyes scanning his tall form. He had his usual deep green doublet strewn across a chair, leaving him in nothing but his white linen shirt - unlaced at the throat - and breeches. It was odd for him to be so informally dressed so early in the day, but it was a welcome sight. You tried your best not to admire his form so openly, eyes settling on his face.
“Niece,” he nodded curtly, still using his cloth to tend to Vigilance as his eyes took you in from head to toe as well - his gaze critically sweeping over you, “Took you long enough to make your way here, I believe I told your lady in waiting to send for you ‘with haste.’” He emphasized the last two words, and an anxious cloud settled over you - he was already cross with you, the tension in the air palpable. Your mind went to all possible reasons.
“I came at once,” you defended gently, arms instinctively crossing over your middle under the scrutiny. Ormund could be patient when he wanted to be, but that courtesy rarely extended to you. “I would never wish to keep you waiting, My Lord,” you blurted out on instinct, hoping he didn’t mistake your explanation as an argument.
Of all the faults of Viserys, Ormund did have to admit that the King had sired a beauty. A tender, sensitive thing that yielded to his moods and wishes so easily. Ormund knew he had this girl in the palm of his hand.
“Mmm,” he hummed in acknowledgement before swiftly sheathing Vigilance and placing the weapon on the oak table in front of him before striding over to his chair, sitting down and resting his back against the wood and spreading his legs wide - making himself comfortable.
You watched as he suddenly pulled a small, leather bound book from his smaller side table - and the familiar burn of shame and humiliation crept up chest, your heart immediately pumped faster and blood rushed to your face, betraying your embarrassment. You knew exactly what he was holding in his hand. To your horror, he had found the book you thought you had strategically hidden beneath your bed. Ormund took liberty with your chambers, often wandering inside while you were doing your lessons with the Maester or at the Sept, and making sure there was nothing amiss - your privacy be damned.
“Would you care to tell me what this is, girl?” he questioned as he absently flipped through the pages. You winced, knowing he would surely be reading the texts describing the character’s sexual encounters - as there were plenty of them.
“Just a book my sister Heleana sent to me from King’s Landing, My Lord,” you explained quickly, “She sent a note with it, saying it was one of her favorites, I thought maybe if I read it, I could feel closer to her-”
“Your sister,” he cut you off, “is a fool. It’s a damned shame your mother didn’t send her to ward here as well,” he shook his head as he read the pages, “another beautiful young girl sullied by the queer customs of your house of origin,” he spat. “Married off to her own brother like a savage. He’s certainly off somewhere, drunkenly fornicating with whores - too busy to tend to his wife, allowing her to read smut and send it to my ward” he continued, disgusted as he continued to look through the book. “This,” he held the book up before throwing it down on the side table once again, “is filth, niece.”
The book Heleana had sent you was a romance, written by a woman in King’s Landing. You had been eagerly devouring the material in the privacy of your own chambers late in the night. You thought you had hid it carefully enough, as you knew Ormund would find some fault in it - or would prefer you to read the books he had selected for you himself.
Education was of great importance to Ormund, and he made sure his wards were learned in all of the important things he deemed necessary for highborns. He had hand selected books from his personal library on his favorite subjects. The histories of House Hightower and Old Town itself, of course - but also on philosophy, history of the realm more broadly, languages, anatomy..
In truth, you found most of the books Ormund instructed Daeron and yourself to read dry as the deserts of Dorne. So the book from Helena had been a godsend against the boredom that settled into you at times while Daeron was practicing his swordsmanship and Ormund was tending to the pressing matters that came with being Lord of Oldtown.
“I’m sorry, My Lord,” you apologized, the embarrassment flowing through you almost unbearable.
Ormund continued with his calculating gaze upon you, and you wanted to shrink and scurry away like a mouse. “You are a spoiled little girl,” he stated with ice in his tone, “reading this filth while you could be reading from my library, some people would kill for the knowledge that is so freely offered to you,” he scoffed, “Do you know how privileged you are to even know how to read at all, girl? A skill I personally made sure you acquired while in my care. And you waste it on frivolous nonsense.”
You stood in silence, shame over taking you as the blood in your face burned your cheeks a bright red. “You are right, I’m sorry, My Lord, I will do better from now on,” you pleaded, desperately wanting his berating to stop. You were moments away from getting on your knees, clasping your hands and praying to Ormund himself for forgiveness.
Letting out a long exhale, Ormund’s expression softened. The tension that filled his chambers relented a fraction. “Come,” he beckoned you with his hand, gesturing for you to stand in front of his chair.
You obeyed, standing in between his open legs. He did another once over on your body before landing on your face, “You are a good girl,” he smiled earnestly, “You speak kindly and say your prayers, I have raised you in the light of the Seven and the Father smiles upon you,” the praise made your body immediately relax, “but there is a taint in your blood, the Targaryens are a savage race, so any contact with your father’s family threatens to undo the effort I have put into your upbringing. You are pure and untouched by the sins that devour everyone outside of the Hightower. A privilege very few get to experience. Do you understand?”
You nodded, relief flushing over you as he reached out for your hand. You offered it and he brought your knuckles to his lips briefly, holding your gaze as the tension in your shoulders melted at his affection - before using his grip to spin you around. The blush crept its way back to your face as you knew what he was going to do next.
“I must keep a fair but firm grip on you,” he started, admiring the back of you for a moment before bringing a hand to the ribbon at the back of your gown, gently pulling on it until it came undone, “I must be the guiding hand in your life, and that means administering discipline when necessary,” his voice a low purr behind you.
The gown now hung loose on your shoulders, and he spun you back around to face him. “Undress,” he spoke, his gaze returning to one of scrutiny again. You obeyed, letting the gown fall to a puddle on the ground around your feet. You silently shed your small clothes as well under his evaluating eyes until you were bare before him, shifting under his gaze as he appraised your form. It was nothing he had not seen before, but the harsh evaluation left you squirming.
“Over my knee,” he commanded, and you moved with haste to obey - finding solace in being able to hide your face from him. His cock was already hard and straining against his breeches, something you ignored for now as you lay over him and felt the comforting warmth of his body and the fabric of his clothes against your bare skin. You were happy for the fact that he didn’t move to reach for his belt, as you preferred for him to use his hand when he disciplined you.
Ormund struck the swell of your cheek once, twice, three times - causing you to bite back squeals at the sting - before pausing to knead the reddened flesh in his hand, admiring his work and soothing your skin with his touch. “Just a few more, my sweetling,” he purred, “You’re taking it very well.”
The praise helped you endure the next three strikes, as well as send a wave of heat through your cunt. Spankings from your guardian have caused this sort of reaction from you since you had neared womanhood. The combination of his praise, the degradation of the act, the simple fact that he remained clothed while you lay bare at his whim did something irreparable to your psyche and you secretly loved when he punished you - sometimes fantasizing about it in the midst of doing something worthy of punishment.
“I do not wish to hurt you, sweet niece,” he explained, his voice steady and confident as ever, “I only wish to absolve you of your sins - to free you, to redeem you.” Three more, and the feel of his palm soothing the sting.
You couldn’t hide the truth from Ormund, either - as all he had to do was peer down between your legs to find your cunt, dripping with desire. In truth, he didn’t even have to look. He could smell your arousal the moment it hit the air.
“Something you would know, niece, if you were keeping up to date on your studies,” he began - and you felt his hand travel to the place you wanted it most. “The word ‘cunt’ has plenty of disputed roots,” his knuckles grazed between your folds lazily and casually, gathering and smearing your slick, “but the strongest claim to the origin is ‘sheath,’” he let out an amused laugh, “a place to keep a sword. Isn’t that interesting?”
Your breath quickened as you spread your legs wider in an attempt to feel his touch more thoroughly. “Yes, very interesting, Uncle,” you rushed to answer him, knowing from experience that he’d stop if you didn’t respond quick enough.
“Yes, yes,” his voice smug, a smirk tugging his lips, “and what is a sheath without a sword, hm?”
His knuckles began circling your pearl, and you involuntarily pressed your hips into his hand - silently pleading for more.
“Nothing, My Lord,” you answered breathlessly, feeling his cock twitch against your tummy at the use of his title, “A sheath with no sword is useless.”
“Ah, yes, indeed, Princess,” he smiled, and he felt you gush in return. Your title coming from his mouth sounded filthy and teasing - with none of the respect and reverence others used while addressing you. “A sheath with no sword is useless,” he repeated back to you, pleased with your response, “so it follows - a cunt without a cock to use it is useless, yes?”
He finally pushed two thick fingers between your slippery lips, finding a warm and wanting cunt ready for him to take at his leisure.
“Y-yes, My Lord,” you agreed with haste, gasping as he fucked you on his hand.
“Women need men in order to live out their purpose,” he continued, “they come into this world and grow to womanhood, and immediately start whining and crying and tearing each other apart over one man’s cock or another,” he never stopped his attention on your pussy, “they become hysterical without it, women need to be fucked well and often if they wish to retain any level of sanity.”
“You are so right, My Lord,” you keened as best as you could, desperation gripping you as you gripped his chair for stability.
“Which is why you’re so fortunate to have been given to me, my sweetling,” he purred, working your pussy diligently, knowing exactly how to touch you to make you come apart. To make you his. Ormund had been using his power over you in indecent ways for some time now - and you welcomed it whole heartedly, begging for it once he wore you down enough.
“You will always have a man’s attention,” he promised, continuing his efforts on your cunt - pressing deeper and moving faster, a third finger joining, “Your Lord will always be here for you.”
Your cunt squeezed his hand and he groaned low in his throat, his cock straining against your belly painfully now - his resolve to finish you first waning. He could always tell when you were on the precipice. “Give it to me, Princess,” he commanded, “Give yourself to me.”
Ormund held you through the crash of your peak, his fingers working you gracefully as you cried and drooled on his lap.
With a satisfied, predatory glint in his eyes - Ormund finally used his strength to pick you up and press you down face first on the oak table, your cheek resting on the wood and your ass, still fiery from the spanks, presented to him - right next to where he placed Vigilance earlier.
He let out a frustrated groan as he undid the laces of his breeches, pulling his cock out before smearing your slick on the tip and pushing into your cunt. Finally, sheathing his sword. He quickly began fucking you with a punishing pace, gripping your hips and moving you up and down his cock like you weighed nothing.
Your maidenhead was good and gone many moons ago, Ormund was not going to take the risk of someone else taking it. He was not going to go through the trouble of raising the perfect, pure, pious, beautiful princess and let some lesser lord take the coveted prize of her virginity.
Ormund justified this by telling you that he would never let anyone else take you to wife. He would burn the letters of lords asking for your hand and keep you locked in his chambers of the Hightower forever. This consummation made you one flesh in the eyes of the Seven, or so he told you. The two of you were man and wife in all the ways that mattered. You were all too ready to swallow this explanation, as the feeling of his cock stretching and filling you all the way to your guts was too holy to deny. It suited you very well, as every time you had dreamed of your future husband as a young girl, you had compared this imaginary man to the man who had raised you. You hoped your husband would be as strong, wise, tall and handsome as Ormund was - finding any man who lacked in these qualities unacceptable in the shadow of your uncle. The naivity and blind trust you gave to Ormund made him impossibly hard - the thought always threatened to cause him to spill.
“Your cunt feels so good wrapped around my cock, like you were made for me,” he breathed out, voice heavy with lust, “The gods gave you to me, my love,” that pet name always stirred something deep inside your chest, “we deserve each other.” Ormund often groaned out sentiments like these in the throes of lust. Rather he truly believed them or not, you could not tell. All that mattered was the attention and praise he was lavishing on you now.
Suddenly, Ormund gripped your hips even tighter - surely leaving bruises in his wake - and found his release inside your cunt. “Seven hells,” he cursed as he spilled, fucking you through it. You often wondered when the consequences of your actions would catch up to the two of you, and one of these secret unions would result in a child. What would Ormund do, when faced with the reality of having a Targaryen bastard on the way? You did not know, all you knew was that you would trust in the Father given wisdom of your guardian. That bearing a child for him would bind the two of you together forever - a physical manifestation of your submission and trust - you were all too eager to oblige him.
In the aftermath, he kept you pinned beneath his hold as he pet your hair affectionately - breathing deeply, recovering. He leaned over your body and pressed a chaste kiss to your temple before pulling out and lacing his breeches once again.
He stepped away from you and settled down in his chair once again, picking up his quill and parchment - continuing his duties as Lord of Oldtown as you rose from your place on the table and dressed as best as you could by yourself - feeling his spend leak down your thighs.
“Do catch up on your reading, niece,” he commanded softly without taking his attention from the parchment, “Idleness is unbecoming of a lady.” He dismissed you with a wave of his hand, and you vanished back into the halls of the Hightower.
Huge thank you to 10 years of catholic school, which made me who I am today. An unhinged internet person working out my religious trauma by writing smut fanfic about the incest dragon show.
I need to be Ormund Hightower's favourite cupbearer and have him tell me how good of a job I've been doing and how happy he is with me taking care of him
ormund hightower who vehemently opposes every marriage prospect that is proposed for his sweet, innocent ward. who scares off all potential suitors and berates you if he even catches a glimpse of you talking to one. who shames you, forces you to recite scripture from the holy books until you’re in tears, begging for forgiveness. ormund hightower who insists he performs pussy inspections weekly to ensure your maidenhead is intact and will reward you for being so faithful with his tongue.
make yourself available to me pt. 2 - Ormund Hightower x reader
Ormund Hightower refuses to accidentally make any bastards - which leaves the two of you with limited options.
words: 767
cw: smut! just pure smut, oral (male and female receiving), fingering, degradation, yearning, breeding if you squint, religion, religious psychosis
“Little minx,” Ormund reprimanded you as he knelt before you between your legs as you lay on the rich silk sheets of his bed, three of his fingers stretching your soaked cunt, your juices pouring onto his hand and the silk. “You tempt me with this sweet, tight cunt. Driving me stark raving mad,” he spat, the anger in his tone only serving to make your cunt squeeze around his hand even tighter.
You and Ormund have been spending every evening pleasuring each other since that first night he called you into his chambers to gift you the Seven Pointed Star you wore around your neck, which you haven’t removed since he so carefully closed the clasp around you.
The two of you would spend hours between each other's legs, using your mouths and hands to satisfy the desires of the flesh. Ormund had one boundary - however - he would not fuck you completely, he would not take your cunt. He could not risk making a bastard child and bringing shame to his house.
Being pleasured with your mouth and spending down your throat certainly scratched the itch for a little while - but he had grown accustomed to a decade’s worth of a wet, wanting cunt available to him morning, noon, and night.
Ormund was pleasuring you first tonight. “I could smell your slick across the fucking castle all damned day,” he claimed as he grabbed you after closing his chamber door with haste, and threw you on your back on the bed - bunching up your gown and getting to work.
It was true, you had been wet since the morning - burning desire coursing through your veins at the memory of the things the two of you did in this bed the night before.
He worked his thick fingers in and out of your tight hole, “This would feel so good wrapped around my cock,” he groaned, frustrated.
Despite your unworthiness, you wanted to beg it of him. You bit your tongue so as to not offend him, not tempt him to stray away from what the gods had told him to be acceptable. But oh, how you wanted it badly. You wanted Ormund to pull his fingers out of your aching cunt, pull his cock out of his breeches and take you mercilessly - the way he took your mouth.
Yet you settled for this, nearing your edge. He could tell, as he leaned in and placed his warm lips on your pearl, lavishing your sacred places with attention. “Good girl,” the vibrations from the timber of his voice helping you reach your destination, “Give it to me,” he commanded.
You found your peak, pleasure building and building until suddenly the bright light of the gods flashed before your eyes. He continued his attentions through your orgasm until you whined and involuntarily pushed him away with over stimulation.
With how wet and stretched he had left your cunt, he knew you would be pliant and easily taken. He could put you in whatever position he desired and have his way with you. Hell, he knew you wouldn’t protest to his spend either.
“Fuck,” he huffed, “Must you make this so difficult, tempress?” Your pussy still beckoning him.
“S-sorry, My Lord-” you began to apologize as you came back down to Earth, but he was already picking you up and spinning you around. So now that instead of your cunt resting on the edge of the bed to give him easy access, your mouth was - laying on your back with your head draping over the edge of the bed.
“Open,” he demanded as he pulled himself out, immediately sliding into your throat and fucking your face. You immediately gagged, eyes watering and drooling down your face.
“I know you want it,” he purred, finally getting some gratification on his cock, “I know you want it in your cunt,” he placed his hand on your throat, as to feel himself fuck your throat in and out through the flesh, “I know you want my bastards in your belly.”
If you could nod, you would have. But your head was preoccupied with Ormund’s use. He continued to work out the content of his balls with your throat as you strategically breathed through your nose until he finally exploded deep inside, coating your insides with his spend and filling your belly through your mouth instead of your cunt.
He pulled out and you inhaled deeply, coughing while regaining your wits. And you secretly hoped the gods would send Ormund another, less restricting message about his relationship with you in his dreams tonight.
make yourself available to me - Ormund Hightower x reader
words: 2k
After Lord Hightower’s wife dies fulfilling her purpose, Ormund needs your help to satisfy his needs.
cw: smut! dark themes, oral sex (male receiving), misogyny, religion, religious psychosis
Tragedy struck Lord Ormund Hightower’s house when his wife had bled out while giving birth to his fourth child, his first daughter. Lady Hightower had given birth beautifully to his three sons, all the labors lasting less than a day - all the babes born strong and healthy. Ormund gave all the glory to his own piety, that the gods blessed him with a perfect woman to give him perfect children because he had been ever faithful to the Seven.
So when his wife started her labors for the fourth time, Ormund had thought nothing of it. He continued his day as he always would, performing his duties as Lord of Oldtown while the midwives attended to his wife and waited to meet his newest child. His confidence was misguided.
Lord Hightower held his healthy baby girl, Bethany, for the first time while standing in a puddle of his wife’s blood. He would have that floor scrubbed by servants hundreds of times for the months to come, attempting to hide the shame and stench of his family’s misfortune.
Each of their children had their own girl servant to care for them in infancy and toddlerhood. The first three times, Lady Hightower had spent the first few months of postpartum caring for the babe herself, appointing a girl to trust the babe with herself once the time had come. Now with her gone, it was Ormund’s sole decision.
Being a maid servant inside Oldtown’s very own castle walls since you were a child, you had always had a special set of eyes for the House’s lord. He was scholarly and refined - unlike most men you had known in your life. He was always stylishly and tidily dressed, and always smelled divine anytime you had gotten close enough to inhale his scent - also unlike most men you had known. Not to mention he was attractive. A man reaching above six feet, broad shoulders and handsome face. You knew he had been a dutiful, loving husband - and you had heard his wife’s moans of pleasure when you walked past their personal chambers more than a few times.
Sometimes you would even linger longer than necessary, keen to clearly hear the filthy words he was speaking - to hear him moan as well.
In truth, you had thought Ormund the epitome of masculine grace and godliness. So when he told you that he had chosen you to be Bethany’s caretaker, you had been flattered beyond belief.
For months to come, you spent your days attending Sept - which was a daily requirement for every person in Lord Hightower’s castle - and taking the upmost care of Bethany. You rose when she rose and spent all day playing with, feeding and bathing her. You even got her very first smile. You were in heaven.
One night, you were walking to your private chambers after putting Bethany to bed - looking forward to relaxing and getting a good night’s rest - when Ormund emerged from the shadows with an easy smile on his face.
“My Lord,” you greeted shyly with a polite bow of your head.
“I just peaked at Bethany sleeping in her cradle,” Ormund told you, beaming, “you do so well with her, she smells divine.”
“Thank you, My Lord. She loves her baths,” you smiled, reminiscing on watching the babe splash around in the warm water.
“Come with me,” the Lord commanded gently, “I want to show you something.” He started to walk in the direction of his private chambers and you followed him, your mind swimming with possibilities.
Your heart started to race faster and faster as he pushed the heavy wooden door open and gestured for you to walk through in front of him.
“The gods told me to make you Bethany’s caretaker, you know,” he told you as he let the door close behind him, encasing the two of you alone in his chambers together. The thought made heat rise between your legs. “I had always thought you special.”
The compliment warmed you so. “Oh, that is very kind of you to say, my Lord.”
“Stand over there, will you?” He gestured toward the corner of the room where a full body length mirror rested, “Look at yourself.”
Obeying this command, you strode carefully over to the mirror and gazed at your own reflection - even if you did so a bit reluctantly, curious as to what Lord Hightower’s intentions were.
He stood behind you, the two of you facing the large, golden rimmed mirror that had been a gift from some lord or another for Bethany’s birth - you trembled slightly, trying your best to breathe evenly as the Lord of Oldtown pulled something out of his pocket.
It was a necklace. A shiny, golden thing with a small Seven Pointed Star as its pendant.
“This is just a token of my appreciation,” he purred deeply, carefully wrapping the chain around your neck and closing the clasp, “Caring for children is a woman’s divine purpose,” he said earnestly before a smirk tugged his lips, “among other things.”
That could have passed as an innocent aside, but you could feel the electricity in the words and what had been meant by that. You had heard Lord Ormund’s conversations on philosophy with other lords during your time in service to the Hightowers,”Women would be much happier if they just accepted their gods given place is in the marriage bed,” Ormund declared to another lord as they spoke about Rhaenyra - what a polite and mannered way to say women were created by the gods to be pleasure dolls for men. He had said it regretfully, as if the realm would be in peace once again if the bitch with a dragon could just simply understand her place. Your face had burned with bashfulness as you filled their cups with wine. You always avoided looking into the highborn’s faces, but especially so then, even as Lord Hightower’s eyes shifted to you, as if he wanted to make sure you heard his words.
You had walked with haste to your chambers that night when you had been relieved of your duties, and used your fingers to ease the burning ache left in his word’s wake.
And now, here he was, reminding you of those words as he stood so close behind you, intimately placing jewelry on your neck like a collar. You hoped he couldn’t feel your pulse as his fingers brushed your skin.
“Thank you, My Lord,” you almost stumbled on your words with nerves, gazing upon the prize that now adorned the hollow of your throat, “I don’t know what to say.”
“Just say you’ll stay here in my employ and continue to diligently care for Bethany as you have,” his hands left the necklace and suddenly you felt them slide around your waist as he reached in front of you, carefully undoing the laces of your gown, “..and that you’ll let me help you exercise your other divine purpose.”
A shiver racked your body. Certainly, you had misunderstood him. Your mind must have been filthy to go to such a depraved place, yet you watched through the mirror as he expertly pulled the string keeping your gown on apart until it loosened enough to fall off of you - leaving you naked barring the Seven Pointed Star decorating your neck.
The exposure of your body, the violation of your dynamic, should have sent warning bells through your mind - but all you felt was joy and arousal, thinking you must have gone to sleep and were having a particularly good dream. But the longer you stayed in this moment, the more real it felt. You were certain he could hear your heartbeat now, and you could see in your reflection that your cheeks were bright - as bright as you’ve ever seen them. All you could do was stay as silent as a mouse and wait for his next move. With all the grace he did everything with, he held your gaze - watching your face intently through the mirror - and leaned forward until his lips brushed the shell of your ear.
“Kneel before me,” he whispered, “Like you do at the sept.”
A gasp escaped you at his words, yet you found yourself moving without thinking. You stepped out of your dress that had fallen to your ankles on the ground before turning to finally face him, and sinking down to your knees.
He gave you an easy, delighted laugh. “So eager to obey,” he praised as he analyzed your naked form below him - reaching down to place his palm on your cheek affectionately.
With his other hand, he started to undo the laces on his own breeches. “Do you know what to do?”
You had heard the other girls talk and giggle about things of this nature before. About how men like when you put their cock in your mouth, and use your mouth to pleasure them. Saying a girl had “dirty knees” meant she was a slut, which you understood to be an insult. So you just gazed up at him, looking at the tent his hard cock created in his pants before looking up into his eyes - and nodded.
The pleased smile that had been on his face was replaced by a new expression as he pulled his hard, leaking cock out of his clothes. You watched with your lips parted in awe as the pious Lord of Oldtown stroked himself, fisting his own cock, over the length of your face.
“The gods have spoken to me in a dream,” he breathed, eyes lidded with lust, “that it is not good for me to be without the pleasures of a woman,” his other hand reached for the crown of your head - guiding you forward, “so in my bereavement, before I find another woman worthy enough to take to wife,” he continued stroking his length, “I shall use you.”
You listened and watched intently, desperate not to miss a moment of this exchange and his attention. Suddenly you felt a pang of guilt, hoping the gods would forgive you for being happy of another woman’s death. The guilt mingled with the arousal to create an entirely new sensation inside you.
“Open.” He spoke, and you obeyed.
He held your hair with a fair but firm grip, guiding your head as he pushed his cock into your waiting mouth. He hissed instantly at the sensation of your tongue.
“The lusts of the flesh are too heavy for someone with a calling as high as mine to endure alone,” he continued speaking as you continued your task, taking him as deep as you could.
The noises of your efforts filled the chamber, and his moans and pleasure and praise layered on top. He spoke gentle commands to you, teaching you how to pleasure him. “Hollow your cheeks, glide your tongue up and down, taste my stones, oh yes, fuck, back on my cock, deeper, faster.”
Soon, you were sputtering around him - gagging on his cock as he forced you to take him down to the tonsils. Drool dripped down your chin as his wild eyes looked into yours. “Oh good girl,” he praised, “you’re better than I imagined,” he told you before gripping your head and fucking your throat - deep to the collarbone. The thought of Lord Ormund imagining you pleasuring with your mouth sent a fresh wave of heat through your cunt. Your eyes stung with tears but you held fast to your divine purpose.
He finally came down your throat, cock twitching violently and groaning loudly. The load was huge - thick, pent up spend shooting down your throat and straight into your tummy. You now knew what “swallowing” meant in this context.
Ormund breathed deeply as he pulled out of your mouth and gathered himself. He casually laced his breeches, “I’m very pleased with you,” he gave your cheek a pet affectionately, “this will be a normal part of your responsibilities, you will make yourself available to me as I see fit going forward.”
cw: smut!, misogyny, breeding, married couple sex, religion, reader is kind of a pick me, Team Green propaganda, im ovulating oops
Ormund’s favorite thing about you, his dutiful wife, aside from your youth and beauty, was how you understood the differences between men and women. You understood that his holy purpose was on the battlefield and yours was in the marriage bed - pleasuring him and giving him heirs. You knew your place was beneath him - both metaphorically and literally.
You were a happy woman - unsullied by the queer new ideas transpiring in the realm, such as a woman could rule the Seven Kingdoms. The thought would have pulled a laugh from him in the past, but now he felt the sting of resentment as he prepared to fight this ugly war so his nephew could sit upon the Iron Throne, and more importantly - so natural order would return to the realm.
Ormund had thought it egregious when Viserys had placed Rhaenyra next in line of succession. Surely, his Uncle Otto and cousin Alicent, the former hand and queen, would sort Viserys out and talk some reason into him. It disgusted him that his poor cousin did her duty, sacrificing her body to give Viserys three sons, just for him to turn a blind eye to it and give the throne to a spoiled, insolent girl.
You were a stark contrast to Rhaneyra - the willful brat who would rather squeeze out bastard after bastard then bear her husband’s trueborn heirs, and let those very bastards and other men die fighting for her to sit upon the throne to play out her farce of a leadership.
To Ormund, you were the perfect embodiment of femininity. The Maiden and the Mother themselves had blessed you with immense beauty and wisdom - and he reaped the benefits of those gifts everyday.
He knew what a real happy woman looked like. He knew it by the way he watched you find joy in your pregnancies and deliveries of his children - all of them coming out with the auburn curls, brown eyes and ivory skin of the Hightowers, leaving no doubt to who had fathered them.
He knew it by the way your cunt dripped for him and you begged him to spend inside it every opportunity. How you gazed up at him through your eyelashes shyly, blush still creeping on your cheeks at his attention - even though you had been wed over a decade now. How you would drop to your knees in front of his chair as he wrote letters to other lords, and use your mouth to pleasure him with no prompting. How you obeyed his every command happily, trusting his Father given judgement.
The night before his departure to battle had befallen them, and you were as wanton and desperate as ever - especially so, knowing it would be many moons before you were reunited with your lord husband.
Ormund had come to his bed to find you in nothing but your silk night gown, and he made sure to take you in every way a man could take a woman, “You will be good while I am away, yes?” he breathed while he knelt behind you, fucking you while your face was pressed into the mattress, “You will keep these legs closed?” He knew the answer, but he loved to tease you about your lustful disposition.
“Of course, husband!” you gasped, face burning and grateful you could hide it in the silks on the bed. “I would never-” you continued to ramble, but he shushed you.
“Shhhh, I know, I know, my love,” he purred, “I’m only jesting,” his voice dropped a register, “I know this cunt belongs to me.” It’s only ever been his. You had been a virgin on your wedding night - pure, untouched by any other man. Ormund cherished taking your maidenhead - the memory making his cock twitch.
You gasped as Ormund suddenly pulled out and used his strength to flip you around, laying you down on your back and pulling your legs to his shoulders in a mating press - his favorite way to have you.
“I will miss this,” he gazed down at your union, watching as your cunt stretched to accommodate him, “I will miss these,” his hands reached forward and squeezed your breasts, his masculine palms engulfing them entirely easily while you gasped, “I will miss this mouth,” he took the opportunity your gasp gave him to lean forward and claim your mouth in a wet kiss - tasting you nearly to the tonsils.
Your heart ached at the thought of your husband being without the touch and pleasure of a woman. It wasn’t good for any man to spend his nights alone without a woman to warm his bed, but your husband deserved that least of all.
“You have a holy purpose before you, husband,” you breathed as he pulled away from the kiss to look upon your face. You choked on a moan as he ravaged you even more passionately. “You will r-restore order and,” you gasped, “dignity to the realm, you will bring glory to our house, they will write about you in the histories, how you saved us from damnation, for centuries to come.” You spoke as clearly as you could as he plowed you, the last word breaking off in a scream of pleasure as fucked up into your guts.
“Oh, you are a dream, my sweetling,” Ormund groaned, dropping his hand down to rub your pearl with his fingers as a reward for your encouraging words. “If every man had a wife like you the realm would know peace,” he growled, taking your mouth in a filthy kiss again.
You screamed into his mouth as he toyed with your most sensitive place, feeling his every thrust against your cervix - so close to your womb. Your skin prickled and warmed at the same time as you peaked around his cock, whining at the over stimulation once you came down from your high.
“I hope my seed takes root inside your womb yet again,” he grunted, using both hands to hold your throat to keep his grip while he used you mercilessly, he knew you could take it, “so you will have a piece of me within you to remember me by until my return.”
“Yes!” Of course, you were already begging, you begged like this every single day - and he never grew tired of it. “Give me your seed, husband!”
Ormund gave you what you wanted, groaning as his cock weeped and unloaded - painting your womb with rope after rope of his spend.
Even as Ormund pulled out of you and settled down behind you into a loving embrace that you would usually fall asleep in, he sensed that both of you felt too restless with nerves - knowing what the morning would bring. He knew the two of you would try to settle those nerves with a few more love making sessions before the sun rose and called him to his holy purpose.
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 and devil i know by suki waterhouse. go listen to them!
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.
Ormund Hightower was making his way towards the meeting spot Daemon Targaryen had specified in a letter that was sent to him requesting his presence for a…discussion.
His men had advised against going, knowing Daemon’s nature - this could be a trap. But Ormund decided to face his opponent head on - wearing his armor and bringing his sword as precaution. Once he reached Daemon’s tent, he dismounted his horse and strode towards the meeting place.
Upon nearing the other man’s tent, he heard you. The unmistakable sound of a woman getting fucked. Your moans and begs got louder and louder the closer he got.
Ormund rolled his eyes and pulled the tent open. He had come all this way, he would not be kept waiting - Daemon could finish up with this whore later.
Upon walking in, Ormund’s eyes immediately landed on you. You were on all fours on Daemon’s bed while the Rogue Prince took you from behind like a bitch. You were facing the tent door, but your eyes were closed with your cheek pressed to the bed - enjoying yourself too much to notice Ormund’s presence. Ormund’s cock stirred.
You only let your eyes flutter open when Daemon slowed his thrusts, “Lord Hightower,” Daemon greeted, “you are very prompt.”
You immediately tried to squirm away from Daemon, wishing to cover yourself with a blanket and scurry elsewhere - but Daemon gripped your hips to keep you in place, continuing to fuck you.
“You requested my presence,” Ormund stated, gaze shifting between Daemon and yourself. He noticed your cheeks were rosy, he couldn’t tell if it was from your passionate love making or embarrassment.
“Yes,” Daemon grinned, “I’m a bit busy at the moment, would you care to join us?”
Ormund let out a cold chuckle, “Did you request me here to waste my time?”
“We can…play nice..for a little while, can’t we?” Daemon purred. You knew Daemon loved to push boundaries and play games. You couldn’t tell what his strategy was here, but the idea of being shared by the two military commanders of this war was making your cunt weep and spasm.
Daemon reached and gripped your hair, forcing your face higher to give Ormund a full view of you. “Her mouth looks rather lonely, does it not?”
Ormund’s eyes studied your face, for a moment you thought he had been offended at the offer, and you braced for whatever consequence may come from it. But he locked eyes with you and gave him a pleading, puppy dog look - and opened your mouth to let your tongue spill out, begging.
“Gods be good,” Ormund sighed before striding over to you, beginning to disrobe enough to let his straining cock out.
Daemon huffed out a surprised laughed.
“Not as pious as you like to play, are you?”
“I haven’t had a woman in weeks,” Ormund admitted, “you’ll have to understand if my..standards of morality..are lower than usual.”
Daemon laughed again, lowly, “All’s fair in love and war,” he turned his gaze to you, “Isn’t that right, love?”
All you could do was shiver and moan as both men turned their attention to you, drool pouring out of your mouth. “Yes, your grace!” you responded quickly, you knew from experience that Daemon would stop fucking you and find something else to do if you were too fucked out to respond to him.
“This one’s certainly pretty,” Ormund remarked as he reached down to stroke your cheek with his knuckles, gathering your drool on his fingers in the process.
You locked eyes with your temporary friend and Daemon chuckled as he felt your cunt tighten and gush at the compliment.
“She’s excited,” Daemon announced with a grin.
Ormund watched your face as he pushed his thumb into your waiting mouth, he grazed your teeth and you watched him pause as a thought came to his mind.
“You haven’t told her to use these pretty teeth on me, have you?” He thumbed your lips to reveal your pearly whites to himself. Ormund was ever conscientious.
Daemon laughed as he continued to fuck you, your eyes rolling back slightly - revealing to Ormund how good Daemon’s cock felt inside you.
“You think I would have your cock bitten off by a whore?” Daemon seemed almost flattered, “What kind of beast do you take me for?”
“Just seems..” Ormund sighed, temptation still beckoning him, “..a bit risky for my taste. To put my cock in the enemy’s mouth.”
Daemon rolled his eyes, apparently annoyed at the lord’s carefulness. He pulled out of your pussy and you whined from the loss. “Why don’t you take her cunt, then? No teeth in there.”
Ormund gazed down at your form, on your hands and knees, and decided to press his luck even further, “I like to look upon a woman’s face as I take her.”
“Picky, you are,” Daemon sneered before lifting you up easily, each leg resting on his arms as you rested your back on his chest - holding you up to display your cunt to Ormund.
“Good thing she has three holes,” Daemon grinned, easily lifting you up and pressing his already wet cock into your ass and sinking you down onto himself.
Your eyes widened and you whined at the intrusion. You had taken Daemon’s cock there before, but it was an adjustment every time.
Ormund watched this display as he finally reached to pull his cock out, “Are all King’s Landing women this…” he wanted to say ‘filthy’ “..experienced?”
Daemon chuckled as he lifted you up and down slowly, using your ass to milk his cock. “Just the ones I use, I suppose.”
Ormund’s hands joined Daemon’s on your legs, holding you spread open under your knees. Daemon could easily lift you on his own - but with Ormund’s help you felt weightless.
Daemon stopped his rhythm for a moment to allow Ormund to finally press his cock into your wet, waiting cunt.
“Oh,” you gasped and moaned as the two men were finally inside you at once. Your cheeks burned with the openness and vulernability of feeling split in two.
You reached behind you to grip the familiar comfort of Daemon but found it more physically comfortable to lean forward and grip Ormund’s strong shoulders instead, resting against him and panting against his neck.
“Atta girl,” Daemon praised as the two men settled on a rhythm that suited both of them, “How does that feel?”
So full, so vulnerable. “So, so good, your grace,” you sobbed, feeling your juices already dripping down Ormund’s cock as your hands sought him out for stability.
Your head fall back to rest of Daemon’s shoulder and Ormund took the opportunity to lean forward and lick a stripe up the left side of your neck, groaning at the taste and smell of your sweat - and you moaned from the attention.
“What do you say to Lord Hightower for making you feel so good?” Daemon purred in your ear on your right.
“Thank you, my lord!” You answered in a desperate sob. The politeness pulled a groan from Ormund.
The two men grew increasingly desperate for you, grunting as they took their pleasure with you. You were limp with your own pleasure between them. “This tight, wet cunt is going to make me spend soon,” Ormund admitted through his teeth.
“You can spend inside,” Daemon told him, “isn’t that right, love?”
“Yes, please, your grace!” You sobbed, too desperate to think straight.
“It wouldn’t be so bad to have another bastard running around,” Daemon chuckled, “You want Lord Hightower to get you with child?” Daemon rambled.
The thought made you spasm, both your holes tightening around their cocks. “Yes, spend inside me!” You begged, all practicality lost.
“She’s such a wanton, desperate thing,” Daemon continued as he ravaged your ass, “She’ll squeeze out a babe just to feel you finish inside.”
“Yes, please, inside,” you begged again, mind fuzzy and cock drunk.
“Oh, fuck,” Ormund spent first, temptation overcame him as he gripped your thighs and panting against your face, painting your womb with ropes of pent up cum.
Daemon followed a moment after, unloading his balls into your tightest hole.
The three of you panted in the aftermath, Ormund pulled out first and promptly redressed. Daemon laughed and pulled out next, dropping your exhausted form on the bed - both holes leaking their spend.
“Now,” Daemon sighed, dressing himself as well and sauntering over to a chair and sitting down - pouring two cups of wine, “where is my real nephew?”
Ormund Hightower who reluctantly takes his wife with him when the Hightower army marches towards Kings Landing because he cannot bear to be apart from her and she cannot stand knowing that he is leaving for battle and might not come back.
Ormund Hightower that keeps his wife’s handkerchief tucked into his armor and pulls it out to press into his nose whenever a reeking commander or soldier approaches him after being summoned for new orders.
Ormund Hightower that orders his wife to stay in their tent at all times because it’s too dangerous for a lady of her birth to wander around soldiers but the in reality he doesn’t anyone in the camp ogling her and getting funny ideas about his wife.
Ormund Hightower marches into their tent buzzing with anger after getting a message from Kings Landing saying that he is meant to remain where he is and wait for Aemond to come on Vhagar before he can make any other move.
Ormund Hightower who takes his anger out by fucking his wife into the mattress — lewd sounds, desperate moans and grunts could be heard by anyone that passed their tent. He himself couldn’t care less by who heard or who knows that he’s fucking his wife — for him it’s even better because they all will know that she’s only his.
Ormund Hightower who takes his wife while she’s on her hands and knees, his hand wrapped around her throat to tilt her head back to rest on his shoulder, her back pressed to his chest, hair sticking to her forehead and eyes glossy with tears because of how well he fucks her. His cock hits all the right places making her clench on him and whine pathetically while his hand chokes her slightly.
Ormund Hightower whose hand slide off her throat to press into her lower belly when he cums — deep inside her, his seed planting another heir, another son for house Hightower and he throbs at the mental image of her swollen and filled with his child bearing the fruit of his love for her.
Ormund Hightower that pressed his nose into the heated skin of her shoulder as she breaths — trying to stop the tremor of her muscles after he finally pulls out
Dark!Ormund paying money to get a lock of princess!readers hair to know what she smells like 😏
The Hair
Ormund Hightower X Targ!Reader
Prequel Of 'The Whore'
TW: Male Masturbation, Obsessive stalking and fixation on a young noblewoman, Manipulation and grooming behavior (intent to gradually “win trust” under false pretenses)
WC: 2K
The night was warm and heavy with the scent of jasmine.
King's Landing in high summer was a city of perfume and rot, the sweetness of the gardens fighting a losing battle against the stench of the streets below. But here, in the private corridors of the Red Keep, the air was clean enough. The torches burned low in their sconces, casting pools of flickering orange light across the stone floors. The hour was late. The feasting was done, the courtiers had retreated to their chambers, and the castle had settled into that particular quiet that came only after a long night of wine and dancing and whispered intrigues.
Ormund Hightower walked the empty corridor with the easy confidence of a man who belonged there. He had been in the capital for three moons now, representing his house in the endless negotiations and power plays that passed for governance in Viserys's crumbling court. He had attended councils, endured feasts, smiled at lords he despised and ladies who bored him. He had done everything that was expected of him, and he had done it well, because Ormund Hightower always did things well.
But tonight, he had other business.
He stopped at a narrow door near the servants' stair, the kind of door that noble guests were not supposed to notice, let alone use. He knocked twice, paused, then once more. His heart was beating faster than it should have been, though his face remained calm.
The door opened. A girl slipped through. She was young, perhaps seven and ten, with mousy brown hair and a plain face and the calloused hands of someone who had been working since she could walk. A chambermaid assigned to the royal apartments. Someone invisible.
"Well?" he asked, his voice low. "Do you have it?"
The girl nodded, her eyes darting nervously up and down the empty corridor. She held out her hand, and there it was.
A lock of silver gold hair tied with a thread of black ribbon. In the torchlight, it shimmered like moonlight on water, like starlight spun into thread, like something that did not belong in the grubby palm of a chambermaid.
Ormund's breath caught in his throat, he reached for it slowly, reverently, the way a man might reach for a holy relic. His fingers brushed the girl's palm, and she flinched slightly at the contact. He lifted the lock of hair to the light, turning it this way and that, watching it gleam and sparkle. It was softer than anything he had ever touched. Finer than silk, lighter than air. It slipped through his fingers like water, like smoke, like a dream he was terrified of waking from.
"No one saw you?"
"No, milord. They were all talking and laughing."
He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small leather pouch, heavy with coin. More than the girl would earn in a year of scrubbing floors and emptying chamber pots. He pressed it into her hand, and her eyes went wide at the weight of it. Her fingers closed around the pouch greedily, clutching it to her chest like a child with a stolen sweet.
"You were never here," he said, and his voice was soft and cold and utterly final. "You never spoke to me. You never took anything. If anyone asks—if anyone even hints that something is missing—I will find you, and I will make you regret the day your mother spread her legs to conceive you. Do you understand?"
The girl's face went pale. She nodded frantically, her plain features twisted with fear. She bobbed a clumsy curtsy and vanished back through the narrow door, her footsteps fading rapidly into the darkness of the servants' stair. He heard her stumble once, catch herself, and keep running.
He left with the lock of silver hair clutched carefully in his hand, his heart pounding against his ribs like a war drum, he walked faster than he had walked in years, his long legs eating up the distance between the servants' stair and his guest chambers in the Tower of the Hand.
He had been watching her for weeks now. Ever since he had first arrived in King's Landing and seen her across the throne room during one of the king's interminable audiences.
The Targaryen princess. Rhaenyra's eldest daughter, her firstborn, the child she had borne when she was still young and beautiful and not yet worn down by scandal and suspicion.
It was not her beauty that had gotten under his skin like a fever, it was the way she moved. The way she spoke. The way she ducked her head and blushed when anyone looked at her too long, as if she genuinely did not know that she was the most beautiful woman in any room she entered. She was shy. Demure. Soft-spoken and gentle and utterly unlike her bold, brash mother. She preferred the company of her dragon to the chaos of court. She shrank from violence and conflict, flinching at raised voices, leaving the room when arguments broke out. She was a creature of quiet corners and gentle smiles, a girl who seemed almost too fragile to be a Targaryen at all.
She was perfect and untouched. He was certain of it. He had made it his business to be certain. He had asked questions, discreetly, of servants and courtiers and anyone who might know. The princess had never been betrothed, never even been caught alone with a man. She spent her days with her dragon or her ladies or her younger brothers, and when men approached her at feasts, she smiled politely and excused herself as soon as she could. She did not flirt. She did not tease. She did not seem to understand the effect she had on the men around her.
That innocence—that exquisite, untouched, virginal sweetness—was what drove him to distraction.
She walked through the court in her flowing Lyseni silks, utterly oblivious to the way men's eyes followed her. To the way their thoughts darkened when they looked at her. To the things they whispered to each other when she had passed out of earshot. She did not know that she was being watched, catalogued, desired. She did not know that she was prey.
But Ormund knew. Ormund was one of the hunters and he had just claimed his first trophy.
He reached his chambers and locked the door behind him with a hand that trembled slightly. He crossed to the large armchair by the window and sank into it heavily, his legs suddenly weak. The lock of hair was still coiled around his fingers, silver gold and gleaming even in the dim firelight. He lifted it to his face.
And breathed in.
Jasmine. She wore jasmine perfume. He had noticed it the first time he had stood close to her, at some feast close enough to catch the scent of her hair. It clung to everything, her skin, her clothes, the very air around her.
He pressed the lock of hair to his nose and inhaled deeply. His eyes fluttered closed. His mouth fell open.
Gods.
It smelled like her. Like the nape of her neck where the fine hairs curled damply after a bath. Like the curve of her shoulder where her pulse beat close to the surface. Like the soft hollow behind her ear that he had imagined pressing his lips to a hundred times. Like the places he had never touched but dreamed of touching. Like the body he had never seen but imagined in exhaustive, obsessive detail.
She had worn a silver dress tonight. He had seen her at the feast, seated at the high table, and he had barely eaten a bite of his meal because he had been too busy watching her. The dress was Lyseni silk, low enough that he had spent the entire meal imagining what it would feel like to tug the fabric down and watch it pool around her waist.
She had been laughing at something her mother said. Rhaenyra had leaned over to whisper in her ear, and the girl had laughed and Ormund had felt his cock stir beneath the table. The way her throat moved when she laughed. The way her eyes crinkled at the corners.
Ormund unlaced his breeches. His cock was already hard, straining against the fabric, aching for release. He had been half hard all evening, ever since he had first seen her in that dress. He freed himself with a grunt of relief, his hand wrapping around the shaft, and he brought the lock of hair to his face again.
Gods, the smell of her. He could almost pretend she was here, in the room with him. Almost pretend the hair was still attached to her head, that he was standing behind her, pressing his face into the curve of her neck while she trembled and gasped.
He began to stroke himself, slow and steady.
He thought about her mouth. That soft mouth that always seemed to be on the verge of a smile. He had watched her lips for hours, cataloguing every expression that crossed them, the way they pursed when she was thinking, the way they parted when she was surprised, the way they curved when she was trying not to laugh. He imagined those lips wrapped around his cock. He imagined her on her knees before him, those violet eyes looking up at him with that sweet, shy expression, her cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment and arousal. He imagined the way she would hesitate, uncertain, and how he would cup the back of her head and guide her gently forward. He imagined the first tentative touch of her tongue, the way she would taste him, the way she would look to him for approval.
Is this right? she would ask, her voice soft and breathless. Am I doing it right?
Yes, he would tell her, stroking her hair. You are doing so well. Such a good girl. You are making me feel so good.
He stroked faster, his hips beginning to buck into his fist.
He thought about her body. The body she kept hidden beneath those flowing dresses. He had spent weeks cataloguing every glimpse, every hint, every accidental reveal. The way the silk clung to her hips when she walked. The way her dress shifted when she reached for something, pulling tight across her breasts for just a moment. The way the light sometimes shone through the fabric, silhouetting the shape of her legs.
He knew she had good breasts, he could tell by the way her bodices fit, by the curve that showed above her necklines. He imagined they would fit perfectly in his palms, soft and warm and yielding. He imagined her nipples that they would harden at the slightest touch. He imagined taking one in his mouth while she gasped and arched beneath him, her fingers clutching at his shoulders, her body learning pleasure for the first time.
Her waist was made for his hands to span. Made for him to hold while he took her from behind, pulling her back against his chest, burying his face in her hair and breathing in that jasmine scent.
Her hips curved beneath her skirts in a womanly way, and between them, gods, between them was the place he thought about most. The place he had imagined a thousand times in a thousand different ways. Soft and warm and untouched, wet and waiting. Virgin territory, sacred ground, a place no man had ever seen or touched or tasted.
He would be the first. He would be the only. He would spread her legs on their wedding night and look at her and she would try to hide her face, try to close her legs, overwhelmed with shyness. But he would be patient. He would be gentle. He would murmur soft reassurances and stroke her thighs until she relaxed, and then he would touch her. Slowly. Carefully. Watching her face as she felt pleasure for the first time, watching her eyes go wide and her mouth fall open and her body arch off the bed.
He would put his mouth on her cunt. He would taste her. He would make her come apart on his tongue while she sobbed and gasped and clutched at his hair, overwhelmed by sensations she had never imagined. And then, when she was soft and trembling and utterly pliant, he would slide his cock inside her. Slowly. Inch by inch. Feeling her body resist, feeling her maidenhead give way, feeling her nails dig into his shoulders as she gasped at the brief, bright pain.
It is all right, he would whisper. It is all right. The pain will pass. Just hold onto me. Just trust me. I love you.
And she would. She would trust him. She would cling to him and bury her face in his neck and let him take what was his.
"Fuck," Ormund groaned into the darkness.
He was close now. His hand moved faster, rougher, his hips thrusting up to meet each stroke. The lock of hair was pressed to his nose, and he could not stop smelling it, could not stop imagining that it was her. Her scent surrounding him. Her body beneath him. Her voice in his ear, soft and trembling, telling him she was his, only his, forever his.
He thought about the sounds she would make. He was certain she would be quiet at first—she was so shy, so reserved—but he would coax the noises out of her. He would find the places that made her gasp and the rhythms that made her moan, and he would not stop until she was crying out with every thrust, until she had forgotten her own name, until she was begging him for more.
He thought about what she would look like afterward, sweaty, disheveled and marked by his hands. He thought about getting her with child. About watching her belly swell with his seed. About the way her breasts would grow heavy and her skin would glow and she would have to rely on him for everything, for comfort, for protection, for the very life growing inside her. She would be so vulnerable then. So dependent. So completely bound to him.
He came with a guttural groan, his body jerking in the chair, his release spilling hot and thick over his own hand. The lock of hair was still clutched to his face, and he breathed her in as the pleasure crashed over him in waves. He imagined that she was there. That she was the one who had brought him to this. That she was kneeling between his legs, her mouth full of him, those eyes looking up at him with devotion.
When it was over, he sat in the darkness for a long moment, breathing heavily, his heart gradually slowing. The lock of hair was still pressed to his cheek. He had not crushed it. He had been careful. He was always careful.
Slowly, reluctantly, he lowered the hair from his face.
It was still perfect. Unspoiled. Gleaming softly in the faint light from the dying fire. The black ribbon was still tied around it, neat and precise. A piece of her. A piece of the woman he was going to possess.
He cleaned himself with a cloth from the washbasin, then tucked himself back into his breeches. He crossed to the small chest at the foot of his bed and lifted the lid. Inside, among the documents and the coin pouches and the odds and ends of travel, was a small silver locket.
He opened it and lifted the lock of hair, still tied with its black ribbon, and coiled it carefully into the small space. It fit exactly. As if the locket had been made for this purpose. As if she had been made for this purpose.
He closed the locket with a soft click and slipped the chain over his head, tucking it beneath his tunic where it would rest against his chest. The metal was cool against his skin, but it would warm quickly. It would warm against his heartbeat, and he would carry her with him everywhere.
