sheath - Ormund Hightower x targtower!reader
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.
