Imagine working on the same porn set as your old bully.
Nsfw/18+
(Ignore any inaccuracies to the porn industry)
You're going in, being told about the video/scene you're doing today before you get to meet your new co-star. All you knew about him before is that he is a new-ish actor on the scene, rising in popularity and fast.
And when you meet him?
Your smile drops. So does your heart. He just stares at you before smirking, talking about how he can't wait to start filming with you.
And he can't. The moment the camera starts rolling, you continuing to do this against your better judgement, he plays his role perfectly, the set-up scene acted out for the plot. Ironically, it's some enemies to lovers shit, the both of you meant to act toxic and degrade each other.
It feels like it's going on forever before he can finally touch you. And once he can?
"Fuuuucckk, that's it. God, I used to dream about ruining this little hole of yours." He sinks in, putting all his weight on you. "Always thought about dragging you to the bathroom or an unused class at school, forcing you to gag on this dick," he whispers into your ear, making you clench around him.
He's rough with it, fucking you stupid, loose, wet claps filling the air as the camera focuses on your fucked out expression, tears running down your flushed cheeks.
Nobody has ever seen you like this before.
The video only ends after forty straight minutes of brutal fucking. The camera catches your loose hole clenching, leaking his cum.
It shouldn't be a surprise when your agent suggests you work with him again. Especially when the video is one of your most popular.
And your bully? He's just hoping he gets to act out a CNC vid with you. There are some things he really wants to do with you now...
yandere!bully: he wasn't your bully, not at first. You guys only ever got to know each other because your dad was his dad's employee. Such a circumstance—and a few others—granted you the honor of becoming one of the conglomerate's financial-aid scholars. Another charity case to help polish the company reputation.
You attend the same private academy he does. He tried not to care too much at first; you were just among the few others lucky enough to have the kind of intelligence eyed by his father's company. But that was the thing—you didn't. You were ordinary.
He wondered if his father made a mistake, choosing to sponsor some no-use nobody. Maybe you were a coal in the rough yet to be a diamond. But weeks into the first year of senior high and you showed no signs of blooming. Hell, you even placed at the bottom list in academic standing. You didn't fail; everyone else were just children of the wealthy who afforded private tutors. Maybe an appropriate scholar would have caught up just fine, but you weren't one.
yandere!bully who decides to approach you, frustrated with your mediocrity. Who is he kidding? He doesn't give two shits if his father made a mistake, he was fascinated with your mediocrity. Greatness no longer intrigues him, having been surrounded with it all his life.
Wow, is this a joke? You really aren't good at anything. Not at math, science, Latin, nada. You just do enough to get by.
He speaks to you about it, about that mediocrity. You interpret it as a threat. You can't lose this scholarship now, you just got it. You beg for his mercy that you may continue studying in this prestigious academy. The whole "I'll do anything!" "anything?" conversation ensues. Now he's got you in the palm of his hand.
yandere!bully who starts it small. Makes you his little errand puppy. To him you were like a little dog running around doing what he makes you do. It can't even be called bullying, everyone else interprets it as acts of gratitude for his father granted the scholarship to you.
But then it escalates. Soon he's making you do things that you hesitate to do. Sneaking into faculty to take a picture of the test answer sheet. Smuggling a bag of "stuff" in school (you aren't dumb, you know what these rich kids got their hands on). Forcing you to skip a day of school so you can be his little errand pup while he did golf, playing truant with his friends.
One time you're asked to kneel before him, right between his knees. You ask why. He tells you not to question him. He only wants to see you that way. He watches you for a moment, unfazed, before telling you to stand back up.
Enter his friends, and things turn for the worse. It's like they've been itching their whole lives to get their hands on a human being to torment. They've got their butlers and maids but they're paid workers; you aren't. Clearly, yandere!bully is dangling this scholarship thing above your head like a golden apple. It's enough to keep you in your place, make you go against your own survival instinct to retaliate against a threat. They can do things to you and not suffer the consequences, and they intend to take full advantage of it.
It starts small, too, this torment by his inner circle, but soon it evolves more than just carrying their shopping bags or retrieving the tennis ball whenever they go play.
Soon they laugh when one of them extends a foot to trip you. They steal the math homework you worked hard on even though they've already completed theirs courtesy of their private tutors. Pour water over your head, pinch your skin for fun with their filed, polished nails.
They heard him call you "errand puppy" once, so they had a collar custom-made with his name on it next to the phrase property of, its buckle 18k gold, leather lined on the edge with lab-grown diamonds. Then they made you drink milk like a mutt out of the cafeteria's metal tray.
The boys cornered you in the locker room once, made you pull down your bottoms. You were crying while they took pictures of your underwear, wet snotty face too. They shared it to the girls and it circulated within their friend group for a while. The next time that those specific guys encountered you, though, they seemed to hold back from picking on you. No one ever made a comment about that incident, not about the photos, the crying, the cheap underwear, and they grew quieter when yandere!bully entered the room.
With his friends it's always physically violent; never with him. You would argue, though, that he is the cruelest. Because he's got the power to make them stop and he chooses not to. He just watches. You gather that he likes watching you a lot.
yandere!bully plays soccer; he's a varsity player of your academy. Every after training you're tasked to carry his school and sports bag back to his luxury sedan which he drives to and from campus. Tonight he makes you stand in front of the goal net. His friends are lined up some meters before you, having gathered all the soccer balls the academy owns.
You're nervous. You know what's about to happen and you should run, but you don't, because you think the scholarship is worth all this.
"Don't let them score and I'll extend your scholarship to college," is all the warning you get.
You're hit everywhere. The arms, shoulders legs, torso—everything hurts. One ball after the other to your head, and you feel dizzy. Of course, you try defending yourself; you yell at them to stop, that it hurts, and all you get is: "don't you want that scholarship?"
What made you cease is the blow to your chest. It's a strong hit, delivering a pain so hot you think it shifted your ribs, and you cough and wheeze and they're still throwing balls at you until your form is thrashing on the grass like fish on land.
Your head feels so hot and prickly from the lack of air, you're sure it's bound to explode. Black spots your vision and you literally can't breathe but all you can think of is: did I get that scholarship?
You're hospitalized that night. Bandages on all limbs, tapes to hold the cuts produced from the skin being hit too hard. Nasal cannula around your face.
You wake up slowly. There's a mildly comforting heat on your bandaged hand that vanishes the moment you open your eyes. yandere!bully is seated by your bed, watching you as always.
His hand touches your face. He murmurs something, but it's muffled by the bandages wrapped around your head, ears included. Then his thumb tenderly brushes over your busted lip.
Finally, he leaves the room, and you're left to stare at the ceiling.
Upon discharge, you don't hear anything about dues from the hospital—a big relief for you. No warnings from the academy either for having missed a week of school. You speculate he's got something to do with it for the sake of reputation. No one is supposed to know that the son of the chairman of such a conglomerate beat its scholar to death's door.
School is different after the incident. You're no longer abused as much by his peers, although you still do their various errands. He still makes you do naughty stuff, like skipping classes when he feels like it. Only this time it seems only he's around to do errands for.
These errands are different now, too. It's not the typical labor-heavy tasks like before, fetching for his tennis ball or carrying his bags. You're more like an actual pet puppy at this point; he just brings you around wherever he goes. Almost like he has to keep an eye on you at all times.
yandere!bully who finds himself missing you during the summer. Everyone left for their own respective vacations, out of the country to Maldives or Monaco or Switzerland or whatever. You're back with your relatives in that quaint little downtown neighborhood of yours. He would know, having hired private investigators to stalk your ass. He is going with his family to the countryside estate.
Father, mother, eldest sister, older brother. He's the youngest. It's a quiet family. Sister grew up just to be like father, cold and austere. It seems he's on the way to becoming just like that, too. Only brother inherited mother's benevolence.
Father doesn't care about anyone and anything but mother. yandere!bully only ever talks to Father whenever it's necessary. Otherwise, both of them are content minding one's own business.
yandere!bully asks Father about you. As he suspected, Father makes no mistake. He says you were really meant for the scholarship.
"I had a feeling," Father says, "that you two would make very good friends."
yandere!bully who's touchier now, second and final year of senior high. Or he's become touchy, since he never was back then. He drags you by your wrist at short distances, a palm on your nape whenever he tells you to look at something. A hand on your lower back, sliding dangerously low every time before letting go. He also often fixes your collar, fingers always ending up brushing your neck.
He tells you to strip one time at some high-end clothing store. You stare at him, dumbfounded, before he gives some silly excuse that it's for a cousin with your same build.
He makes you try on different outfits. At first it's various tops and bottoms that complement your shape, colors that go well with your skin tone, all the like. You glance at yourself in the mirror and wonder if this is how you look born into that top 1%. You look nice.
Then he makes you strip back to your underwear, and lets you try on the white [dress/blazer]. There's a moment of silence before he tells you to come over to him, and he stands up, towering over you with his gifted height.
He looks down at you, seemingly lost in thought, like he's visualizing you in a certain light...
"Do you like it?" He asks.
You tell him that you think his cousin will. His expression is undisturbed, but he exhales almost like a huff. Quite suddenly he grabs you by the waist, thumb gliding circles.
"I asked if you like it."
You stutter out a pathetic 'yes.' Honestly you don't give a damn but you fear his negative reaction your comment. Although if you had to, you'd say it's a bit too fancy for your liking.
He only hums before letting you go. You proceed to wear the next attire.
You shiver to think about how he views this certain cousin of his, having you wear a bunch of skimpy outfits. Some that showed your stomach too much, others exposing your legs. One top you're pretty sure can rival a tape going around your chest area, covering only what needs to be covered. He stays aloof the whole time, jaded eyes planted on you.
After that, things start to get kind of disgusting.
The touchiness escalates tenfold, and he isn't as insecure about it as you are, showing off to his friends. It's like the roles have switched: now he's the physical one instead of them. You're still a slave to their torment, of course, but only he gets to touch you like this. His friends don't find anything odd about it, in fact they look as if they enjoy your discomfort. They egg him on.
yandere!bully who brings you with him to a speakeasy, exclusive only for students of this certain private members club. The top one percent of the top one percent, they would say. It's like a den of iniquities, these kids doing all sorts of nefarious stuff: drugs, dealings, gambling, and most dreadful of all: whores.
Man or woman, they aren't obvious. You only know because they're distinguishable from the rich clients of the club who dress minimalistic. You suppose a more professional term for these people are escorts. They're conversing animatedly with their young clients, some linking their arms with them, a few already making their way to private rooms.
yandere!bully sits on the loveseat across his peer who's got two escorts in his arms. You only stand behind him, listening in on their conversation. Something about stocks and real estate. Networking. If he knew this, what he thinks about that.
You drone their voices out. The smell of weed is getting to you, making you feel all woozy.
yandere!bully tells you to sit on his lap. Dumbed down by the smoke, you comply a little too easily, like the puppy you are. His peer whistles lowly, eyeing you with a predatory glint.
He doesn't do anything about it because he knows they all can only afford to look. The truth is you belong to him, and only he gets to touch you this way, his hand now shamelessly gliding down your rear while you stay pliant. As long as you're after that scholarship, you belong to him.
He shifts you on his lap, his mouth feeling dry as he feels you press against him. You're really just asking for it, aren't you?
yandere!bully: he finds you in the library, when everyone else is in the school gym for graduation practice. This serves as your only safe haven from him, from his friends, from this whole aquarium filled with predatory fish. Oftentimes it feels like you're the only herbivore out there. The library happens to be the oldest part of this castle-turned-campus, which means: no CCTVs.
You scream when he pins you against the table, cut off halfway when he slams a palm on your mouth. The other hand encases both your wrists in one secure grip as his leg forces your knees apart, and he starts grinding against you like a dog in heat.
His eyes are half-lidded as he's watching you with his mouth parted, a sick grin forming. He thinks it's hot when you cry, if he knew this before he would have done better to get you to cry more often.
"Dumb puppy," he sneers, "dumb little errand pup, you're no good for anything at all, aren't you? Only at following your master and fetching balls."
Your panic discourages you from registering all the painful words he's saying, the names he's calling you. You try your best to escape his coil that only seems to get tighter the more you move like a boa constrictor. Arousal seems to give him inhumane strength.
Having had enough, he lifts you up momentarily, before slamming your back against the table, hard.
"Stop fucking moving, you stupid mutt!"
That does indeed get you to stop fucking moving. You even stop trying to scream, and stop... breathing? He pauses his ministrations and looks down at you. You're staring back at him, eyes wide, lips trembling. Then you start convulsing for air.
He doesn't know what to do, and for the first time in his life of luxury and wealth he's genuinely terrified. He's always seen you suffering, but this time, this time you're suffering and he can't put a stop to it. He can't control it.
You're grasping the sleeves of his uniform, still spasming. He gets the hint and aids you in sitting back upright on the table. He already has half the mind to pull out his phone and call emergency, but you're already breathing fine, trying to catch your breath.
Your hand moves to deeply rub the center of your chest.
Shit.
Was this... was this the soccer injury? Haven't you already recovered from that? The doctors said you'd heal eventually. The cuts, the deep bruises. Did you turn out to have an unattended rib fracture? Is this... chronic?
It's been almost a year since that incident.
Have you always had this pain, and kept it to yourself?
He's never felt this level of trepidation consume him, shaking him to the core. His heart is in his stomach as he looks at you, really looks at you, and sees the damaged he's done. You're tired. You're scared. You're miserable.
You are readmitted to the the same high-end hospital not long after. This time you're scheduled for surgery. He covers all the expenses, makes sure to get the best of the best of surgeons out there. You don't really have a say in the matter, you're not dumb enough to refuse such an offer just for the sake of your dignity. What left of it is there, anyway?
Father visits him during that period, noting the considerable dent in his son's bank account for that big of a purchase. He meets Father shortly after freshening up, having vomited at the thought of your broken countenance.
yandere!bully tells him everything except the attempted assault. Father only sits and listens, unnervingly silent, like he understands. It's the first time he's ever opened up to his dad. To his surprise, Father does not disappoint.
Likewise, Father also tells him everything. How, in this family, there is the tendency for some members to manifest passionate emotions in various ways. They feel so little they end up feeling so much for very specific things... sometimes persons. And they tend to be violent with it.
You were meant to be the recipient of this violence. Your father owed his father a great deal of debt, and so you were basically sold off, your purpose for him hidden under the ruse of scholarship. Not that you knew.
It all makes sense now, Father's devotion to Mother, and her aversion from him. His sister's fierce attachment to this one specific guy who also just so happens to be a scholar of the company. His feelings for you which he can't seem to make amends with.
"Once you find that someone," Father says, "you sink your claws into them and never let go, even when they bleed."
You're back to school in two weeks. Like back then, you didn't receive any disciplinary actions for your absence. You try not to wonder how you manage to keep your place as a scholar in this prestigious academy despite all the missed assignments on top of your already mediocre grades.
yandere!bully avoids you like the plague, and so do his friends. It seems everything went back to how it once was, how it was supposed to be. Everyone here ostracizes you for your socio-economic standing but it doesn't bother you at all, not when you prefer this over the active bullying.
The next time he interacts with you, it's already graduation. You're wearing the appropriate formal attire under your graduation robes, which you can guess is the cheapest out of everything in this venue where the school-sponsored grad party is being held. There's an afterparty held at some penthouse bar after this, hosted by one of yandere!bully's friends, but you aren't invited.
You exit the venue to begin the 20-minute walk back to your dorm, but someone stops you.
His hand is on your wrist. You get unpleasant flashbacks, but you keep it to yourself. He asks how you're doing, you say you're just fine.
He then asks if you want to celebrate this milestone.
No, you don't. Not with him. But you're not about to lose your diploma when you just got it.
So now you are in his Porsche and he's driving you both to one of his many family estates. It's smaller than most, he describes.
According to him at least. The whole thing is the size of your entire neighborhood. It's a long driveway before he even gets to arrive at the actual building. He parks right in front of the manor.
Inside, you're invited to have dinner with him. It's only the two of you in this large dining hall, where you're seated adjacent to him at the end of the grand table. But the selection of food nearly reaches down to half the long table, as if he had the chef cook every food that could possibly be your favorite.
Still, you end up eating light. He offers you to choose the brand of wine but you refuse, saying that it hasn't been long enough since your operation. A pause, before he nods, instead picking the wine himself.
Instead of alcohol you're served apple juice. It's freshly squeezed, you could tell by the bitter aftertaste.
Glass in hand, he leads you out of the manor and to the rose garden, where you can see the stars so clearly due to the lack of light pollution thanks to the vastness of his estate. There's a small pavilion housing a large couch. He leads you toward it, makes you sit.
You feel yourself deflate instantly on the cushion, exhausted from having your guard up around him at all times. If he noticed he didn't comment a thing about it. He's on his third glass and you're currently nursing the first glass of apple juice you're nearly finished with, when he calls out your name.
"Congratulations."
You congratulate him, too, since he also graduated.
He downs the rest of his wine in one go, sets it on the side table. Then he steps closer to you, fueled with liquid courage, sinking into the space next to you.
You try to sit up and scoot over. You can't.
"I was afraid for a moment," he starts, "that you wouldn't accept my invitation."
Afraid? He put you through hell, and only now has the gall to hesitate on you? A pit begins to form on your stomach.
He turns to you, taking your glass out of your hand and setting it down the ground, before holding that same hand with his own warmer one. He inches closer. You can't move.
You ask, "Would you have forced me to come anyway?"
He smiles at that. "You wouldn't have said no."
He's now hovering over you on the couch, same standoffish eyes tracing your face, your eyes, nose, settling on your mouth. You see his Adam's apple bob up and down.
He has so much to say to you. You look so pretty right now, basked in the moonlight, not fighting him. He's sorry for all the rough treatment, for hurting you and making you cry. He swears it's just his feelings for you manifested in the wrong manner. But now he knows, after his father explained everything it all makes sense. He's just in love with you.
yandere!bully kisses your trembling lips, tenderly. You try to fight it off but it's no use; you realized too late that he's done something to your drink. You're sobbing when he parts from you, terror and anger evident in your eyes. When he begins to pull off your clothes, he speaks.
"I would never do anything to hurt you." Your stomach churns in resentment. "Never again."
He kisses the column of your neck down to your chest, your surgical scars, where his lips stay longer. When he feels you're sort of hyperventilating, he rises and cups your cheek.
"Breathe. Breathe," he says your name. "Okay? Relax. I've got you. I promise I'll take care of you. You just have to breathe."
He rubs your chest. His own aches just at the thought of your distress. It's his fault you ended up like this, so he intends to make up for it for the rest of your lives.
He makes love to you that night. As promised, he did take care of you. It doesn't hurt when he slides it in, having poured a generous amount of lube all you feel is the pressure instead of the sting of his very well-endowed member intruding you. He's got a way with his hands, too, stimulating all the right parts just enough to get you unfolding beneath him within an hour. He would have done it within minutes but he took his sweet time just to get you so wet and ready for him.
He's so damn gentle with you like he was your lover for the last two years and not your bully. Of course, to you this wasn't 'making love.' For the most part you were delirious both from the drink and his expert ministrations, and are only hit with the the graveness of your reality when he finally spills his essence into you. His body quivers, and right then he pulls you for a deep, tongue-heavy kiss. When he pulls away, he mutters something in his frenzy: "I love you."
yandere!bully doesn't bother you after that. When he wakes up on that couch in the pavilion you're already gone. You left in a rush. A butler drove you off back outside of the estate, having received no orders to make you stay.
You've graduated. Your credentials will surely spark competition among universities for you, being a graduate from one of the most prestigious academies in the world. Still, you ask yourself if it was all worth it.
You aren't the same after those two years. You feel as if you've lost all purpose in life after that night. Like something valuable was stolen from you, and could never be returned. You don't want to keep going.
But reality will always dictate what you do. You can't afford to be like this because you're poor. Mental health doesn't exist to the poor, your father would insist. You've got bills to pay, mouths to feed. And you may be mediocre, but you're not dumb enough to seek justice against someone as powerful as your bully. You don't even have the money for that.
So you went on despite grievances to the next stage of your life: college. Countless scholarships from different sponsors. The same conglomerate that covered your senior high scholarship is offering you another full ride—living arrangements and all—to the country's number one university.
You refuse the offer this time. A thousand scholarships from that conglomerate isn't enough to repair the damage that's been done. Besides, you never want to encounter anything associated with him ever again.
Instead you accept to be sponsored by a different company; a smaller one (at least in comparison), but they covered your tuition of four years in the same prestigious university. Sure, no living arrangements, but that's more than what most sponsors give.
You enter the CEO's office, having been invited so she can get to know you more. There are two individuals in the room. She, and...
Your heart drops to your stomach.
The CEO introduces him to you, although there is no need for that. He's standing there in a tux, hair slicked back, jaded eyes glinting with mirth at the sight of you. It seems he's grown taller in the few months you haven't seen each other.
Apparently his dad's conglomerate is the parent company. How could you be so stupid?
Madame CEO excuses herself to take an important call, leaving you alone with him. He doesn't hesitate to walk closer, smiling as fondly as his austere face can manage.
"I missed you." He speaks, voice full of yearning. He takes your hand in his. "How are you after our shared night? Why did you leave so suddenly? Don't do that again, love."
Ripping your hand away, you asked why he was here. If he knew and orchestrated to have you accept this scholarship.
"I don't break my promises. I'd hate to start with you." He explains.
You demanded what he meant by that. He doesn't hide the fact that he's enjoying your turmoil, but you can't even find it in yourself to get it together this time.
"No one scored that night." He shrugs. "They were all so focused on hitting you."
...what?
"I promised you your college scholarship, remember?"
yandere!bully who follows you all the way to college.
summary: there were many things you expected when you got into a relationship with aerion targaryen. of course, none of those included his youngest brother, aegon — or egg, as he liked to be called — and how he began interrupting any sort of alone time you had with your boyfriend, all because he ended up liking you so much.
w.c.: 3,6k
c.w.: no use of y/n, aerion is always two seconds away from kicking egg's ass bc he doesn't leave you alone, probably (definitely) ooc aerion and ooc egg, egg is an ipad kid, not rlly a serious fic I wrote this for gits and shiggles
a.n.: first fic on tumblr so im intimidated lol. english is not my first language so forgive any mistakes and typo. not proofread.
THE MOMENT YOU GOT INTO A RELATIONSHIP WITH AERION TARGARYEN, you knew what it would involve, more or less. More than one of your friends and acquaintances — some of his, even — had reached out to you to ask if you were sure of what you were doing, and saying he wasn't exactly... well, the most gentle person.
As much as you appreciated their worry, it was unnecessary, something even they had come to realize after seeing how Aerion was with you.
He was as loving to you as he was not to everyone else, and though you somehow tamed the rushes of anger that always coursed through him, he still had a rather minimal tolerance for the rest of the world. Including his brothers. Especially his brothers.
Especially Aegon.
The youngest of his brothers had become an issue neither of you had expected prior to him meeting you.
It had taken some time before Aerion decided to introduce you to his family, and seeing as you weren't one to push, the most his brothers knew of you for exactly four months after you officially got together was your name — after Aerion accidentally left his phone on the table, and a notification from you revealed your name to Daeron, who saw no appeal in protecting his brother's privacy.
And when Aerion texted you one night, asking if you'd be okay with meeting his family — so they'll finally get off my ass about this, he had said —, you saw no issue with it, and thus a dinner was planned.
The instant the two of you entered his dining room, your eyes had gone over each attending member of his family: his three brothers, his two sisters, his father, his uncle, and his two cousins. And the air was knocked out of your lungs.
They all had an unnatural kind of beauty to them. Most of them shared Aerion's silver hair and purple eyes, but even those that didn't appeared to come from another world.
Aerion had cursed under his breath, muttering about how if he had known half the family would be called, he'd have bailed on this whole thing. But you had maintained your composure, painted a smile on your face, and met his family with forcibly-steadied hands and a thumping heart in your chest.
In retrospect, there really had been no need for you to stress over this so much. As intimidating as the Targaryens were, they were all mostly nice and very charming to be around, and in the blink of an eye, you'd found your place among them.
But credit must be given where it was due. If it hadn't been for the youngest boy, Aegon, you would have taken a lot longer to get comfortable.
His seat had been directly to your left, and he had chatted your ear off all through dinner. All the names, relations and little fun facts you knew about the Targaryens came from him. He had even ended up pulling his iPad beneath the table to show pictures of the events he was telling you all about.
Aerion hadn't shied away from expressing his annoyance at the extravagance of the dinner, which nobody showed any surprise to. He mostly stuck to your side, chatting with you in the brief moments Aegon's attention was elsewhere.
Regardless, the dinner had gone well, and with this particular milestone out of the way, the two of you could finally relax and enjoy each other's company the way you so loved: privately and without shame.
However, Egg didn't seem to have gotten the memo.
"Oh, not this again —” Aerion hissed as he returned to the large living room of the Targaryen home — castle felt more accurate to you, but oh well — with a bowl of popcorn in one hand and two drinks in the other. He stopped in his tracks right at the doorway, when his eyes found the little figure sitting next to you, which had not been there when he left five minutes ago. "What the fuck is he doing here?"
Your eyes widening at his words, you opened your mouth to scold him for swearing in front of the nine year old, but said nine year old merely perked up at his brother's voice and turned his head around to look at Aerion from where he sat on the couch.
"Did you bring my chips? I left them in the fridge."
"No! Get out!"
Even you flinched at the volume and tone of his voice, so it was no surprise when Egg leaned back in his seat, his arms crossed over his chest, a sad pout twisting his young features. And in spite of how much you enjoyed being alone with Aerion, you felt a tug at your heartstrings from the sight of the expression on his face.
Wincing, you glanced at your boyfriend, a pleading look in your eyes. "Well..."
"No."
"Just this time."
"You said that last time."
"He's already here."
"He's always here!"
"Aerion."
"No. Not happening."
Silence fell upon the living room, your eyes meeting Aerion's purple ones with determination. Obviously, you understood where he came from, but you couldn't help it. Egg was such a sweet little boy, and he was always so nice and adorable that you couldn't help but cave to his every wish.
And five minutes later, the three of you sat in front of the TV, Egg in the middle happily munching on the popcorns from the bowl on his lap, often turning to you to share his thoughts about the movie.
"Why Egg?"
"It's short for Aegon," he nodded vigorously and looked away from you.
"Yeah, I figured that part out —”
Like any normal person with a functioning brain, you loved making out with your boyfriend. He was hot, and you were in love with him, so it wasn't like it was a chore for you. Nor was it for him, based on the blurry, heated memories that suddenly came to mind.
Maybe doing it out in public was less understandable, though. But after he had placed all the shopping bags you'd handed him over the afternoon in the backseat of his car, he had pulled you into short kiss, which then became a long one, and somewhere between that and now, it had turned into something else.
Neither of you noticed when Aerion's phone began vibrating in his pocket for a couple of minutes. And when he finally did realize, he had to pull his hands out from under your shirt to declined with an irritated huff.
Then he paused, glanced at his screen for a few seconds, huffed again and answered the phone.
"No fucking way," he ended up spouting after a few back and forth between him and whoever was on the other side of that call.
"He'll be fine there for a few hours." He argued again, "There's all the teachers, and toys, and all the shit kids play with."
Oh, it had to be about Egg.
“Dad —! Can’t you ask Daeron—?” He paused again, listening to his father, and without another word hung up the phone and shoved it in his pocket once more.
Holding back a laugh at the sheer rage painted on his face, you leaned against the car and cocked an eyebrow. “So? What was all that about?”
“My father’s meeting ran late. He’s asking me to pick Aegon up from school.”
“Okay, then.” You nodded, your body shifting to reach for the handle of the passenger door, but Aerion grabbed your wrist before you could do so.
“It’s Aegon.” He insisted, as though it would somehow change something about the situation.
You frowned, slowly nodding. “Tiny nine year old boy, silver hair, purple eyes, looks a lot like you? Yeah, I know the one.”
Rolling his eyes at your tone, Aerion let out a breath filled with annoyance. “I don’t have time to drive you home before picking him up.”
“I know.”
“So he’ll be in the car… with us… for the whole journey back home.”
“I also know that.”
And then his patience ran out, and he groaned, narrowing his eyes at you. “I’m saying the little shit will be glued to your ass.”
Which… yeah. True.
You didn’t mind, because Egg was still as sweet as he was when you first met him. Aerion did mind, however, since he was the one left out whenever the two — three — of you hung out together.
“You’re not jealous, are you?”
“Of him?”
“Yes, Aerion, of your nine year old brother.” You giggled, crossing your arms over your chest. “Seriously, though, you don’t have to be so mean to him. We’re always together. What’s the issue with him sometimes crashing with us?”
To this, he had no answer. He just rolled his eyes to the sky in this irritating yet charming way he did and released your wrist. He opened your door without a word, closing it behind you before walking to his side of the car.
“If it hadn’t been for that bastard, I would’ve won the game.”
Choking on your water, you turned to Egg with wide eyes, “Aegon!”
“What? The bastard cheated! All facts.”
“Oh, do you think they have the lemon sweets? You know the ones.”
Aerion frowned, briefly glancing at you before looking back at the road. “I don’t know, I’ll check when we get there.”
“Ooh, can I come?” Egg peaked his head in between both of yours, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Please?”
“No.” Aerion grumbled before using his hand to press against Egg’s face and push him back in his seat. “Shut up.”
Relentless, Egg turned to you. “Please?”
“No.” Aerion answered in your place.
“I didn’t ask you!” Egg scoffed from the back, glaring at the back of his brother’s head.
“I’m driving, and if I have to drag your puny little ass home by the ear, I will. Now shut up.”
Perhaps the whole reason the Targaryen house sat surrounded by gates and greenery was so strangers wouldn’t witness Aerion dragging Egg by the arm across the driveway, the young boy having planted his feet in the ground and screaming bloody murder for the whole world to hear, the way you did right now from the passenger seat of Aerion’s car.
You hadn’t gone to Aerion’s house in quite some time, you realized. There was no need to ask Aerion why he suddenly insisted on sleeping over at your place, or going home to yours, or him crashing over in your bedroom whenever he was free.
Were you complaining about your Egg-free life? Not really. Or at least, not right now, when Aerion lied on top of you, stealing your words with his mouth, barely letting you come up for air.
Definitely not right now.
You could've stayed there, in this situation, until the world imploded on itself. Nothing could bring either of you out of this bubble you'd formed around yourselves; that was how good you currently had it.
But right as his touch left flaming paths on your flesh as his fingers mapped out every inch of your skin, your phone began vibrating.
Not once.
Not twice.
But repeatedly, until you couldn't discern one notification from the next.
"Damn it," you sighed, closing your eyes as the moment between the two of you slipped right through your fingers. Aerion didn't raise his head higher than an inch above yours, but the annoyance coming from him was almost palpable.
You reached your arm out towards your nightstand, where you could vaguely remember having dropped your phone on some time ago. The light that suddenly blinded you as you lifted it from where it sat face down made you wince, and you used your free hand to rub your eyes.
do you want to play with me?
i'd ask daeron but he's asleep on the rug
he's boring also
you're nto
not
are you sleeping?
you haven't been at the house in a long time
did you breka up with aerion?
break
"Why the fuck do you have his number?" Aerion breathed out, exasperated at the texts. "Since when does he even have a number? He's nine."
Shrugging, you began typing a reply on your phone. "He got my number from your phone. And he just likes telling me about his day. He complains a lot about the kids in his class. Doesn't like them much."
With widened eyes and a raised eyebrow, Aerion sat up on your bed, letting the coldness of the room rush to you now that he wasn't acting as your personal blanket.
"What? So this is a common thing?"
"It's not that bad. He FaceTimes me on his iPad mostly, then he'll talk about his day while I do my homework, that's all." You told him, lifting yourself up on your elbows.
"Does my dad know about this?"
Nodding, you shrugged again. "Yeah, Egg's iPad uses your dad's phone number. He doesn't mind, so long as Egg doesn't uses it too much. He even says it's safer that way, since he doesn't have to watch him to make sure he doesn't sneak out again."
“I... don't know how I feel about this whole thing.”
“Well it’s not just him. I play online scrabble with your dad sometimes. and Aemon sends me book recommendations every other day.”
Aerion paused, "What?”
"Why is he bald, by the way? Can I ask?"
"Daeron drunkenly shaved off half his head one night. Then it looked awful, so we had to shave off the other half. Look."
Unsurprisingly, the boy displayed in the 0.5x pictures didn't seem to car about the admittedly horrifying hairstyle he currently had. With Maekar looking exasperated in the background, Egg smiled and gave a thumbs up to the camera.
Aerion woke up to find your half of his bed empty. No sound came from the bathroom, and with the sheets being cold, he assumed you must've been out of bed for some time.
While part of him felt something akin to relief from how comfortable you were with his family and in his home — sometimes too much, he thought to himself as he remembered you admitting to playing online scrabble with his father —, it also came with the borderline hatred from how comfortable they were with you.
People usually don't have to share their girlfriends with their families, do they? Why does it feel more like they tolerate him just so they can spend time with you.
Especially the youngest, insolent rat whose face had brightened up when Aerion had asked if you could spend a week here while your building was being fumigated. He hadn't even cared when Aerion roared at him to stay the fuck away.
As expected, it had been hard to find some alone time with you, because wherever you were, your shadow was not far behind. You didn't mind, of course, because the little rat turned into the sweetest, most innocent boy that's ever lived whenever you were in the vicinity, which immediately made Aerion out to be the bad one of the story.
The tiny fucker was a manipulative little shit, and Aerion will find a way to prove it to you.
After a brief shower to wash the night away, Aerion made his way down to the kitchen, hoping you'd be there. Fortunately for him, the first thing his eyes latched onto upon entering the room was your figure.
You sat at the counter, back to him, eyes on your phone.
Approaching, he hummed and wrapped his arms around you, leaning down to bury his nose in your hair. "How long have you been up? I thought you'd be worn out after —”
Eyes going round, you jammed your elbow into his gut, immediately shushing him. Aerion groaned, one arm flying to press against his stomach, where he'd taken the brunt of your strength. "What the fuck?"
Without a word, you nodded towards the fridge, and he could only follow your gaze. The fridge was open, which he hadn't noticed, and —
"Ugh, why is he here?" The words came out in unison from the two boys as soon as Egg peeked his head from behind the fridge's door and met his gaze.
Pinching your lips to hold in a laugh, because surely Aerion would hate you if you pointed out just how similar the two were, you merely lowered your phone to watch whatever was about to unravel.
"I was here first!" Egg countered, closing the fridge with a pie in hand. "Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of."
"I will stab you—"
"You can't keep letting him stick to you. Be on my side for once. Otherwise he'll never leave you alone."
"He just likes me because I play video games with him and I buy him food. He's not a bad kid," you laughed, but made a mental note to try and be less indulgent to the young boy.
As good as your relationship with Aerion was, it was bound to come to an end. You had been broken up for a week when the knock at your door came.
A week of lying in bed with a gaping hole in your chest.
A week of scrolling aimlessly through the pictures of the two of you on your phone.
Mostly a week of mourning how good it had been, and how good it would've been if only the two of you didn't argue so often.
The idea of interacting with a Targaryen for the time was so far out of mind that you didn’t expect the sight that befell you upon opening the door. Though, maybe you should have.
“Egg? What are you —”
“You can’t break up.” He hurried out, as though if he didn’t say everything at once, he’d never be able to. “Please, you have to come back. The house is so boring without you, and Dad says I’m not to contact you because Aerion is my brother and I have to stick by him. But I don’t want to stick by him!”
“Honey, it’s one in the morning, how did you get here?”
“I took a cab.” He panted, swallowing his saliva.
Later on, he gulped down his second glass of water as he sat on your couch. Your eyes hadn’t strayed from him at all, except for the brief moment you had used to text his brother. Of course, you knew he enjoyed your company and he thought of you not as his brother’s girlfriend but as his sister. But to come knocking at your door in the middle of the night to beg you to stay with his brother…
Yeah, you hadn’t fathomed he’d ever consider doing that. And yet.
“I didn’t think you cared so much about Aerion and his feelings.” You let out, part of you wondering if you should ask Egg how Aerion has been this past week, though you decided against it. You weren’t about to pull a nine year old boy into your issues, no matter how hard he tried,
But Egg just frowned, confusion filling his features, “Aerion? What are you talking about?”
No, you were the one frowning. Thinking back to his rapid little speech when you opened the door to find him, you questioned him again. “What were you talking about?”
Egg raised both hands as he shrugged, the way he always used his entire body to react. “I don’t care about Aerion. I just don’t want you to leave the family. But don’t worry about it. Even if you don’t want Aerion back, I’ve got a plan. What do you think about Daeron?”
Somehow, you were even more confused than you thought could be possible.
But independent as he was, Egg didn’t need a reply from you to keep the conversation going. “Father said I have to take my brother’s side now that you’ve dropped him. But if you got with Daeron, then I wouldn’t have to choose Aerion, because you’d still be in the family. Get it?”
Again, no reply from you apart from the gaping expression you gave at his words.
“If the drinking bothers you that much, I’m sure I can set you up with Valarr.”
And thank God for the sudden, incessant knocking at the door. Aerion was here, evidently, and he seemed pretty pissed.
“You fucking rat!” Aerion roared when his eyes found his brother sitting on the couch. “How did you even get out of the house? How did you get here?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
Wrong thing to say, because Aerion’s eyes widened before he started making a beeline for the couch.
As the boy screeched and jumped behind the couch, you grabbed Aerion’s arm to pull him back, wincing at the situation. God, you should be sleeping right now. “No violence inside, please.”
“My dad’s livid!” Aerion added loudly, anger seeping through his voice. “His room was empty, and the window was wide open. He thought someone had taken him. Unfortunately not!”
Egg peeked his eyes from behind your couch, glaring at his brother. “Hey, I’m doing you a favor! I was trying to get her back for you!”
“What?” He turned to you, but you only shrugged. Though you did notice how Egg’s explanation wasn’t entirely truthful, you didn’t point it out to Aerion. He was mad enough at him already without the knowledge he was trying to set you up with other people.
Growling, Aerion reached out and grabbed Egg’s collar, dragging him towards the door while mumbling an apology to you under his breath. The only thing you could hear as you closed the door was the two boys arguing.
But truth be told, if the young boy hadn’t found his way to your place and forgotten his jacket, you likely wouldn’t have called Aerion again, which led to the two of you sitting down and talking about your relationship, and if you got back together some time later… well, Aerion didn’t like the reminder it was all thanks to Egg.
this idea was stuck in my head for so long I'm just glad I got this out lmao. I also had no idea how to end it so the ending is lowkey rushed sorry
please let me know if you enjoyed this, I rarely post the fics I write so I'd love some feedback!!! and also let me know if you can see that my knowledge of how romantic relationships work is limited lmao
thinking about dark!ormund hightower who adores his new, controversially young wife
being wed to ormund hightower is, unlike you naively had expected, no matter of romance and being swept off your feet. you discover that your new lord husband is… different than anyone you have met before. you struggle to use the word ‘wrong’ because objectively, he has done nothing wrong, no—but he is… strange.
like when he gets oddly possessive of you. he always wants to know where you are, who you are with, what your plans are for the day. even when you’re peeking over your shoulder discreetly, you can never figure out exactly which one of the servants keeps ratting out your position to him. but that’s not strange, per se, he does seem to worry about you. he’s even fortified the gates! no one can get in… or out.
ormund always has your best interests at heart. so you listen and obey, because he just wants the best for you! he is older, more experienced, wiser—it just makes sense for you to stop worrying your pretty little head and just listen to him.
ormund gets jealous, although he would never admit it, and perhaps it is even a little rooted in insecurity. he sees the way other men look at you, even if you, sweet and kind and innocent as you are, can’t. young, green lordlings and boys, way in over their heads. but if there is anything you know more for certain, it is that you like men, not boys. and ormund is everything you could ever wish for.
loves to bury his nose in the crook of your neck, he just loves your natural body scent. this man has such a scent kink it is unreal.
author’s note: auggghhh ormund looks so yummy like look at that v lineeee😭
an: nobody perceive me right now i have the post period hornyness, just finished the latest episode of hotd and this happened, the grasp this terrifying man has on me is driving me insane
pussy inspections with your husband ormund hightower, because of course he does, his control over you has never been a suggestion, you had to quickly learned that to survive his strict vision of the world and to avid the severity of his punishment what he demands is obedience and compliance.
so he always has you seat in that special chair he had made just for the occasion, one that raises your legs in just the right way and gives him an easy view after he's returned from his endeavors, a travel or maybe just a long and boring meeting where the people across the table from him managed to bored hi to death.
he calls for you and offer that seemingly candid gesture, that smirk that he thinks is a smile but it always seems like a threat to your eyes.
"come here, wife".
he takes in all the details of your shape, making sure the fabric of your dress is appropriate, eyes fixing on the tight fit of he corset around your torso and the way the garment perfectly accentuates the perfect curves of your soft waist. you come close to him as he continues his assessment, fingers making sure there is not a hair out of place, the brief smile the confirmation that he is pleased with your choice of styling.
"I like this, wear it more often like this",not a suggestion, an order in that nonchalant way he is so prone to give. he leans over and pecks your lips kiss in a gesture you quickly and to learn to be always willing to correspond with enthusiasm, "it suits you".
he breaks away from you while starting to remove the leather belt around his middle, his heavy Valyrian sword going to the rest at the side of the bed: vigilance, a very appropriate name for a sword belonging to the lord you call your husband. you are familiar with te ritual by now, the meticulous ritual of his getting rid of the outer layers of his regal appearance.
"show me".
you know what it means, and yet it still manages to bring a blush into your face without fail, the habit doesn't reduce the scrutiny, and the weight of his stare hasn't gotten easier to bear; on the contrary, it seems every time it gets harder ad harder, because much to your dismay your body seems to have grown completely used to his demanding nature.
slowly you take your spot on the high chair and expose yourself for him, opening your legs in front of him as he takes his place in front of you, sitting at the percent level so your exposed core is right at eye level.
he exhales a sigh as his thick fingers caress the tender skin of your thighs, hot breath fanning over you, skin prickling with anticipation.
"open". he says, as he pinches the doughy fat of your inner thigh.
too used to his command you obey without questioning, you've learned hesitation could very well mean betrayal in front of this man. so you spread your folds in from of him using your hands, he hums in appreciation at the efficiency of your obedience.
he always takes his time, ringed fingers carefully tracing your soft folds and thumb lingering a second longer on the entrance of your tight channel, moist already gathering a his touches, at the way his fingers reached the hood of your clit and pulls, delicately but firm, he repeats the motion several times until you are struggling to not let out a sound, after all he hasn't given you permission to do so.
when one of his fingers finally goes inside is slow, exploratory, making sure everything feels the same as usual, making sure his wife wasn't defiled by somebody else than him. he hums, satisfied with the usual warmth and tightness of your channel receiving him.
a wet 'pop' follows his movement as he retreats his finger and wipes the sticky emission in a white handkerchief that he takes a long inhale from.
his voice is hardened by his desire in a way that has you clenching around the emptiness left by his touch. he starts removing the final layers of his garments, proud member erect and glistening as he positions himself at your entrance.
"let us devote ourselves into birthing an new hightower, the one who shall continue my efforts to put a worthy heir in the iron throne".
contains ᦸ smut toxic dynamic in a marriage typical ormund hightower warnings not dialogue heavy blood hair pulling choking cumming inside and tysm my sweet @pinkdoeweirdo for beta reading for me 🤎 ٫٫ 4.4K
❛❛ you must embrace what seeks to break you…
The bedchamber was quiet, lit by the soft glow of sunlight filtering through the stained-glass windows—bleeding green and gold across the stone floor. Your husband sat motionless in his high-backed chair, tunic discarded on the table, revealing his broad expanse of chest usually hidden beneath layers of formal attire. Only his trousers remained, loose at the hips. His arms rested loosely on the chair’s carved sides; he was like a man carved of stone.
Unusually compliant for a man who commands obedience like breathing.
He watched you closely with those deep-set eyes, calm on the surface but simmering beneath like embers under ash. The silence between you wasn't empty; it hummed with something unspoken, something thick as summer air before a storm. Your body was warm and still on top of him, knees pressing into the cushioned seat and nightgown bunched up around your thighs.
Ormund did not speak as you carefully worked. No commands issued from him now, no reproachful words about duty and your disgraceful blood. His breathing was deep and even…almost meditative. There was a strange intimacy to this—him bare-chested before you as if he were a sacrifice laid upon an altar only the two of you knew existed.
You could hear his sharp tone in your head and feel his strong grip on your face as he chastised you for thinking such blasphemous things. You didn't have to imagine the feeling of your knees aching from being on them in the sept for hours on end, repenting and praying to a faith you didn’t believe in—it’s a feeling you’ve come to know well in the few years of being married to the lord of Oldtown.
Your husband's chest rose slowly beneath your palms. You weren’t praying now. This wasn't penance or a ritual; there was no septon to witness it, no sept bells tolling for sins committed in secret. You were simply tending to him.
He didn’t move away from your touch—no, he relished it. Having you so close to him, so pliant in his lap despite everything he’s done, despite everything his family has and continues to do to yours. And here you were, a sharp blade in your hand that you could easily kill him with—you were a smart girl; he was sure you would find a way to sneak off to your beast of a dragon and find your way back to your mother.
But no, you continued to delicately glide the blade across his chest with reverence usually reserved for saints or dead men. He had molded you so perfectly into the perfect wife, into the perfect Lady of Oldtown. He made sure your life as a Targaryen princess was long forgotten; it was a title that only brought ruin.
The blade glides—kissed by his warm skin. Ormund exhales through his nose, a sound that sounds too much like satisfaction. His pecs flex subtly beneath the precise drag of your movements—a man who allowed this, who let you believe you were doing this out of the kindness of your sweet soul.
His hands remain where they are: one on the armrest, the other resting lightly against your thigh where it brushes your skin. Not gripping, not claiming yet—just there, as if it were a silent reminder that this closeness exists only because he permits it.
The silence continued to stretch on until Ormund finally spoke—low, softer than usual, stripped of its commanding edge. “You’ve always had such gentle hands, wife.”
Not praise, not quite, he rarely praised you, not unless he could use it to his advantage. No, it was more like an observation, something he noted with quiet intensity. He noticed everything about you; you were his after all. So beautiful, so fragile.
His hand near your thigh moved closer, unbeknownst to you. His thumb moved then—not suddenly or rough like you were used to from him—but slowly tracing the side of your thigh through the thin fabric of your nightgown. His touch was so soft it must have been a mistake, but it lingered, too deliberate to be accidental.
The contrast between his usual iron grip and this featherlight touch sent a shiver through you—something so tender was hard to believe came from a man like Ormund. Words didn't come to your tongue.
He didn't speak again. Just watched you with those dark eyes while his fingers continued their quiet path upward along your thigh, not rushing or demanding anything yet. The blade in your hand stilled mid-motion as you tensed slightly under his unexpected caress. Was he…comforting you? Or was this another form of control—lulling you into false security with power disguised as affection? A test perhaps? To see if you’d pull away? If you’d flinch at such unexpected gentleness?
You did not wish to know.
His breathing stayed even but slower now, more controlled as though he were savoring every second of this rare closeness, savoring how he could feel your thighs tremble around him. His other hand lifted slowly to brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear with shocking delicacy before settling at the nape of your neck.
The moment his fingers curled gently at the nape of your neck, you froze completely—like a lamb caught in the mouth of a wolf. His thumb pressed softly into that sensitive spot just beneath your hairline. His other hand remained on your thigh, warm and heavy but unmoving now. Ormund’s fingers at your nape were warm and heavy, not pressing down, but holding.
There was no hunger in his eyes, no predatory gleam that usually appeared when he looked at you with desire or anger—he was hiding it so well. This was something else entirely, quiet contemplation edged with something almost affectionate? It unsettled you more than any reprimand ever could have.
You didn't pull away; you didn’t want to. Then slowly, he leaned forward, and his lips met yours.
The kiss was not like the others. Not possessive, not claiming, not harsh or demanding as they usually were. This one was soft, tentative almost. He didn’t deepen it immediately—just held there for a heartbeat or two as if testing whether you would reject him (you wouldn’t), whether you’d tense up (you did). He pressed again gently, coaxing your lips to part beneath his with slow pressure rather than force.
One hand stayed cradling your nape while the other slid up higher on your thigh, still careful not to rush it; a gentle hand with you could make things easier. A part of you wondered if this was some kind of trick…if he’d suddenly grow tired of such gentleness and turn it into something rougher. His kindness never lasted, and it was never for nothing.
You knew that, but you couldn’t help but melt into the patiently sweet and slow kiss.
The sharp sting of the blade nicking his skin—barely a scratch, really—was instantaneous. His entire body went rigid; in an instant, his tenderness shattered like glass as his expression darkened. A low growl rumbled in his throat as he yanked your hair back by the grip at your nape, forcing you to break the kiss with a pained gasp as tears immediately filled your eyes as you realized what happened.
Without warning, he wrenched the razor from your trembling grip and tossed it aside where it clattered against the stone, your body flinching harshly at the echoing noise. You didn't dare to look him in the eyes, but you couldn’t fathom seeing the small bead of blood forming on his chest. Guilt and fear clawing at your throat.
“You dare to draw my blood?” He snarled through clenched teeth; the venomous anger in his voice cracked like thunder across the quiet chamber. You whimpered involuntarily at how quickly tenderness had turned to rage. You didn't move, despite your body urging you to, as he gripped both sides of your face harshly.
Your voice cracked as you blurted out your apology, frantic and desperate, before he could even demand one. “I’m sorry—Please, I didn't mean to! I swear, My Lord!” Tears spilled freely down your cheeks now, hot with shame. You knew better than this—knew how fast his wrath could ignite over something so small.
His grip tightened painfully on your face—his fingers digging into the delicate skin and bones of your cheeks. That simmering rage was barely restrained behind a mask of cold control in his eyes. Your hands flew up instinctively to clutch at his wrists, where he gripped your face like a vice; you weren’t trying to pry him off, but just holding on as if that could soften the storm raging in his eyes.
The blood welling from the tiny cut stood stark against his pale skin—a single drop of crimson that looked more monstrous than any wound could. It glistened under the stained-glass light, so tiny but made Ormond seethe with outrage. He hated imperfections. You hated yourself for it instantly. This was your fault.
Ormund’s fingers tighten for a fraction of a second longer, his knuckles white against your skin, before he let out a heavy, ragged exhale that signaled he was trying to calm himself. He did not pull away entirely, but the predatory fury in his gaze softened into something more complex—a dark, simmering disappointment that hurt more than his grip.
“Control Yourself.” He commanded you. The words cut deeper than any slap. Not shouted, not screamed—but spoken in that lethally quiet tone he used when truly furious. The kind of voice that made even his most loyal men fearful.
Control yourself.
A direct order—one laced with disgust at your clumsiness, your carelessness, the sheer indignity of it all; drawing blood from him by accident while performing smoothing you’ve done countless times before. Tears still streamed silently down your face despite your biting down on your bottom lip to stop them. You didn't dare speak again—not after this latest failure in obedience.
Your husband studied your tear-streaked face, the way your lips trembled beneath his displeasure. You have always been such a pretty crier. The silence stretched, long and suffocating, before he finally released you with another sharp exhale through his nose.
The shift in the air was instantaneous, thick with tension. Ormund’s gaze dropped to your tear-stained lips, then dragged lower—down the curve of your body still seated on his lap. The anger in his expression didn't vanish entirely, but it morphed into something else. Something far more dangerous.
He reached out and gripped the fabric of your nightgown near the hem with one large hand, giving it a single sharp tug upward, just enough to make you understand what he wanted without needing words. A whimper nearly escapes your lips at the feeling of heat pooling in your belly at the implication.
“Lift your dress,” Ormund ordered lowly, voice lethal and gravelly from barely restrained hunger rather than rage now. There was a pause where you could hear nothing but both of your breathing before he added sternly, “You will make it up to me.”
“Or would you rather bleed for me instead?”
His threat was wrapped in velvet cruelty—a true Hightower ultimatum where refusing always ended badly for those beneath them. You knew what he wanted, what he wanted from you, and maybe there was a time you would have hated yourself for this—but you wanted it too.
You lifted yourself on your knees. Your hands trembled slightly as you obeyed, gripping the hem of your nightgown and slowly pulling it up over your hips. The fabric bunched around your waist, exposing your smooth bare skin to the cool air, as Ormund watched your every movement with those heavy-lidded eyes filled with burning desire.
Ormund didn't waste any time. His large hand was moving between them—those fingers that had just moments ago gripped you in fury were now working with an efficient tug at the laces of his trousers, pushing both his trousers and underclothes down just below his hips with a quick lift of his hips.
His arousal was already evident—a thick length straining against restraint from earlier, tension between anger and desire warring inside of him until lust won. He exhaled sharply with gritted teeth at finally being free. His cock stood proudly, flushed at the tip and twitching in anticipation. The veins along his length pulsed in time with his heartbeat—strong and angry. Your breath hitched, and your mouth watered at the sight. Ormund gripped himself firmly at the base before looking. Back at you expectantly without saying anything else, he didn't need to.
His hand remained wrapped firmly around himself, not stroking yet, just holding possessively while he waited for you. The message was clear: you would take what he allowed.
This wasn’t about affection or tenderness anymore; this was punishment disguised as pleasure—your obedience could be rewarded, or withheld entirely based on how well you took him. And Ormund expected nothing less than perfection from his wife right now.
You swallowed hard; your pulse was hammering in your ears as you shifted on top of his lap. Ormund wouldn't dare to help you, no guiding hands or soft words to ease the way. You had to do this yourself, just like everything else with him: prove yourself worthy of forgiveness through sheer effort. Prove that you weren’t just a spoiled princess like he thought you were.
You didn't hesitate to lower yourself onto him—he hated when you hesitated—his heat and hardness pressing against your inner thighs first before slowly pushing inside. A choked-out gasp escaped your lips at the stretch; he was always large and a demanding stretch. Your body tensed instinctively around the intrusion but gradually relaxed as more of him filled you up, your legs trembling after days without intimacy. The tension between anger and arousal made it feel even more intense than usual.
Ormund’s jaw locked tight at the sensation, a low groan rumbling through his chest as your heat enveloped him completely. Both of his hands settle firmly on your hips, fingers digging into your soft flesh hard enough that it would bruise later. One of the many reminders of this moment you would feel for days. A whimper escaped your lips despite biting down hard on them to stay quiet. This wasn't the time for noises of weakness; you did not wish to displease him further.
When you finally bottomed out against his hips, you had to stop your head from resting on his shoulder, tears filling your eyes from how full he made you feel.
The moment you settled fully against him, Ormund’s nostrils flared, his breath slipping past his lips heavier now. He didn't kiss you, didn't caress your face or stroke your hair like a husband might do to comfort his wife during such an intimate act. No, he just stared into your teary eyes with that unreadable intensity, part fury still simmering from earlier, part primal satisfaction at having you exactly where he wanted—filled and claimed by him.
“H-Husband!” You cried out in pleasure, slowly lifting yourself just until the tip remained inside, before sinking again. Not too fast because you knew he preferred controlled movements, but not too slow—laziness was unacceptable. The lewd sound of your wetness filled the room; you were too blinded by pleasure to feel humiliated.
His fingers flexed against your hips at the sounds you were making before one large hand softly gripped the back of your neck, forcing you forward until your forehead rested against his, his core clenching from your movements that only seemed to get faster. His breath fanned hot over your face as he stared at you for another tense moment—loving how fucked out you looked on his cock already—before finally crushing his mouth into yours in a searing kiss.
It was claiming, punishing. His teeth nipped at your bottom lip hard enough to sting and have you whine against his lips before his tongue slid past, demanding entry without asking for permission. You were his; he didn't need to ask. One of his hands moved from your hip as he wrapped his arm around your waist, while the other kept a firm hand on your nape. Keeping you close.
The kiss was all teeth and tongue, dominant, hungry, and tasted like fury and lust tangled together. Ormund kissed you with the same intensity he used to command his men, his mouth moving against yours with ruthless dominance while his arms around your waist squeezed tighter to keep you pressed flush against him as you rode him.
Every rock of your hips sent sparks of pleasure through both of your bodies; the heat between you was almost unbearable now, and when he finally broke the kiss to breathe, it wasn't far; just enough space for air before pulling you back into one. He pressed on the base of your spine firmly, pressing you down harder against him. You couldn’t stop the moans and whines from leaving your lips and pouring into his.
The satisfaction in his chest was burning hot.
You could feel every rigid muscle in his torso and chest, tensing beneath you where skin met his—his chest rising and falling fast under yours—as pleasure coiled tight inside of him. The sound of their skin slapping echoed through the bedchamber. Ormund was too caught up in the pleasure to care about anyone overhearing.
The sound that escaped your husband's throat wasn't just a moan; it was deep and guttural, almost pained in its pleasure. Rare of a man who prided himself on complete control—especially with you—but was teetering on the edge now because of you. His fingers tangled roughly into your hair, which drove him mad, a reminder of your cursed blood. He tilted his head back slightly to watch you, the way your body moved above him with desperate devotion, the look of pure pleasure.
“Show me, wife.” His voice came out rough with lust but still carried that commanding edge through his clenched teeth. His words weren’t gentle or romantic as he continued, “Show me how remorseful you are.”
A test. A demand wrapped in sinful temptation. He wanted proof of your penance, not just through apologies and tears anymore, but through this. Flesh and fire. Through every desperate roll of your hips against his lap, begging for his forgiveness without words. Through the way sweat beaded at your temples, chasing both punishment and reward simultaneously inside this heated embrace between husband and wife. Owner and the owned…
Oh, gods, how you want to obey him perfectly.
And so, without hesitation, driven by that desperate need to please him after drawing his blood. You wanted to be his good wife, so you obeyed with fervor. Your movements grew faster now, not just riding him but rolling your hips like a prayer. Each rise and fall of your hips had his hands gripping harder into your plush skin at the feeling of you squeezing around him as he pushed up into your wet heat from below.
Breathless gasps and moans tumbled from both of your lips between stolen biting kisses. Your hands braced on his shoulders for leverage—the only part of him he would allow you to touch—nails digging lightly into his muscle. His hands slid down to grip the plump skin of your ass, guiding your rhythm exactly how he liked it.
His jaw clenched as he felt your nails dig into his shoulders, pain mixed with pleasure. He tried to stay silent, not wanting to reward you with the sounds of his pleasure, but even he couldn’t stay silent forever—not when every drag of your tight heat around him threatened to unravel his restraint. The pretty noises you were trying to hold in didn’t help ease it.
The bedchamber was filled with the sounds of your shared passion at the feverish pace your bodies were moving at together, skin slapping, ragged breathing, and the occasional moan or whimper that slipped through. Ormund was losing himself in you; each exhale was hot against your lips as he watched you with hooded eyes. The sight of you unraveling about him—the way your face was twisted in pleasure, the moans leaving your parted lips—sent a possessive thrill through him.
Ormund’s fingers kneaded your ass possessively as he helped guide your movements to match exactly what he craved—the perfect punishing rhythm that made his hips jerk up instinctively to meet yours. Every time you came down hard on him, a low groan of pleasure rumbled deep from his chest. His upward thrusts were taking your breath away and had your thighs shaking; he was always precise when he fucked his wife into repentance.
His voice was a growl, dark and thick with need. “Faster.” He commanded, his hands squeezing the plush flesh of your ass harder as he lifted you slightly, only to slam you back down on him faster. Ormund’s hips snapped up sharply beneath you, the sudden change in pace and him filling you deeper than before, moans and slurred words of pleasure leaving your lips.
Ormund’s lips crashed against yours again, this time rougher and hungrier. His tongue claims your mouth with the same dominance he used to claim every other part of you. His teeth nipped at your bottom lip again before dragging down along your jawline and neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses and bites. Marking you all over your collarbone, each one stung sweetly, reminding you who you truly belonged to.
His breathing had turned uneven now, sweat glistening along his forehead and the defined lines of his chest that were pressing against yours. He could feel himself building fast, the coil in his stomach winding tighter with every slick slide inside you. You took him so perfectly; he molded every part of you to submit to him. He could feel that you were close, feel how your thighs trembled as you tried to keep up with his thrusts, your body nearly going limp in his arms from exhaustion.
“Look at me,” Ormund orders sharply as one of his hands abandoned its grip on your flesh to cup your neck roughly, forcing eye contact as he continued to fuck up into you. When your tear-filled eyes met his stormy gaze, a smirk spread across his face as he squeezed just enough to have your pace faltering. His voice was thick with desire and the twisted satisfaction of having you fall apart on top of him, “I want to see those pretty eyes when I make you fall apart.”
Ormund’s grip on your neck tightened just enough to make you gasp, his thumb pressing into the frantic pulse beneath your hot skin, a silent threat that if you looked away, there would be consequences. He gave you a command, and you didn't dare disobey. His dark eyes burned into yours, unrelenting, as he watched the tears spill over your lashes and soak his skin. Your expression was a perfect mix of overwhelmed pleasure and submission.
Each snap of his hips hitting that perfect spot inside you sent white-hot pleasure searing through your every nerve. Your lips parted around silent moans, but they soon turned into broken whimpers when the pleasure was too much to handle. He could feel the way you were clamping around him, how your grip on his shoulders got harder—more desperate, how your sweet moans got more pitchy. He could see how you controlled yourself until he gave you permission. Just like how he taught you. Good wife.
He nodded once, and almost instantaneously, you succumbed to the pleasure.
“Ormund!” A broken moan of pleasure tore from your lips as your peak crashed over you like a wave of pleasure so intense that your tears spilled freely down your cheeks once again as your body clenched around him, feeling dizzy from the overwhelming ecstasy coursing through your body. All you could think about was him, chanting his name in your head like a prayer.
Ormund’s hips nearly stilled at the feeling of you squeezing him tighter than before; a guttural groan ripped from his chest at the sight of how perfectly ruined he had made his wife look. Your burning skin covered in sweat and marks from his mouth, trembling limbs clinging to him, tear-stained face twisted into pure bliss because of him.
He watched intently as your peak overwhelmed every inch of you, your body begging you to stop and let the pleasure lull you into contentment. Your lashes fluttered, but you forced them to stay open at his command. Your body was trembling even worse now; overstimulated but still chasing that sweet feeling of gratification that only he could give you by blessing you with his seed. And gods did it please him—to have such control over you.
He didn’t close his eyes; no, he kept them open just like he demanded of you, drinking in every twitch of your face as ecstasy wrecked through both of you.
The moment Ormund came, his entire body tensed, every muscle locked in pure ecstasy. A low, desperate moan escaped him that had rarely been heard before—a man so composed and controlled unraveling completely because of you. His Sweet wife. His fingers flexed against your neck as his peak slammed into him, his seed spilling deep inside you with hot pulses that made your oversensitive walls flutter around him.
For several heartbeats, neither of you moved. The world outside your bedchamber ceased to exist; there was no talk of wars brewing beyond Oldtown’s walls or political intrigue at court—just sweat-slicked skin pressed together and shared breaths slowing gradually. Ormund didn't close his eyes; he kept his intense gaze locked on you as he drank in every detail—your sweat-glistening skin, the way your lips parted as you caught your breath, how utterly spent you looked from riding him so devoutly.
Then slowly, Ormund exhaled through his flared nostrils before pressing an unexpected kiss to your forehead—a rare gesture so soft it didn't feel like him. Not dominance or punishment this time, but something quieter: Satisfaction? Affection? It lingered only for a second before he shifted beneath you, enticing a small whimper from you.
He had to stop himself from smiling at the babbling thank-yous leaving your lips.
His hand on your bottom moved up to smooth down your spine while the one on your neck lifted to brush your damp strands of hair away from your face. His calloused fingertips gently brushed your wet cheeks with tears and sweat before he gripped your soft cheeks with his thumb and index finger, your lips pressing together in a cute pout.
If you weren’t so utterly fucked out, you might have seen the small glint of pride in your husband's eyes from how well you took him, how you submitted to him so beautifully once again. He would tell the cooks to make your favorite tonight. He didn't allow himself to linger in such feelings before he was commanding you once again, ”Go clean yourself, wife.”
His tamed dragon.
┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…sweetling mlist & main masterlist ❜❜
Იᰍ holy yap session this was, I had 2 redbull’s and a dream. i hope you enjoy this one bunnies, it was fun but very different to write and i enjoyed it, ormund has really enchanted me wowza 😻 please tell me your thoughts , ideas, and opinions, they are very important and wanted !! comments, reblogs and feedback is very welcomed !! 🐇
thank you to the lovely anon who sent in this request!!! i lost a bit of my sanity trying to translate the high valyrian… but we persevere!!!
winds roared outside the walls of dragonstone, salted water crashing up on the rocky banks as the western sky bled from vibrant oranges and pinks into a black ink spill. inside the runic castle, jacaerys velaryon, the queen’s heir, held onto his lady wife with a bruising grip, her beautiful moans cresting his ears as he rutted into her slick.
“look at you — such a good girl. so pliant and sweet for me.” sweet whimpers of ecstasy leave your lips, hitting jace straight in the gut as he continues his tirade of praise over your body.
“jace!” you squeal, nails digging into his shoulders, leaving crescent moons in their wake. your husband only grins at your whines, speeding up his movements and hiking your legs higher until the sweetness of your moans grow louder in a crescendo.
brushing your hair off of your forehead, jace grips your cheek, his hold tender and soft, a warmth spreading in your body that only he can wield.
“ñuha gevie riña,” he whispers, smoothing his fingers down the expanse of your collarbone. his hands are a juxtaposition of themselves; one a bruising grip on your thigh, while the other flits softly down your skin, leaving you a speechless, blubbering mess. “nyke daor pāsagon iksā ñuhon.”
the high valyrian wraps around jace’s tongue like ivy on archaic stone, his words unknown to you, yet the softness of them leaving you to believe they’re nothing but praise. your hands move from his shoulders, cupping his face with the softness of the maiden as jace stares down at you lovingly, a sheen of love in his eyes.
“you’re mine,” he laments, holding onto you a little tighter. “and i love you so.”
ñuha gevie riña: my beautiful girl
nyke daor pāsagon iksā ñuhon: i cannot believe you are mine
summary: you have been told your service is needed to help aid young prince daeron, but there are whispers that ormund hightower has kept you in oldtown for another purpose
tw: mentions of child abuse
wc: 6.7k
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People whisper of a beast that lives in House Hightower.
A beast that bludgeons men who anger him, destroys rooms, and burns down buildings.
You hear the servants warn each other of it, their whispers reaching your ears during quiet spells in the night.
During your first months at House Hightower, you wondered if this beast actually existed, or if it was a mere horror story told between serving staff to keep them on their best behavior.
But slowly, as more time passed during your stay in Oldtown, you began to hear it.
Shouts carry through the hallways. You hear screaming from areas you did not know existed. You see servants running from something that you have not witnessed yourself.
Prince Daeron is the one to finally explain it to you.
The two of you sit together in the Hightower library reading through histories of the Gardening when you hear the sound of glass shattering on one of the floors above you. You then hear heavy footsteps, and a crash that is so loud it makes you flinch.
Two guards run past the library doorway, and you begin to fear something is wrong.
“It is only my Uncle Ormund,” Prince Daeron tells you, noticing your expressions. “You needn’t worry, he will not come down here.”
“Lord Ormund?” Your shoulders jump as you hear another crashing of glass. “Is he okay?”
“He must have received a letter he did not like.”
“It sounds worse than an ill-received letter.”
“It is actually quite tame for him.”
You don’t understand it.
Lord Ormund Hightower appears to be the very definition of prestige and class when you are near him.
He is a man that never slouches, never curses, never complains. He is a compass of what a good man should be, and he carries himself as if he is the role model for the world.
“He hides that side of himself from you,” Daeron once confessed to you. “He is easily angered, and is quick to react with violence. He tries to pretend he is well tempered but he is not.”
“I have seen him angry,” you tried to reassure him. “You have not seen him angry. You have seen him upset. He is different when he is angry. He will break everything in his path. He will destroy an entire room. He will wound servants that are near him.”
“It is a sin to harm an innocent in anger-”
“He is different,” Daeron insisted. “That is what I am warning. He believes you to be too gentle to see such a thing, so he hides it, but he is a beast at times. You must be careful.”
A beast. His word choice set you on edge.
It was difficult to believe the almighty Ormund Hightower was the beast everyone spoke of, and not the dragon that lived in the lowest level of the tower.
Even after all the warnings, you still thought people must have been exaggerating to scare you. For months you lived in Oldtown, and you never once saw Ormund raise a hand to anyone.
Until you reached your second year with the Hightowers.
That was when you first saw him physically punish Daeron with a slap to the face. It had been a petty crime Daeron committed, being caught having a taste of his uncle’s wine when he thought he wasn’t looking. It scared you so badly you could not look the Lord in the eye for a week.
By the time your third year here came around, Ormund would frequently discipline the Prince by striking the back of his hands with a leather rod.
Seeing such things made you…wary of him. But he never placed an unkind hand on you.
Daeron says he’s soft for you.
Now, as you neared your fourth year in Oldtown, you find yourself unsure of your attitude towards Ormund. He was a Lord, so you respected him. You try to remember how you have been raised, all the politeness you must show, so you put your personal feelings aside so that you can do your duties properly.
Your duties, which involve the education and faith of Prince Daeron, are difficult at times.
Especially today.
You have sat Daeron down in the library, and you are attempting to get him used to more diligent notetaking, yet he is fighting back with everything he has.
“We spend so many hours in this library,” he complains. “Can we not go somewhere else?”
“We can visit the Sept.”
He lets out an uninterested grunt.
“We can take a break once we reach mid-hour,” you offer. “We’ll take a walk through the gardens.”
Daeron fidgets in his seat. “I wish to visit Tessarion.”
“You know that is not allowed.”
“It’s not recommended. I am the Prince, I can order you to take me anywhere if I really want to.”
“It would be much easier if you just finish your notetaking.”
He sighs as he looks down at the paper. His quill finally starts moving again.
“Perhaps we can ask your uncle at dinner if he can take you down to Tessarion.”
“He would never agree to that, he dislikes her.”
“There is no harm in asking him. The worst he can do is say ‘no’.”
You hear Daeron chuckle, like you have made a joke. “Only you would say such a thing.”
You place down your book. “And why is that?”
“Because you are the only one he does not throw a fit in front of. He’ll hold his tongue for you.” Daeron risks another smile as his quill scrolls across the paper. He uses a mocking voice. “Uncle Ormund says that you are a proper woman, and should not have to bear witness to such foul, abhorrent language.”
You straighten yourself to better posture, surprised by the comment. Lord Ormund was one of the most prestigious, well-classed men you have ever met. To hear such a compliment from him was beyond meaningful.
“Well, that is true,” you say. “Foul language should not be said around ladies.”
“And what of your foul language?”
“I do not use foul language, it is a sin.”
Daeron’s smile turns to a smirk. “You do not think of the word ‘bastard’ as foul? Or do you assume your context of calling the street merchant a ‘bastard’ acceptable?”
Your shoulders slouch, and you feel heat rush to your face. “That was a moment of wrongfulness, and you heard me pray for the Mother to forgive me for it.”
“Perhaps I should tell Uncle Ormund all the words I’ve heard you use so that he is less worried about exposing you to such language-”
“You will not.” Your words come out flustered. “I hardly ever use such language and-and if I have it was well deserved.”
Daeron is even more amused. He leans closer, and fakes a gasp. “You dare believe someone deserves such a name? And here I thought you were supposed to be aiding me in my ethics of the Seven.”
“You stop it,” you tell him. “I have prayed for my wrongdoings. But even if I didn’t...that merchant ripped my coin pouch right from my hands. Had you not retrieved it, your uncle would have never allowed us back to the market again.”
Daeron chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Alright, I agree. The bastard was deserved. And I have to admit it was quite humorous to hear my proper teacher shouting that word across a crowd.”
“You should be finishing your notes, not trying to rile me up,” you tell me. “Let me see your paper so I can be sure you complete your studies before dinner.”
“Let me see your paper,” Daeron counters.
He reaches over, but you quickly flip the book over. “I am not the one who needs to take notes.”
“But let me see yours, so I know I am taking notes correctly.”
You pull your book away.
He smiles wider. “Unless, perhaps, my teacher has not been taking notes. Perhaps she has just been drawing.”
Your face grows hotter in embarrassment. He knew how to get under your skin so easily.
“As the teacher, I am asking to see yours-Daeron!”
He reached over and snatched your parchments from you. He laughs, flipping it back towards you to say, “It is a beautiful flower you have drawn.”
“I have learned these lessons before, I can draw if I wish.”
“Shall I tell Uncle Ormund that you are wasting time in the library with such drawings?”
“You will do no such thing.”
You would be humiliated. You could picture it now. His stern stare looking down at the stupid flower, and then back up at you, silently labeling you as incompetent for the rest of your time here.
“I will keep my mouth shut if we end lessons early today,” Daeron says. “And you allow me to visit Tessarion.”
“Lord Ormund is displeased when you visit her.”
“He would also be displeased by this,” Daeron countered, waving your drawing in front of him.
You are tired of the library anyway, so you figured there was no harm in a quick visit downstairs. You sigh. “Fine. But you must wash before dinner so that he does not smell her on you.”
Daeron smiles again, like he tricked you into giving him the upper hand. Though, in all honesty, he was the Prince. He could have left the library at any time, and you had no true power to stop him.
“May I at least see that you have taken notes?” you ask.
He flips his book around to show you his parchment.
There were no notes. There was only a drawing of you sitting in front of him, drawing a flower.
You open your mouth to lecture him, but quickly shut it. “We will be going to the Sept tonight, and we are going to pray about your lack of enthusiasm for your education.”
He paid no mind to your words. “Come on. I’m sure Tessarion had been missing me greatly.”
The days are always like this with Prince Daeron. Amusing. Frustrating. Happy. Exciting. Nerve wracking. You feel every emotion with the boy everyday.
And it brings you more joy than anything.
When you first arrived at House Hightower, nearly four years prior, Daeron hardly spoke to you.
He had recently turned the age of ten, and at the time you were barely ten and six. He was a quiet boy, and you were a quiet girl. It was extraordinary to see the difference in him now.
Originally, you had been sent to Oldtown by your father, who was a strong believer in the Faith of the Seven. He wanted you to learn how to pray from the Septas of Oldtown, the most devoted women in the realm.
It was Gwayne Hightower that offered for you to stay in House of Hightower, your mother having been a dear friend to Alicent and him in their younger days.
You were meant to be in Oldtown for one month, and then you were to be sent home.
But the gods had a different plan for you.
It was Ormund Hightower that spoke to your father about you becoming an aid for the young prince.
Lord Ormund was a man of religion. He visited the Sept every morning and every night. He was quick to notice, staring on the morning of your arrival, that you did as well.
He admitted to your father that he was impressed with your faith, and even more impressed with how often you partook in prayer.
“Daeron has become very lonesome being so isolated from his siblings,” Lord Ormund had said to you. “It would be beneficial for him to have the company of a girl as mindful as yourself. A girl proper in her ways, and a devoted servant to the Seven.”
When the offer of a more permanent stay was first given to you, you were wary of it. “This is the first time I have been away from home,” you admitted. “I do not know if I would be able to assist the Prince as well as a Septa could.”
“Septas know only scripture,” Ormund reasoned. “They are the education of the spiritual world, and you will help teach him the ways of the physical one.”
In honesty, you felt too young for such a position. Ten and six, you still felt like a child. You were frightened to be so far from your mother, and even more frightened to be in a position responsible for royalty.
And in the beginning, you were frightened of Lord Ormund as well. You had been so scared to talk to him the day he brought his proposal up to you. You had never spoken to him prior to it, and the only reputation you knew was that he was a serious man who was easily disappointed.
So you try to be honest with him, hoping he would understand your hesitancy. “I do not know if I am equipped to handle such a task, my Lord.”
He had smiled at you. A warm smile that made him appear as such a kind and considerate man.
Placing a hand upon your shoulder, he told you, “You are a good girl, (Y/N). All I need is your help in raising my nephew to be just as good.”
Now, nearly four years later, Oldtown feels more like home than your homeland ever did.
Because your brother is here.
Daeron Targaryen, Prince of the realms, will always be the brother you never had. Not a blood brother, like the ones from your homeland, who were cruel to you in your childhood and would throw things your way when you became bothersome. Daeron was a real brother, and seeing him grow up to be kind was the best gift the Mother could ever give you.
“Come,” Daeron hurried you as the two of you descended down the staircase to where Tessarion was kept. “She has been alone for so long, she must be dying for company.”
You disliked the way the Hightowers treated Daeron’s dragon. But you knew it was not your place to interfere with such a thing.
Daeron’s face lights up like the boy he is as he sees her. You stay back against the staircase as Daeron jogs down the steps and over to the creature. “Here I am, girl. I promised I would return to you.”
The sight of the large dragon always makes you wary. Even as she makes screeches of joy as she sets her eyes on her rider, you feel yourself fearing for him.
Yet, he nuzzles his head against hers, and she appears to nuzzle him back. “There you are,” Daeron whispers with a laugh. “Shh. Shh. I told you, I can come down here more often if you are quiet.”
“Be cautious of her claws,” you say as she paws near his feet.
“She knows her strength, she will not harm me,” Daeron assures you.
You rest against the wall, and listen to him whispering soft words of admiration to her.
You are patient as he takes a brush to draw over her scales, grooming her body. He glances over to you. “She is not a monster like they say,” he tells you. “I have raised her to be good.”
You give a soft nod. “She is good, I know.”
“Would you...” He hesitates. “...Would you like to pet her?”
You take a quick step back, shaking your head. “I will keep my distance.”
“She will not harm you, you have my word.”
“Lord Ormund warns they are unpredictable with those that do not have the right blood.”
“Please,” Daeron says. “She sees you so often. I want her to actually meet you.”
Your eyes take in the creature. You stiffen as she stares right at you.
Daeron holds a hand out. “I will be right beside you.”
“What if she dislikes me-?”
“She will not. I promise.” Daeron steps close to you with his hand out. “Trust me, Lady (Y/N).”
It takes a moment of contemplation before you finally decide you do trust him. And if your trust gets you burnt, so be it. You take his hand, and he leads you to the dragon.
He lifts your arm and slowly places it on Tessarion’s head. The texture catches you by surprise and you flinch back.
He chuckles. “It is an odd feeling, isn’t it?”
You choke back a scream when Tessarion moves her head against your stomach. You stumble back, but Daeron places an arm out to steady you. “Daeron-”
“It’s alright. She just wishes to feel you too.”
You force yourself still. The dragon runs her head along your abdomen. Slowly, you lower your hand back onto her. The scales are not so frightening now.
“See,” Daeron smiles. “She likes you.”
“That is very relieving,” you laugh.
“Sometimes I think she can sense how I feel about people,” he tells you. “And that’s how she judges them.”
“Does that mean if you decide you hate me, she will eat me?”
“I would never hate you,” Daeron says. His voice grows more somber. “You are the only true companion I have ever had.”
“For now,” you say. “I am sure you will gain allies over time.”
“Allies,” he repeats. “Not friends.”
“I have no other friends either,” you tell him. “It is not so bad.”
As an aid to royalty, you are secluded from the outside world. Lord Ormund has insisted on it.
‘There is no room for distractions when it comes to your care of my nephew,’ he told you when you first arrived. You were just a girl then, so it made sense to you. But now, nearing your twentieth summer, you feel the seclusion is less necessary. Yet, he still insists on it.
It does matter your opinion, however. It never does with him.
Lord Ormund is the man of the house, so you must bend your knee to his orders.
Daeron is quiet for a moment. He brushes along Tessarion’s back.
“...I wish you were my true sister,” he whispers. “So that I did not have to fear you leaving.”
He has said this before. It makes you feel sympathy that he is so far from his real family, he sometimes forgets he actually does have a true sister.
“I would not leave,” you quickly insist. “I promised I would remain at your side for the rest of your youth.”
“And after?” he asks.
You sigh. “I do not know the plans my father has for me after.” You look again at the creature that has settled comfortably with leaning against your body. “But Tessarion will be here forever, at least for that you are certain. So be good to her.”
“I am,” he swore to you. He leaned his head against the dragon’s once more. “Aren’t I good to you?” he whispers to the dragon.
A few weeks pass, and the weather becomes warmer. It causes Daeron to lose energy in the day.
“It is shameful to sleep in the Sept, Prince Daeron,” you chide softly, “It is best you wake before someone else sees you.”
The boy barely stirred. Head resting on the pew in front of him, arms folded beneath him, he muffles, “I am not sleeping, I am praying.”
The yawn was still in his voice, and it made you chuckle. “You’ve been unmoving for fifteen minutes.”
“Deep in prayer,” he insists.
Another laugh. “It is almost time for dinner, Daeron. Come. Raise your head, and pray with me once more before we go.”
Daeron slowly lifts his head. He rises from the bench, and comes to kneel beside you in front of the candle altar. He clasps his hands together, and waits for you to begin.
You let your eyes flutter closed and pray, “Mother, please grant us peace of mind in these upcoming weeks. Give us honor in what we do.”
Daeron repeats, “Mother, please grant us peace of mind in these upcoming weeks. Give us honor in what we do.”
“Warrior, please send strength to King Viserys. Please give him health and extend his kingdom.”
Again, Daeron repeats after you. “Warrior, please send strength to my father. Please give him health and extend his kingdom.”
“Crone, please give Prince Daeron wisdom in his studies, and the foresight to see the consequences of laziness-”
“I am not lazy.”
You laugh, and continue, “Please make him into the best scholar he can be.”
Daeron eyes you, before praying, “Mother, please give (Y/N) a kinder heart that is less overbearing-”
“Shh,” you laugh, sticking out your hand to cover his mouth. “Do not say that to her.”
Daeron smiles as he continues, “Crone, give her the wisdom that reminds her I am her Prince, therefore I am in charge-”
“Daeron,” you scold with amusement, “We do not play with the gods.”
“I am not lazy. Take it back.”
“You were sleeping in the Sept.”
“Exhausted, not lazy.”
You huff, yet a smile still plays on your face. “Fine. You are not lazy. But you better be careful. What would you have done had Lord Ormund heard you snoring?”
“I do not snore.”
You shrug. “You would not know.”
You catch him rolling his eyes, to which you criticize, “Do not roll your eyes in the house of the gods.”
“Then let us leave the house of the gods. I am starving.”
“In a moment,” you tell him. “Allow me to do a prayer for our food.”
He sighs, but he stays kneeled beside you. He is patient with you in the Sept, just as you are patient with him with his dragon.
When you two are finished, the guards escort the two of you to Lord Ormund.
It became customary over the last few years for Daeron and yourself to have dinner with Lord Ormund in his private study. The Lord often complained that the Hightower dining hall was unappealing, that it was too close to the kitchens, the aromas were too strong, and he was unable to eat there. The difference in rooms mattered very little to you. You did not mind eating in his study. In fact, it felt like a compliment that you were even invited. It made you feel more valued that your company was enjoyed by both the Lord and Prince.
You are still laughing with Daeron over mundane things as you make your way through the halls.
“What brings such laughter from my nephew?” Ormund asks as the two of you arrive at his study.
You greet the Lord with a curtsy of respect. “Good evening, Lord Ormund.” You rise and smile, “Daeron speaks of plans for his fourteenth nameday.”
“Ah,” he grins. “Yes, that is arriving soon.”
As always, Lord Ormund stands as you enter, and he pulls out your chair for you. You take it with a gracious, “Thank you, my Lord.”
“What kind of celebration would you like?” Ormund asks as he takes his seat. He sits at the head of the table, as always. You take the left side of him, Daeron is sat on the right.
The prince smiles shyly. “I need nothing extravagant. I only wish to have a feast with the three of us, as always. With cake. Perhaps Uncle Gwayne can be here.”
“I can prepare you a cake,” you tell him. “It would be my honor.”
“You need not do it,” Daeron quickly says. “We will pay a baker.”
You tilt your head. “You do not trust my cooking?”
He chuckles. “No offense, my Lady, but I have yet to see you in a kitchen. It seems you do not get much practice at it.”
You let out a laugh. “Is that so?”
“Careful, Daeron,” Ormund chides. “Insulting a woman’s cooking is as if she were to insult your sword fighting.”
“She knows I jest,” Daeron says. “But either way, you should not waste time on such things, Lady (Y/N). Any day that honors me should honor you as well.”
The words warm your heart, and you wonder if this is what motherhood is meant to feel like. “You flatter me.”
“It is true. I feel I am becoming a great man due to your teachings. You as well, Uncle Ormund. I believe I am growing into my strongest self here in Oldtown.”
Ormund smiles proudly at his nephew. He reaches over and places a hand on his shoulder. “The Father smiles upon you, Daeron. You are a blessing to us all.”
“My father sends coin on my nameday,” Daeron says. “I would like to purchase gifts for the two of you. As well as Uncle Gwayne.”
“That is very thoughtful of you, Prince Daeron, but it is not a day you must buy gifts for others. Others should buy gifts for you.”
“I want to,” he says. His tone becomes shy. “I…would like to show my appreciation. With something you will be able to cherish.”
The idea warms your heart.
“Besides, I need nothing,” Daeron says. “And I want for nothing. I would donate my coin rather than hoard it.”
You smile wider, and you meet Lord Ormund’s eye. “He is a very noble boy, your nephew. You should be very proud of him.”
“I am,” Ormund smiles. “My nephew is growing to be flawless.”
“Flawless.” Daeron chuckles. “Except for the snoring, I suppose.”
You laugh. “Yes, except for the snoring.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Lord Ormund lean back against his chair.
“I am very much looking forward to hearing from my mother,” Daeron continues. “She writes to me an especially long letter on my name day each year. My father as well.”
“Perhaps you can have a portrait made to send them,” you suggest. “I’m sure your mother misses your face dearly.”
He lights up at the idea. “A portrait. Yes. I have not had one of those done in a few years.”
“Me neither,” you admit. “I fear my mother has not seen a new portrait of me since I was the age of ten and seven.”
“Then we could all have portraits done. Uncle Ormund, do you think you could call upon an artisan to-” Daeron’s smile drops and his words cease.
Your attention turns to Lord Ormund. A pit forms in your stomach.
He is not looking at either of you. He is simply staring ahead, silent.
Daeron becomes tense. “…Uncle?”
Ormund continues staring ahead, only his finger moving as he taps upon the table, quickly and precise, as if counting the seconds.
“I need no portrait,” Daeron quickly says. “It was only an idea.”
Lord Ormund is angry. You do not know why, or over what, but you know that this is his first stage of anger.
He stares.
He stares, and it gives him time to think. And the more he thinks, the angrier he gets.
Daeron becomes a shade paler at the lack of response. “I-I do not look forward to hearing from my mother as much as I look forward to seeing you, Uncle,” he spurts out, going through every last word he said to think of what could have angered him. “I do not take my place here for granted.”
Ormund’s head tilts to the side, his stare still blank and ominous.
When his eyes land on you, his gaze is so piercing that you flinch.
“My nephew snores?”
You blink, caught off guard by the question.
His hands open and close. “How would you know my nephew snores, Lady (Y/N)-?”
“I fell asleep today,” Daeron quickly cuts in. “I apologize for it. I drifted off, and she-she merely teased me for it.”
Ormund’s eyes don’t leave you.
You have been scolded by Lord Ormund before, plenty of time in fact. But there is something different in his voice now. Those scolding were small corrections, his voice never, ever rose at you. Even now, he speaks calmly. But the look in his eye makes you feel cold.
He does not speak again, simply waiting and watching for you to answer.
“It was only for a moment,” Daeron repeats with worry. “No wrong was done.”
Ormund continues to wait for your response only.
You swallow before speaking, “The Prince drifted off today, as he said. I allowed him to rest for a few minutes because he was tired. I should not tease a Prince about such things, I am sorry.”
“Where did he fall asleep?”
Daeron’s posture is rigid. You bite your lip, considering the consequences of your answer.
“Lady (Y/N).” He speaks your name softly, but there is an edge to his voice that you did not want to press.
You look again at Daeron, and feel as if it would be against your faith to tell on him. Daeron must’ve seen it in your eyes that you were unwilling.
Internally, you make the decision not to answer. You did not fear his uncle harming you for your silence.
But Daeron feared it.
Daeron quickly answered for you, “It was in the Sept.”
His uncle frowned. His head slowly turned to his nephew. “In the Sept?”
“Yes-”
“In our most sacred place of prayer?”
His voice is only a whisper. “I am sorry.”
Ormund slowly pulls his napkin off his lap, folding it and calmly placing it onto the table. He stands to his feet, his boots heavy on the floor as he walks to stand behind Daeron’s chair. He asks, “Did you pray for forgiveness before you left?”
“I...” He swallows. “I did not think to pray for that specifically-”
“Both hands flat on the table.”
Daeron’s face goes completely pale.
Ormund crosses the room to his bookshelf.
Your heart slams in your chest as you rush to your feet, hurrying over to Ormund’s side, trying to match his quick strides. “He said prayers before leaving, my Lord.”
He ignores you. He grabs the leather strapped rod he keeps on the shelf.
The sight of it surges your panic. You struggle to remain by Ormund’s side, placing a hand on his arm to slow him. “He did not mean to offend the gods. He was only tired from the heat of the day-”
“If he did not pray for forgiveness, I will administer punishment.”
“He will not commit the offense again.”
“Spare the rod, spoil the child. He will receive seven lashes. One for each god he offended.” He snaps at Daeron, “Both hands flat on the table. Now.”
Daeron shuts his eyes tightly, doing as told.
You run forward and force yourself in front of your prince. “The lashes should be mine,” you tell Ormund.
Daeron tries to push you away. “No-”
“I was in charge of him, the fault is mine. Allow me the lashes, not him.” In a surge of protectiveness, you try to hide Daeron behind your body. “I offended the gods, not him.”
Lord Ormund watches you with critical eyes.
You knelt down, and place both hands flat on the table.
Daeron’s voice is a quiet whimper as he says, “(Y/N), get up, this is not your punishment.”
You physically push his hands back to his lap, and lay yours flat on the table once more. You stare up at Lord Ormund, whose eyes are still so meticulous.
He stays staring at you a moment longer, and every second that passes, you feel your heart will give out from beating so fast.
Finally, Ormund drops the rod onto the table. Slowly, he kneels beside you and rests his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together. “Lady (Y/N), lead us in a prayer of forgiveness for Daeron’s offense.”
A shaky breath of relief escapes your lips. “Y-Yes, my Lord.”
Daeron quickly kneels beside you as well.
“Mother, please forgive the transgressions of Daeron. He has committed an offensive act that he shall not commit again. Please, allow him grace and hospitality.”
Daeron quickly repeats, “Mother, please forgive my transgressions. I have committed an offensive act that I shall commit again. Please, allow me grace and hospitality.”
Ormund speaks next. “Mother, please forgive the transgressions of Daeron. He has committed an offensive act that he shall not commit again. Please, allow him grace and hospitality.”
Another nervous breath. “Mother, please-please put mercy in the heart of Lord Ormund. Please allow him to grant us the patience and grace that you would.”
Daeron hesitates, his eyes shooting to his uncle, as if terrified of the consequences of this prayer.
“Daeron,” his uncle urges.
Daeron follows, “Mother, please put mercy in the heart of Lord Ormund. Please allow him to grant us the patience and grace that you would.”
Ormund finishes, “Mother, please put mercy in my heart. Please allow me to grant them the patience and grace that you would.”
“And so it is.”
“And so it is.”
“And so it is.” Ormund rises to his feet. “Let us finish dinner.” He pulls out his chair for you to sit.
The rest of the dinner is silent. You have lost your appetite, but try to finish the plate anyway. Lord Ormund is strict with your diet, and if you do not eat now, you will not be allowed food again until morning.
The time ticks by slowly. Daeron fidgets more and more as each minute passes.
“Daeron, you are excused,” Ormund speaks after he is finished with his own meal.
You see in the prince’s eyes that he does not want to leave you.
“Go on,” you tell him. “I will see you in the morning at the library.”
He hesitates only a moment longer. Ormund clears his throat, and he finally goes.
You are left alone with Lord Ormund.
“It is not your place to stand between that boy and his punishments,” he tells you.
You stare down at your hands. “I apologize, Lord Ormund.”
“You apologize, yet if it came down to it, you would do so again.”
You do not lie. “I would.”
Ormund sighs. He rises to his feet. He walks to you, and leans upon the table beside you. His fingers ghost your chin, and he tilts your head up to face him. “I hope you are not allowing your loyalty towards him to cloud your judgement.”
“I am not.”
His fingers graze the side of your face, pushing your hair behind your ears. “I do not only feel responsible for Daeron, (Y/N), I also feel responsible for you. I want what is best for you, I hope you know that.”
“I do, my Lord.”
His hand brushes down the back of your hair. “You have always been such a good girl for me.” His hand stops on the back of your head, and you flinch as his hand suddenly grips your hair. “But I need you to remember that your obedience is to me before my nephew.”
His grip does not hurt, but it frightens you.
You force your hands to remain in your lap. “Y-Yes, my Lord. I remember.”
“The next interference, I will not spare the rod on you.”
You swallow. “I understand.”
Ormund smiles at your agreement. His hand loosens on your hair, and he cups your cheek instead. “I have been told I have a weakness for you, Lady (Y/N). That I am too lenient when you are around, that I lack appropriate sternness.”
You have been told the same thing about him. That he is fond of you, that he treats you kinder than others, that your faith in the Seven makes him more gentle.
Ormund’s hand lingers on your cheek a moment, before he turns your head to the side, and reaches out to wipe away a bead of sweat that began to form on your temple.
“You would not dare use that against me, would you?”
“Never, my Lord.” You realize your hands are forming sweat as well. You open and close them to try to release the nerves. “I-I appreciate your mercy, but it is never expected.”
“Good.” He turns your jaw to face him head on. “Because my patience is not limitless.”
You do not know what he wants you to say. You wonder if he even wants you to say anything at all, or if he just wants to frighten you so you do not interfere again. You simply repeat, “I understand, my Lord.”
You think he will let go of you, but he does not.
Instead, he leans closer, and you hear his long inhale. It is what he does whenever the serving boys bring him new scented powders.
“You smell of candle smoke,” he tells you.
“From my prayer in the Sept, my Lord.”
Your answer satisfies him.
Another moment passes of uncertainty for you. You have never been alone with Ormund for this long before. Your mind goes back to Daeron, and where he might be.
“I think it is time we find a perfume for you.”
The comment catches you by surprise. “A perfume, my Lord?”
“Noble women choose perfumes for themselves. Ones they reorder time and time again. They spray it upon letters when they send it away, and sometimes gift small portions of it to women in their service. It will help mask the scent of the other tasks you attend to during the day. You are old enough now to go and choose your own.”
The idea uplifted you. “I will be able to choose?”
“You will be taken to the market tomorrow. You will pick three scents you like, and I will make the final decision on which one will be yours.”
“Any perfume?”
“Any you desire. There is no budget when it comes to a woman’s cleanliness.”
You feel yourself getting excited over the prospect of shopping. Lord Ormund usually hand picks everything for you, without your opinion on things.
Your excitement makes you bold. “May I choose a new dress for myself as well? It has been a long time since I have had myself fitted.”
His eyes flicker over your face. “You push your luck.”
Your heart drops, and you think you have angered him.
But he merely asks, “What would it be for?”
“For my visits to the Sept,” you quickly tell him, because you know he will not refuse this. “A dress with a thicker skirt so that my knees do not ache at the end of the day.”
Ormund leans back and contemplates. “You recall the rules of modesty for clothing?”
“Of course, my Lord. Neckline higher than the collarbone. Skirts passed the ankles. Arms to the wrist.”
He reaches down and drags his hand up the side of your arm, feeling the material. It was as if he was imagining something new. “Very well then. You may pick up a new dress.”
Your smile grows. You lean up, and you place a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Lord Ormund.”
His smile warms, and his expression turns kind. He is happy with you, and you hear it in his voice as he relents, “I will allow two dresses, if it pleases you.”
“Yes.” Your spirits raise even higher. “Yes, it pleases me greatly, thank you.”
Ormund chuckles at how elated you have become. He leans down and places a kiss onto the top of your head.
He lingers for a moment. You hear his gentle inhale, his quiet judgement of what he smells.
“What oils are used for your hair?”
“Roses, my Lord.”
“Do not choose roses tomorrow. This scent is tied to your girlhood with Daeron. You must find a new scent for womanhood.”
You find the comment odd, so you risk a laugh. “I am already a woman, Lord Ormund.”
His response is just a repeated, “No roses.”
Your laugh goes away. You shake your head. “No roses.”
“You are excused, Lady (Y/N). The guards will escort you to your chambers.”
"I think my idea about Alexander was that he never had an opportunity to really blossom and be that the version that we see of him in the film...there is a darkness in that family. I don't think he was ever really encouraged to let the weird inside him out."
— OSCAR MORGAN
ormund hightower loves spitting in his wife's open mouth. it's not an egregious act if it's him doing it, for he is clean and untarnished; the taste of him a gift you should be grateful for. ormund doesn't allow you to swallow until you thank him nicely, and has to have a hand wrapped around your neck to feel the bob of your throat as you take his spit like the dutiful wife you are. and of course, poking your tongue out afterwards is a must so he can make sure you didn't miss a single drop. good wives don't waste.
BLOOD OF MY BLOOD, KIN OF MY KIN
─── ormund hightower
summary: a glimpse into the years you and ormund raised daeron before the war took its toll, and all the years after. (10k)
characters: ormund hightower / wife!reader, daeron targaryen, alicent hightower, viserys i targaryen, mentions of rhaenyra and daemon
contents: established relationship, found family, domestic bliss, angst, hurt/comfort, protective!ormund, canon divergent, not proofread, cw for mentions of pregnancy complications and miscarriages, brief mentions of blood and gore, canon typical manipulation and psychosis from ormund towards the end lol
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
115 A.C. / Oldtown
The bed is still warm from your blood on the morning the babe arrives.
It had not been quite two days since the maester had drawn the small, still shape of your daughter from you and told you, gently enough as not to break you further, that she had never drawn breath at all. You had told none of the household that you had been carrying her at all, save for the maesters and your closest of handmaidens — for you had learned, after the second loss, how courtiers feed on grief like vultures to carrion. So while you wept for days longer than your babe would ever live, the rest of Oldtown simply assumed that their lady had taken ill with a woman’s ailment, and kept to her rooms accordingly.
But today the King is coming, and your mother would surely turn in her early grave if she knew the lady she raised up planned to receive a king from a sickbed — pallid, unlaced, and undone.
“There is no harm in resting, my love,” Ormund coos from across the room, watching with attentive eyes as your handmaiden laces you into a gown of Hightower green. You keep yourself braced on the wooden back of a chair and grit your teeth with every tug, pulling carefully to conceal the subtle bump of your stomach.
The man tilts his head and crosses his arms over the chest of his emerald doublet, in a feeble attempt to extinguish the worry searing between his lungs. “Viserys is a king man. He will understand. Alicent, more than anyone, would understand—”
“And what has Alicent lost?” you argue, sharper than you intended. Your head whips hard to the side in time to find Ormund flinching beneath the bite of your words — a small flicker at the edges of his eyes; a brief lowering of his brows.
You soften with a sigh a moment later and remind yourself that Ormund lost something too, even if the loss was not pulled from his body to claim it.
“Forgive me, I… I only meant that… The Queen has four living children. And she carried each one with grace— There is no part of her that could possibly understand how I feel… And I wouldn’t wish it upon her besides.”
Ormund exhales through his nose and takes a step closer, boots scuffing the cobbles. “Then at least let me tell them that you are unwell—”
“No,” you dismiss with a shake of your stubborn head, eyes shutting briefly when the corset tightens again. “I refuse to be spoken of like some frail, ailing thing while the King sups at our table.”
Your gaze is wet with unshed tears when they open again, snapping to Ormund’s pale ones with a glimmering determination. “I am the Lady Hightower,” you tell him, brows raised and eyes firm. “So I will greet them standing. On my own feet. In my own home.”
Ormund’s chest, still heavy with grief, blooms with a distant sort of pride at your words. Perhaps because a part of him had long understood that you did not always dream of being the Lady Hightower. Your marriage was made of meetings and ledgers and alliances rather than any actual tenderness, as was true in most great marriages in Westeros. He knows, had you had it your way, you would’ve wed that gardener’s boy you grew up with — who you attempted to bring with you to Oldtown upon your betrothal, along with many of your household’s servants.
Ormund had the brawny, olive-skinned boy sent away within a fortnight — the moment he understood what kind of feelings the peasant boy had for you, and you for him. It was perhaps the first mad thing he ever did for you and, by Ormund’s later admission, the first time he realized that he might love you truly. (Though he had not thought it mad at the time, or love until many moons later, when he was struck with the sudden realization that the thought of Oldtown with you in it would be entirely unbearable.)
“Then we shall go,” Ormund nods in acquiescence as he plants himself just ahead of you. His gaze fixes into a sterner look a second later, as he tilts his chin to his chest and ducks into your eyeline. “But know I am not happy about this.”
“And yet Oldtown will remain standing anyway,” you joke in a softer coo. “I have faith that we’ll survive one of your unhappy mornings, my lord.”
The walk from your chambers to the gates of Oldtown is not long, but you feel every stone beneath your slippers as if the journey were some great pilgrimage across the whole of Westeros.
You brace Ormund’s strong arm with both your hands, fingers curling into the fine wool of his coat hard enough to blanche your knuckles. He slows his long stride to match your smaller, more careful one without a word shared between you — a wall of green and muscles at your side, shielding you from the curious eyes of courtiers wondering why their lord and lady moved so slowly. So close.
It’s the first time you’ve tasted fresh air in three days. The breeze smells of the sea from the harbor and fish from the markets — mixing with the sweet citrus of the orange and lemon trees blooming in the gardens. Their white petals scatter like snow along the pale stone with every gust off the bay. You breathe in deeply through your nose, trying hopelessly to clear away the metallic tang of your own blood stubbornly clinging to the inside of your nostrils.
“His Grace, Viserys of House Targaryen,” the herald calls as the royal party files in on fine horses and gilded carriages, black banners snapping in the wind. “First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.”
Viserys is the first to exit when the caravan finally stills. He descends the steps a knight places down for him, portlier than you remember from your last journey to King’s Landing, some years before your marriage. His kind face has started to wither from fatigue and age alike. The crown seems heavier upon his head, though perhaps it’s only from where his silver hair has started to thin at the scalp.
Alicent follows out just behind him. She wears a black dress with drooping sleeves and a veil to cover her long auburn curls, fit for a funeral procession. A knight of white armor and long black hair helps her descend the steps as she cradles a small, dark bundle squirming in protest in her arms.
You sink into a curtsy. A white-hot pain swells from the pit of your stomach to the top of your spine — a lightning strike that burns for minutes after. You grip Ormund’s arm until your fingers tremble, though the polite smile on your face remains when you rise again.
“Ormund,” Viserys greets with an easy smile. He clasps your husband’s free arm with a genuine affection while his tired eyes drift along the white stone towers of the city. “My… Oldtown is just as fair as I remember it.”
“I agree, Your Grace, though I confess I am far more partial,” Ormund responds with a dry humor and a knightly smile. “I hear the view improves the longer one is forced to stare at it.”
Viserys laughs while, beside him, Alicent tries and fails to summon her own. Her elegant features are worn from the weeks of travel, many of which you imagine were spent balancing the fussing weight concealed against her chest just now.
“And my lady…” Viserys inclines his silver head towards you, studying your face with a pair of kind eyes. “You look well.”
You feel, in a word, like death dressed in Hightower green. You feel hollowed out and stitched together again, the farthest thing from well. But you nod once and thank the King all the same, profoundly grateful when your voice doesn’t shake.
“Truly. Marriage suits you both well,” Viserys nods. “Though, I admit, I’d hope Daeron might have had a cousin or two near enough in age to grow up beside him here. Once he’s old enough for such things, of course.”
Ormund tenses beside you.
His arm feels very suddenly like holding onto stone. His pale eyes turn glacial in a flicker; a withheld grief that he forces himself to swallow down the second it rises like bile in his throat. You say nothing at all. You just keep smiling and pray to whatever god will hear you that you do not weep in front of the King and all his men.
“But there’s still time— You’ll have one of your own before long, I’m sure of it,” the older man continues, possessing no notion of what had happened behind these walls hardly two days past. If he notices anything amiss, he does not dwell on it, and turns instead to Alicent. “Go on. Let them see the boy.”
Alicent’s arms tighten instinctively around the bundle in her grasp and inhales sharply through her nose. It had been her own decision that Daeron be sent to her family’s ancestral home. Her last child was not quite six months when she counseled her King to send him to ward, far from the chaos of King’s Landing. But she finds herself suddenly plagued by the harsh realization that this will be the last time she will hold this baby as he is now. The next time she’s like to lay eyes on him again, he’ll be an unrecognizable young boy, and not nearly the small thing fussing against her collarbone now.
“He hasn't slept," Alicent warns as she steps closer. Her green eyes are warm and weary when they flit to you. “He didn’t take well to the carriage. Or the ship. He’s cried the whole way from Blackwater, I think. Poor thing…”
“I’m sure we can manage a crying babe, my Queen,” Ormund says gently, though there’s a distant aching in his voice disguised as good humor that only you could recognize. “I grew up with Gwayne, if you remember. I’m more than acquainted with wailing boys by now.”
Alicent musters a small smile and closes the distance between you to settle her son in your arms.
He’s warm — that’s the first thing you notice — he’s a small furnace swaddled in Targaryen black. He stirs briefly at the transfer from one chest to another, round face screwing tight in the prelude to a wail. Your heart clenches to brace yourself for that sound. It never comes.
The babe turns his face into the curve of your throat and settles into stillness with one small fist curled into the fabric of your gown. The tiny sound he makes isn’t a cry, but it isn’t quite a coo either. He sleeps, finally, in your arms — not even two days after you held your daughter between them, who had never awoken at all.
Ormund’s wide hand settles at the small of your back. Even in its steadiness, you feel the subtle tremor of his fingers against your spine. His throat tightens with the sudden urge to cry at the sight — of you, still frail and yet so bravely composed, cradling another woman’s child after laying your own to rest in the sept. He swallows through the hands of grief strangling his throat and feels a warmer feeling settling in its wake.
“Well…” Viserys hums, watching the baby sleep against you with a proud look in his weathered eyes. “It seems the boy’s found his corner of Oldtown already— Isn’t that lovely, Alicent?”
The woman nods, though shock still etches slightly in her pale features and behind the dark green of her eyes. “Of course, Your Grace,” she says and clears her throat, blinking back her tears with a queen’s practiced grace. “Thank you both for taking him.”
“He'll want for nothing here," Ormund swears with a firm nod. “You have my word. We'll raise him as if he were our own trueborn son.”
You pull the blanket gently back to peer at the sleeping baby swaddled within it. He’s practically all cheeks, with his mother’s mouth and nose.
You had been certain, two days past, that your life had surely ended with your daughter’s. That there would be nothing more to life than a hollow, vacant silence. But now, there is warmth — and a babe’s slow breath fanning along your collarbone.
You do not yet have a name for the foreign feeling swelling inside of you. It’s not joy, not yet, but it isn’t grief either. Or, at least, not only grief. And for now, that would have to be enough.
127 A.C. / Training Yard
The sound of clashing steel finds you before the sight of it does. The ring and scrape of blade on blade carries across the bustling courtyard, where you’ve gone to look for a young prince who was, as Maester Yorrick informed you with a palpable impatience, nearly an hour late for his lessons. You find the boy exactly where you imagined he would be — sword-training with his uncle, who has since stripped down to a pale tunic now darkened with sweat from the exercise.
Daeron, now thirteen years of age, is all knees and elbows from a sudden growth spurt that had taken him seemingly overnight. He presses a defensive attack upon his uncle with all the fierceness of a knight, but with the gracelessness of a teenage boy. Even you could tell from where you stood that his swing had no hope of landing. Ormund turns the blow aside with a lazy flick of his wrist, no more troublesome than swatting a fly from the air.
“Awful,” you hear the man scold from afar. When Daeron grits his teeth and presses forward once more, Ormund steps back and lets the boy’s momentum carry him a half stride too far. His blade misses his mark by inches. “Gods, that’s even worse—”
Daeron lunges a third time, fuelled now by a boyish rage that twists his freckled features. Ormund steps inside the overextended reach, hooks a boot around the boy’s ankle, and trips him onto the dirt with his blunted blade pressed to his ribs. Daeron hits the ground with a thud, red-faced and breathing heavy. His long auburn tendrils cling to his sweaty temple when he whips his head to glare up at his uncle.
“Dead,” Ormund proclaims from where he stands over the boy, flat but not totally unkind. He raises his brows and tilts his chin to his chest. “If this were a real sword, I’d have had your head before the thought to swing finished forming in that head of yours.”
Daeron twists himself upward and shoves the faux blade away with a boyish scowl. “You always say that,” he grumbles, refusing the hand Ormund extends to help him up. He rises to full height on his own and swipes dirt from his pale palms.
“Yes. I always say it because it's always true. You're thinking with your temper again— I can see it in your shoulders before you’ve even moved,” the older man lectures as he turns on the heel of his boot and walks off a few paces. “Again. And this time, think before you swing. Not after—”
“I think that’s enough for this morning,” you call to them as you step further into the yard, dress skirts rushing around your ankles in the summer breeze. “Maester Yorrick has been waiting all morning. And his patience, unlike yours, my lord, has its limits.”
Daeron nods once, shoulders sagging with an absent relief. “Yes, ma’am—”
“Give us a few more minutes,” Ormund dismisses simultaneously. “He’s close to getting his footwork right. I can feel it.”
You flash the man a look — one slight lift of your brow, one flicker of dullness behind the eyes. Years of marriage have honed that wordless look to a firm edge, one which finds Ormund like a blade. He nods in concession with a heavy exhale through his nose.
“You heard her, boy. Go on,” Ormund says, jerking his chin toward the tower and extending his hand out for the practice sword.
Daeron obeys without question. He passes the dull blade over and crosses the yard to you. You see the sweat and dirt streaked across his freckled face the closer he gets. “Come here to me,” you sigh and catch his round chin between your thumb and forefinger when he plants himself ahead of you. You swipe the filth from his cheeks with the hem of your sleeve like you’ve done since he was small enough to fit in one arm.
“I’m not a child anymore, you know," Daeron reminds you with a childish grimace as he suffers your motherly affections. “I’m a squire now.”
“Oh, a squire, are you?” you croon in response with an obvious air of sarcasm. You smooth wild auburn hair from his temples before pressing a chaste kiss to his hairline. “Go on now— before Maester Yorrick decides to make you study your histories until sundown.”
Daeron nods and ducks past you towards the tower stair, though you catch the corner of his pink mouth twitching upward into a grin before he’s turned away. You watch him leave with an attentive stare as Ormund discards the training swords at their posts. He approaches you in long, slow strides, allowing you to see the mark that training has left upon him — the way the sweat dampens his dark curls and the collar of his tunic, making the fabric stick to his broad shoulders and toned chest.
He smells of sweet wine, musky bathing oils, and salty sweat when he towers just before you. He tips his chin to his chest and raises his brows to his hairline, pale eyes glimmering with an expectant look.
“…Well?”
You blink up at him with a feigned innocence. “Well, what?”
“My kiss,” he answers with a shrug like it’s obvious, like he were a man coming to collect his debts. “You gave the boy his, and I’ve spent half the morning training him— I should think that I’ve earned at least that much.”
“Oh, really?” you squint. “After you told the boy he’s like to lose his head?”
“I told him the truth,” Ormund argues with an unrepentant laugh and takes a slow step closer to you. “Is the truth unkind merely because it stings a little going down?”
His hands splay along your waist, wide and warm along the edges of your corset. It takes everything in you not to cave for him right there, in the full view of the crowded courtyard. You cross your arms over your chest instead. “If you keep being so hard on him, he’ll grow to hate sword training altogether—”
“May be. But he will go on alive a good deal longer for having learned it the hard way now— instead of on a real field, with real steel, without me there to guide him.” Ormund ducks his head to catch your eye, pale gaze glimmering in time the pink smile tugging at his lips. “Surely you are not truly cross with me, my love…” he croons quietly.
You shrug with a raised chin, unwilling to concede so easily. “Perhaps I am.”
“Well, then, it’s hardly my doing,” he chuckles, a sound far warmer than the silver-gold sunshine sprawling over the courtyard. The pads of his thumbs smooth over your ribs in an absentminded affection. “You've gone so soft on the boy that you can scarcely bear to watch him lose a practice bout, without petting his hair over it after."
“Well, someone in this household has to be soft with him," you argue lightly, more teasing now than truly cross. Your slipper scrapes the dirt as you take a short step closer to him. What little distance remained between you closes now in an instant; each rise and fall of his chest brushes your folded arms. “You spend your mornings convincing the poor boy the world means to kill him, and I spend my nights convincing him that he could rule the world entire if he wished... Perhaps he’ll come out well-balanced for it, in the end.”
“Assuming one of us doesn’t kill the other over the method first,” Ormund quips.
“Precisely,” you nod.
“Well, I think it’s a fine system,” the man agrees gravely, drawing you an impossible inch closer by the hands still on your waist. His breath fans warm across your jaw as he leans in closer, still smelling of the mint leaves he’d chewed after breakfast. “And one I certainly intend to go on employing indefinitely… If my wife forgives me long enough to let me kiss her.”
His low voice glitters somewhere in the center of your chest. Your eyes narrow despite the small smile curling hopelessly at your mouth. “I don’t think I’ve yet decided,” you lilt.
“Well, I have,” he croons quietly, and does not wait for your retort before leaning down to press his lips against yours.
His broad nose flattens into the side of yours under the weight of his kiss, a slow and languid thing — as natural as the white waves ebbing and flowing against the pale stone tower of Oldtown. Your hands twist in his pale tunic billowing in the sea breeze, dissolving into the man like salt in water.
There is nothing you would not forgive this man for, you think distantly to yourself. There is no madness he could not lead you toward, not if he kisses you like this the entire way there.
130 A.C. / Ormund’s Solar
The raven arrives like all the rest — unceremoniously, on a sunless grey morning, from the trembling hands of the weathered maester. You tend to your needlework by the crackling hearth, burning low to fight off the morning chill blowing in from the sea, while Daeron reads in the opposite chair with one leg slung over the arm of it — both of you still waking with the early morning.
Across the room, Ormund sits at his desk and breaks the seal with a dull crack. Your gaze drifts to the man as he unrolls the letter, parchment whispering beneath his ringed fingers. You watch his pale eyes flit across the words once, and his brows lower in confusion a moment later. He shifts in his seat and reads it again, slower this time. His spine straightens with a soldier’s subconscious instinct as he draws a deep breath in and forgets to let it go.
The quiet feels loud as it swells within the solar. The popping fire startles you briefly, as you get lost in Ormund’s wordless dread. You feel his silent panic as if it were your own. You rise from your seat and lay your needlework on the cushion behind you, careful not to trouble Daeron’s reading as you stroll to the man’s side.
“Ormund?” you call quietly to him. “Ormund— What does it say?”
He says nothing in response; he just lifts his ringed hand and passes you the parchment curled between his middle and forefinger. His eyes remained fixed on a negligible chip in the cobblestone wall across the room as you pluck the paper from his hand. His silence is not convincing; his silence, as you’ve learned in years of marriage, is far more frightening than any voice he could raise.
Your eyes dart over the scrawled ink thrice over, just as he had, because your mind refuses to process the words on the first two passes.
“By the time this reaches you, the city has already fallen. Rhaenyra Targaryen holds King’s Landing and names herself Queen upon the Iron Throne. She has taken the Queen Dowager prisoner, as well as the King’s wife and last living heir. Send word of your household’s safety. Guard the boy.”
The letters blur and steady and blur again, swimming before your eyes. Your blood runs cold while the glowing hearth simultaneously fills the room with a near-unbearable heat. As your breaths come faster and shallower to you, you hear a small voice call from behind you.
“Is something wrong?” Daeron wonders aloud as he glances up from the heavy novel in his lap. His auburn brows knit low over his green eyes, casting a faint shadow over his freckled cheeks, which are slowly starting to lose the softness of boyhood.
“Go on to your chambers, Daeron,” you tell him in a voice strangely steady compared to how shaken you feel. “It’s time to break your fast. I’ll have the servants fetch it for you.”
“I’m not hungry,” the boy insists as he rises slowly from his chair, setting his book aside and walking slowly from the hearth. His eyes dart back and forth between your profile and Ormund’s when both of you refuse to look at him. His shoulders straighten with a strangling tension. “What’s happened? What does it say—?”
“Daeron,” Ormund snaps, voice cutting through the quiet room like a blade. His eyes are similarly sharp when they snap finally to the boy’s pleading once. “Listen to your mother, boy. Go.”
Mother, he says. The word lingers and hangs in the air for a long moment. Even in his newfound worry, Ormund’s eyes still flicker with a startled awareness at how easily the slip-up had escaped him, though there is little time to dwell on it now.
Daeron's pink mouth parts with some half-formed protest at the ready. Whatever words he could conjure up on such short notice turn to dust on his tongue at the look his uncle gives him, chiseled features hardening into an unfeeling sort of look. Daeron exhales a held breath, gathers his book from his seat, and heads for the door without further argument.
Ormund’s knowing voice follows him out: “And don’t stand outside the door eavesdropping, either. Straight to your chambers. I'll know if you've stopped on the stair."
Only when the door shuts behind the boy with a soft click do your teary eyes lift from the parchment in your trembling hands. You say nothing for a long moment. The muffled sounds of the bustling castle fill the silence — the sounds of an oblivious world still living, though it feels a little like yours has stopped.
“I know," Ormund says before you’ve spoken, before you’ve needed to speak. “I know.”
“Okay,” you nod once. “So what are you going to do?”
He huffs a not-quite laugh. “I’ve only just found out about this. As have you,” he answers, a little sharper than he means to. “I’ll need a moment to think about the problem before you ask me to solve it, my love.”
“A moment is no longer a luxury we have,” you argue, voice rising despite yourself and wavering on every syllable with a palpable fear. “Rhaenyra has dragons, Ormund— she has Daemon and three new bastard riders sworn to her besides. She does not need a moment to bring any of them to our door.”
Your dress skirt spins around your ankles when you turn suddenly in place. Ormund’s pale eyes follow your form as you storm back towards the hearth, ranting the whole way there.
“She will come for him, Ormund— not if, when. She will stop at nothing to silence any claim that challenges her own,” you continue, voice cracking under the weight of your unshed tears. “Daeron is a threat to her! Simply by breathing, he is a threat to her, and she will not leave him idling here out of some… familial courtesy for some half-brother she’s never met.”
The flame crackles quietly when you toss the letter into it. The wax seal blackens and weeps; the ink turns slowly to ash. You’d hoped that destroying those words might, in turn, settle the uneasy feeling they’ve brought you; but to no avail.
“I know that,” Ormund nods with a jaw clenched tight, ringed fingers curling into fists over his thighs beneath the desk.
“Then think!” Your shout bounces off the cobbled walls as you turn to face him once more. His face blurs behind the burning tears clouding your vision. The swelling emotion thickens your voice as you yell to him, half-wild with a preemptive grief. “I have already buried children who never got to draw breath— I will not bury another who has drawn fifteen years of them under this roof! Do not let them take him, Ormund— I don't care what it costs. Do not let them our boy!”
Ormund’s chair scrapes the cobbles as he rises slowly to full height. He crosses the solar in slow, silent strides. Your glassy eyes stay locked with his as he nears. You peer stubbornly up at him from beneath your lashes, clumped with unshed tears; but you do not protest when his palms smooth over the outsides of your elbows to pull you into his arms.
You melt hopelessly against his chest, fisting the back of his doublet in both hands, and trembling slowly as you choke down a sob. Ormund’s wide hands smooth along your back and feels his chest tighten with a striking, familiar ache. He thought once there was no worse sound in the world than hearing your weeping over a lost child; but he knows, now, that there is something equally as troubling: your weeping over a child you fear you’re about to lose and feeling like there is no time yet to stop it.
“I will not let anyone take him,” Ormunds promises evenly, with a distance that suggests he’s already assembling a plan in the depths of his mind. His arms curl tighter, pressing you harder against him. “I swear it to you. By the gods, they will not have our son.”
You pull back from him, just far enough to search his steady gaze with your wearier one. “But how?” you press weakly, more of a demand than a real question.
Ormund ponders for a long moment. The shadow of his adam’s apple rises and falls in his throat as he swallows. And when he speaks again, the words fall from his tongue flat and even, as if he were testing each one the moment they left his mouth.
“No one at court has laid eyes on the boy since he was a babe in arms…” he answers lowly, brows lifting to his hairline. “Alicent hasn’t seen him in years… There is no one outside these walls who would know what he looks like… So if they come— when they come… I suppose Rhaenryra would presume any silver-haired boy as Viserys’ heir.”
Your brows furrow as confusion twists slowly across your face.
“We’d only need enough lye and patience,” Ormund continues with a shrug. “And a boy willing enough to answer to a name that isn’t his, and to go with Rhaenyra, should her dragons come calling.”
You tense within his hold as the words run through you like ice-cold water. “You mean to… to send a different child in his place?”
“Yes,” Ormund answers instantly and without apology. “It isn’t a kind plan, I know. And I won’t pretend that someone else’s son won’t have to suffer for it, if it comes to pass, but… You did not ask me for a kind plan.”
You grieve the heat of his hands when he lifts them from your back, just to smooth his gently calloused palms over your jaw a moment later. He rubs the rough pads of his thumbs along your burning cheeks. You melt into his touch of warm velvet and peer up at him with teary eyes. Ormund’s gaze softens around the edges as his mouth lifts into a sad sort of smile.
“You asked me not to let them take our boy,” he continues lowly. “And however cruel it may be… this is but the only coin I have to buy that promise with.”
You know that a part of you should be horrified. You know what he is describing is a monstrous thing — an innocent boy’s whole life offered as a shield for another’s. You search deep within yourself to find that terror, but cannot seem to locate it. Instead, you find relief, like a crack of sunlight peeking through storm clouds — the very hint of a promise that your family was not long in the dying just yet.
“Do it,” you hear yourself say, shaking your head between his hands. “Whatever it costs… Whoever it costs… Do it.”
Ormund nods with a deep inhale through his nose, leaning forward to press his mouth to your hairline — to seal his promise with a kiss.
130 A.C. / Tumbleton Sept
Rhaenyra's dragonriders come for Daeron not nearly a fortnight into the army's march. Ormund sends the son of a merchant in his place — a boy of the right age and the right pale coloring, plucked quietly from Oldtown and dressed in borrowed finery before anyone thought to look twice. “Be brave, young prince," Ormund had said to the blanch-haired boy, only for show, though what he really meant was: “I will have your family hanged if you do not play your part.”
Ormund knelt before Daemon Targaryen and swore his fealty to the Queen, but marched on for Tumbleton the second the dragons took flight, all the shame.
The chaos follows them there, too.
Daeron attempts to seek a momentary refuge in the foreign castle’s candlelit sept. A cramped chamber made of brown stone and hazy smoke from the flickering candles, where Tessarion grumbles in protest of captivity. The lack of sunlight has dulled her fluorescent blue scales, and has made her ill-tempered due to the lack of exercise. Daeron alone she allows close, pressing her great head into the boy’s small neck, and momentarily forgetting about the heavy chains around her throat when he pets her stony scales.
Ormund finds him there. Ormund has a way of finding him anywhere. It is a gift and a curse, perhaps — comforting when Daeron was small and frightened of the dark; but less so now, when Daeron’s every attempt at solitude is interrupted by his uncle, constantly watching him as if he were a traitor to be surveilled and not his kin.
“I have warned you against indulging in affections for the best,” Ormund says as he approaches. The man cradles the boy's freckled cheeks in his wide, calloused palms despite Tessarion's low growl of warning.“You are a good boy,” he says, and in the very same breath, without losing the tender smile on his face: “You have a taint in your blood,” and “You must be king.”
Ormund makes less and less sense to him these days — the throes of war, Daeron supposes, though a part of him is frightened that it began long before that.
Sometimes he thinks Ormund only makes sense when you’re near enough to translate his tangled, wild emotions back into something grounded and real. You’ve always had a way of gentling the man; usually with nothing more than a steady hand along his wrist to calm whatever storm had been moving within him.
Daeron has seen you do it a hundred times over without ever quite understanding how. But he prays now for your swift return from the city, so that you might do it again — so that you might soften whatever unfamiliar thing has taken root in his uncle when he commands his soldiers to drag in the peasant man from earlier that afternoon. The one who broke Ser Garrick’s nose defending against his own wife’s assault; an act any decent lord would have called simple justice.
Ormund draws his sword from its sheath at his hip. The hiss of the steel leaving the leather fills the small stone sept, loud enough to echo off the old walls that have likely seen a great many prayers and, Daeron suspects, not so very many murders. The older man turns the blade and offers the embellished hilt to the boy, pale eyes hardening when he hesitates.
“We have risked much and more to raise you up,” Ormund says, strong features twisting into something resembling offense. “Surely, you do not wish to disappoint us now.”
Us. Daeron is pulled into his uncle’s orbit at that single syllable alone; the unbearable thought of failing the only two people in this world who have ever troubled themselves to love him — one standing before him with a blade held out like a peace offering, and the other somewhere in the depths of the dark city but still steady on his mind all the same.
Daeron lays his palms out flat before his brain has fully comprehended the motion. He prays Ormund doesn’t notice how they tremble when he rests the sword upon them — the weight of the blade cold and heavy upon his fingers.
Daeron’s hands tremble around the ornate leather hilt of Ormund’s sword. His misty eyes find the prisoner kneeling just before him on the cold stone — bloodied and chained for a crime any noble man in Westeros would surely commit with honor — before glancing slowly to where his uncle looms behind him. Candlelight flickers in shades of orange-gold upon the man’s chiseled features, pooling a deep black in the hollows of his eyes.
“What would Mother think of this?” Daeron hears himself ask, voice cracking under the weight of the tears burning hot in the backs of his eyes.
It is his last and most desperate attempt to reach for his uncle, just as he has seen you do, and to pull him back from the dangerous ledge he stands upon. But he knows the man has already made up his mind; and he knows that there is no version of him that walks out of this sept without spilling blood.
Ormund’s face softens slightly, though there is little tenderness in what he asks of the boy now. “Alicent would understand,” he coos in a gentle voice. “War asks difficult things of every great house—”
“I didn’t—” Daeron swallows hard, smaller now than moments before. “I did not mean the Lady Alicent…”
Realization flashes across Ormund’s face — a visible recognition of exactly which woman the boy had meant, and has always meant every time the word slipped accidentally from his mouth and was never corrected for it after. Daeron was not yours by blood, but he was yours in every other way that matters. The small, warm weight of him stopped crying the moment he was placed into your arms fifteen years ago, and never truly stopped being yours since.
Still, Ormund does not soften for it. If anything, something in him hardens further as he takes a slow step closer to the boy.
“Your mother would be proud,” he answers, brows lowered as if the answer was the plainest thing in the world. “Don’t you see? Any strike against this army is a strike against her, against everything she’s built to keep you safe… Any man who raises his fist against our men raises it, in the end, against her… And do you not want to protect her, just as she has spent every day protecting you?”
Daeron swallows hard. The weight of Ormund’s words feels heavy in his throat, heavier than the blade in his hands as his trembling fingers tighten around its hilt. His teary green eyes linger on the steel, flickering shades of gold in the candlelight.
“No, please, I beg you,” the battered prisoner rasps, dried blood matting at his curls from whatever rough handling had brought him here. “I have a family, my lord. Please—”
Daeron’s eyes lift to find the man’s pleading gaze and linger upon him for a long while. He sees your face in the very back of his mind, the only real mother he’s ever truly known, and hears Ormund’s disappointed voice layered over it as he draws the heavy blade back.
Then he strikes.
The cut is not clean. The blade lodges at an off angle in the man’s corded neck and sticks somewhere deep between flesh and bone. The man’s pained shout comes out wet and gargled, bouncing off the cobbled walls and in the depths of Daeron’s mind.
The boy’s body flinches from what his own hand has done as bright crimson blood spouts from the gaping wound and splatters along the old stone.
His face crumples as he removes the blade. It takes a world of strength in his thin arms to wrench it out again. A quiet whimper sounds in his throat when the blade drags against bone and stumbles backward when the man’s limp body collapses at his feet with a dull smack. Dark blood spreads slowly across the stone in a widening, glistening pool that catches the candlelight like moonlight on the bay.
Daeron looks down at the crimson dripping off the steel blade. He does not notice his uncle’s approach until his broader hands are gently guiding the sword from his fingers — fingers that no longer feel like his own.
Ormund wipes the steel clean against the dead man's tunic, one side and then the other, with the methodical care of a man cleaning a hunting knife after a kill. He sheaths the blade back into its hilt and closes the remaining distance between him and the boy.
When Daeron’s mind finally returns to his body — ears still ringing, vision still hazy — his wide eyes snap to his uncle’s face and sees a quiet pride swimming in his features once more. It’s as comforting as it is horrifying. And when Ormund's strong arms wrap around the boy’s shoulders and draw him close to his chest, that feels like a dizzying concoction of the two even more so.
“I am proud of you, boy…” Ormund tells him as he leans in close, pressing his mouth to the boy’s hair in a near-kiss, though he whispers to him instead: “Do not tell your mother of this. Understood?"
Daeron does not answer, though Ormund does not ask him for one now.
130 A.C. / Tumbleton Castle
You return to the castle late in the evening, weary down to your bones from the long day.
You had gone into town with what coin and grain the army could spare, and found Lady Kat there among the frightened smallfolk, tending to the smith's wife, whose arm still sat bound in a rough splint. The woman's round face was kind, but you knew that no amount of offered bread or soft words could cure what comfort had been taken from her.
“Do you know where my husband is?” she had asked you before you left, with something desperate in her voice that made you wish you had a better answer than the only truthful one you could give.
“I’m sorry. I do not know," you told her, smiling in what sympathy you could muster, honest in your ignorance if nothing else.
The question sits strangely in your chest on the ride back to the castle, though you struggle to place exactly why.
Dinner is already laid out by the time you arrive. The long table is embellished with more food than Tumbleton's starving smallfolk have likely seen since the war began. The notion sits heavy in your stomach before you’ve even entered the dining hall, where Ormund rises from his seat to greet you.
His warmth is striking, a shade too bright for the late hour. He presses a jeweled chalice of ale into your hand with a tender grin and a pair of soft eyes, asking after the wife and the town's wounded with an attentiveness he doesn’t usually spare for such small domestic accounts.
“Sit,” he tells you with one wide hand along the small of your back to urge you the short distance to the table. “You've had a long day, my love. Eat something before it goes cold."
Confusion floods your face at the emptiness beside your usual seat. “Where's Daeron? He hasn’t missed out on lemon cakes since he was old enough to chew them.”
“He's not feeling well. Best to let him rest,” Ormund answers with a polite smile as he pours himself a goblet of wine. His soft eyes flit between you and the glugging flagon. “Sit with me, love. I’m sure you’re half-starved yourself."
He sits down in his cushioned seat at the head of the long table and gestures for you to take yours. You remain stubbornly in place, because you know him far too well for anything else. Years of marriage have taught you every register of his voice; every flicker behind his eyes; every twitch in his features. And this one, all warm and careful and slightly too eager, is one you’d learned to trust least of all.
“What have you done?” you deadpan.
Ormund scoffs a breathless laugh, bouncing his broad shoulders in a shrug. “Why do you insist I’ve done something?”
“Because I can hear it in your voice.”
Ormund huffs again, though it’s more of a sound of surprise than true laughter this time. “Well, I assure you, dear wife, I have done nothing at all.”
“Is that what will Daeron tell me?” you press. “When I go to his chambers and ask him myself?"
“He will tell you that I'm an excellent uncle and an even better husband," Ormund quips with his elbows propped on the table and his pointer fingers steepled together. “And also that you ought to sit down and eat your supper with your poor husband, before you go making a production out of a boy's upset stomach.”
You leave despite his words, led purely by the intuition swirling in your stomach that drags you directly to Daeron’s chamber door. You knock once and receive no answer — when the silence holds on the third try, you let yourself in and find the boy alone in his room, curled small on the edge of his bed in a way that strikes you deep in the chest; a reminder of that swaddled babe curled against your chest fifteen years past.
He does not look up when you enter, nor when you lower yourself gingerly onto the edge of the mattress beside him without a word. His shoulders shake in small, tight increments as he struggles to choke down his own sobs. He drags each breath in through his nose and holds it for a beat too long until it shudders out of him again.
He freezes when you lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, going rigid against whatever emotion he’s trying not to shake loose.
“What's happened, my love?" you coo to him, gentling your voice the way you might for a much younger child. “Tell me."
He shakes his auburn head against the pillow and sniffles to himself. “He told me I couldn't…"
“Who? Ormund?” you press and feel a preemptive anger kindling hot in your chest before you’ve even heard the whole of it. “Well… Your uncle tells me a great many things that I’ve long since learned to ignore. So I imagine he can spare us the indulgence of a secret or two.”
After another shaky breath, Daeron pushes himself up from the mattress. He snivels wetly and wipes his flushed cheeks with the back of one hand. You smooth down his wild flaming tendrils until he finds the words to speak.
“The blacksmith…” he wavers. “The one who struck Ser Garrick this morning…”
Your stomach swirls with a sick feeling when he trails off. Your blood runs cold with a fear of what he might say next. You think instantly of the woman with the kind face and the splinted arm, asking so gently if you knew where her husband had run off to. You have to remind yourself to breathe again as you ask, “What of him?”
“Ormund made me…” Daeron’s breath catches in his throat with a horror reignited in the pit of his chest. “He said any strike against the army was a strike against the crown. Against me. Against you.” He forces each word out through unshed tears and feels half-furious at himself when his voice shatters. “He told me it would be a king’s justice. That it— that it would make you proud.”
The boy’s eyes lift to yours then, glassy and green and rimmed red. They dart back and forth over your face, searching for an ounce of comfort within it.
“Are you?” he asks in a voice barely above a whisper. “Proud of me, I mean.”
You nod until the words have climbed through the fear swelling in your throat.
“Of course I am,” you answer breathlessly, but with no hesitation at all despite the dread searing in your chest. “I have been proud of you since the day I met you. Nothing you could do— Nothing of what your uncle made you do could change that. And you did it, I have no doubt, because some part of you believed it would keep our family safe. Protecting the people you love, even when doing so costs so much, is no easy feat, my love. I know this better than you might think…”
Your mind drifts to the pale-haired boy — the merchant’s son who was brown of hair before you found him. The boy who was borrowed and dressed up in a prince’s wardrobe and sent off to whatever fate Rhaenyra’s justice had in store for him. The boy who is very likely chained or worse for a crime that was never truly his, simply because you and Ormund decided his captivity was a fair trade for Daeron’s freedom.
Daeron watches your eyes well with tears of your own, and his freckled face crumples further at the thought of hurting you further. “I did not mean to make you sad…" he mutters with a wet gaze that flits between yours.
“You haven't," you tell him firmly, though your voice remains steady. You gather the boy into your arms and press your cheek against his hair, feeling his tear-stained cheeks wet the skin of your chest. “I’m not sad, my love. I promise. I only love you. That's all….”
You sit with him for a long while after that — until his breathing steadies and his shoulders lose their edge. Only then do you rise, with one last kiss to his forehead, and leave him to whatever uneasy slumber he can manage after what the long day had done to him.
You run into Ormund on your way down the long corridor. His broad form towers in the narrow passageway as his wide hands splay before him in confusion. “What’s taken you so long? Your dinner’s already gone cold.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Your shoulder scrapes along his arm as you shove by him with little affection. Ormund huffs and falls easily into step with you on his much longer legs. The two of you move through the stony corridors in a silent tension that grows with every step you take, torchlight guttering along the damp walls as you pass them. The words of an argument well in your throat the whole way to your chambers and refuse to break free until the door has shut finally behind you.
“I cannot believe you!” you shout, features twisted in anger. “How dare you tell my son to lie to me! After everything—"
Ormund shakes his head. “I only told him to spare you a grief that serves no purpose—"
“You told him to kill a man, Ormund! A smith. A husband.” The words come out through a jaw clenched tight. Your eyes glitter in the flickering candlelight with every one that spills from your mouth, hands gesticulating wildly at your sides. “I stood in that town not an hour ago and told his wife I didn't know where he was. And I didn't know, because you hadn't thought to tell me you hadn’t let him go at all! And now I have to carry that too, on top of everything else because you've decided I didn’t need to be troubled with it—”
“It’s war!” Ormund shouts, voice ringing through the cobbled walls. His handsome features harden instantly as he stares you down with emotionless pale eyes. His long fingers curl into fists before relaxing once more in a repeated cycle intended to calm him. “I will not apologize for teaching that boy what war requires of men who mean to survive it. For now, it’s only Ser Garrick’s broken nose, but we will have far worse than that done to us before this war is through. If Daeron doesn’t learn that now, he’s as good as dead—”
“He’s sixteen—”
“He’s the King's last trueborn son, with any righteous claim to the throne!” Ormund thunders over your teary retort, approaching you with long strides. “He is the rider of a dragon that is the only thing standing between this army and total ruin— What don’t you understand about that?”
Ormund towers over you at once. His firm hands close hard around your arms, keeping you close and unmoving before him. He ducks his head to your height, eyes darting wildly between yours.
“Do you think I enjoyed putting that sword in his hand?” he continues, quieter now. “Do you think I've slept easy a single night since we left Oldtown, knowing what I'm shaping him into— why I have to?”
You swallow hard through a tight throat, peering up at him through the tears clouding your vision. “I think you’ve decided his suffering is a fair price for war,” you waver. “And I think you decided that without asking me.”
“Yes,” Ormund nods without reservation. “I have decided a great many things without asking you first— I did not ask you first when I decided to blanch that stranger’s hair and send him off in Daeron’s place, did I? And yet you still thanked me for it with your words and body when it kept our boy breathing.”
His words tear right through your chest. You shake your head in protest of them even though you know that he’s right — that you are no better than Ormund even in his madness; that you would do worse and more for Daeron if the war called for it, if you were brave enough to do it.
“Did I complain, all those years, when grief after grief left this house without an heir of its own blood?” Ormund goes on, quieter now but no less harsh, as his features twist in a stifled sort of anguish. “Did I complain when courtiers wondered in whispers why a man would stay wed to a wife that could not give him an heir?”
You flinch at his words like you can feel them physically, tearing you from the inside out, though his long fingers caging you force you to stomach them.
“I never complained. Because I love you and because I understood it was no fault of your own,” Ormund continues. “So I have earned, I think, the right to make one hard choice without you looking at me as though I’ve become some monster for it.”
Anger pricks your skin beneath your heavy gown like needles.
It is not the unfairness of the blow of his words that sends you reeling, but rather the sheer astonishment at how low he has stooped in his fury — in his grief. It is, perhaps, the cruelest thing he’s ever said to you; made crueler still for how plainly he does not seem to recognize his own cruelty at all.
“Say that again,” you tell him in an emotionless monotone. “Say it plainly, exactly how you mean it— that you think I am some monster—”
“I didn’t mean…” Ormund huffs and hangs his head, tense shoulders dropping as the lingering anger slips from his skin like rain. “I am not saying this to be cruel— Gods know, I’d sooner cut out my own tongue before I meant any cruelty to you.”
His pale eyes are wet and soft again when they lift to meet yours. His hands loosen their grip on your arms as they lift to cradle your cheeks, softly calloused and warm like velvet along your blazing skin.
“Daeron is the only child either of us has been permitted to keep,” the man continues, softer now. “He is not merely a boy I love, though gods know I do, but he is the only proof that we were ever meant to be parents at all… After everything this life took from us in the trying… Do you understand what I’m telling you?"
“So what?” you press, voice breaking. “The only way he gets to stay ours is if he survives long enough to sit a throne? Is that the only way to remove the taint from his blood— that’s what you called it, right?”
Ormund softens further in the face of your anger.
“Without Aemond, without Vhagar, this army has no dragon to answer to whatever Rhaenyra sends against us next… But Daeron has Tessarion, and Daeron has a claim that half this army would follow into the fire itself,” he coos gently to you, as if anything louder might break you entirely. His thumbs smooth gently along your cheekbones, wiping away a tear that clings stubbornly to the burning skin there. “The war is coming here, my love. It is not a thing we can shield him from any longer. He is our only hope of surviving what is coming, and every bit his birthright to lead it."
“Surely…” you trail off in disbelief, wild eyes searching his bluer ones. “Surely you do not mean to make our child fight in this war."
“It is the will of the gods,” Ormund croons as if it were that simple.
Something in you knows, as each word spills from his mouth, that this is not a man reasoning clearly. You can hear it in the smoothness of his voice and in each too-quick answer on his tongue. And yet, you want more than anything for him to be right. You want it so badly it frightens you — for the gods to will this war’s end, for Ormund’s victory, for your son’s survival.
You don’t realize you’re crying until Ormund draws you fully into his chest with one wide hand along your back and another cradling the back of your head. Tears fall from your lashes and wet the front of his emerald doublet.
“Listen to me…” he mutters into your hair. “If he sits that throne, no one in this realm could ever call him anything but ours. He is Viserys’s heir, yes, but he became a Hightower the moment you held him— and if he rules, no man will ever again whisper that he is not truly yours. He will restore ancient order to the throne. That is how we keep him.”
You shake your head in protest as you lean back from him again, just far enough to peer up at him with tear-heavy eyes. “Just bring him back to me,” you plead fiercely to him. “When this battle is done, I don't care what it costs you to manage it. Bring him back—”
“I will," Ormund nods with the same iron certainty that has carried you through every hard year of your marriage. “I swear it to you. I’ll bring him home—”
“And you,” you remind with a stern finger jabbed into the center of his chest. “You come back to me, too— I have buried enough of what I love in this life, Ormund. I will not bury another. You come back to me. Both of you.”
He nods and leans down to press his forehead against yours. Each of his heaving exhales through his nose fans warm across your chin.
“I will,” he breathes against you, thumbs sweeping again along your cheekbone. He shifts against you to brush the smallest of kisses to the bridge of your nose — so gentle that it makes you feel like crying. Your hands curl hard around his wrist to keep him close. “The gods owe us a debt. And we will see it repaid in full before this war is through, I promise you.”
You cling to the certainty in his voice the way a drowning woman clings to driftwood; the way a starving woman clings to the memory of her last full meal — you cling to him the way a grieving woman clings to the gods themselves.
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