Son or sin?
Longing tore at Clarisse’s chest every single day.
She sank into her own thoughts as she stared out at the water surrounding Oldtown, trying to picture the rivers of Riverlands that held her true home. Oldtown was far from an ugly or dirty city, honestly, it was quite the opposite, but she detested the absolute certainty that this place was now her home.
Clarisse Tully had been born in a castle of wide, endless hallways, not in this strange structure. She had grown up surrounded by wild but clean rivers and hunchbacked trees, not these seemingly calm waters crammed with merchants' ships. She missed her ladies too; none of them had been able to stay with her for long after the wedding.
They all remained in the pathways and dining halls of Riverlands alongside her sisters.Maybe the only good thing was that nobody mistreated her, not even her husband, but nothing could erase the sheer disgust the young woman felt for that man.
Hobert Hightower didn't beat her, he didn't pinch her skin out of malice, and he didn't insult her...but she hated him. She hated him for bringing her all the way here and for making her his wife. Clarisse didn't cry on the nights he entered her chambers to claim his marital rights, nor did she pay him any mind when he complained about not being able to ride in tournaments like the old days. Hobert was an annoying presence, but time spares no one, and her illusions that someone would come save her and take her back home were finally shattered. Hate wasn't going to get her anywhere, and neither would bitterness, so she made a decision that seemed sensible to her and grew closer to the man.
Neither of them was truly happy, but they shared a duty, and the ease of it at certain times became a massive relief. The moons passed, and over time, her husband became less of a nuisance.
Her first labor didn't take long to arrive, exactly twenty-six moons after the wedding. It was a good timeline. Clarisse remembered perfectly the day she presented little Lyonel to the council of Oldtown; everyone toasted to the tiny being of light she had created. She didn't even care that her baby didn't share her features; he had come from her, he was her most precious fruit.
He was hers, and above all, he was a boy. A man who could defend himself, scream, and drink freely. He would wield a sword, not a needle. His duty would lie in the honors of war or lordship, not in a birthing bed after nights of bedding. Someone who, if forced into a marriage far from home, would get to decide when and where the act was consummated. He wouldn’t know true freedom either, Clarisse had known from a young age that no one in Westeros did. She confirmed it when Lord Hobert Hightower answered her father's proposal with a betrothal, leaving her father with no choice but to hand over a daughter. But she knew a man could never be compared to a woman; that was a reality Clarisse couldn't fight, and she was grateful her son was spared from dealing with it.
Nobody had fought for her, and nobody ever would. Or so she thought.
Ormund Hightower had decided to do much more than she could even begin to fathom, though Clarisse had never given a single thought to her stepson, a man with a stern face and a charming tone who always treated her with gélida courtesy.
That was the worst part. Clarisse never noticed, at least not the way he expected. Ormund always stood right by his father. Firm on the left side, while the right flank belonged to her as lady of the house. The young knight's face was attractive, but it never made her blush like a maiden. Ormund was a man barely five years her senior, while his decrepit father could barely move on top of her.
There were no letters, no whispers, no moves she could catch in time. There was absolutely nothing. But maybe the fault lay with Clarisse herself, too focused on her dresses and her precious baby while Ormund moved in the shadows to secure the whim he had craved for so long.
That had been what drew him to her the most: the young Tully lady possessed an incredible sense of loyalty. Clarisse didn't love his father, Ormund saw it in her eyes, just like everyone else did, but she still took care of him. He noticed how the young woman held the old man's weight up the stairs when they thought no one was watching, how she squeezed his wrinkled hand at feasts, and how the old lord still went to her room on certain nights. It disgusted Ormund to know that his father probably couldn't even perform his marital duties, yet he still went there anyway to sleep in a warm bed, waking up next to an angelic face every sunrise.
How?
Why?
She should be turning around.
She should be looking at him.
Clarisse's beautiful red hair, with its fiery curls, should be spread across his own bed, not the bed of a man who could barely see in the dark. Her eyes, which could easily pass for sapphires made flesh, should be looking at him with that respect and recognition. Even more, with the same burning love he felt and hid away.
Ormund had to settle. He had to watch. He had to keep quiet, though not for long.
Maybe the trigger was the breakdown of his own marriage. He never intended to hurt the woman who had given him children he loved with all his soul, a wife who had stayed quiet during those dark nights when his stepmother's name escaped his lips, and who had learned to handle his quirks. She had been a good friend, and that was why he wept bitterly for her when childbirth took her along with their last child. He drowned in grief, breaking down completely, filled with fears as he stroked his little ones' heads. The lovely Bethany and the restless Garmund cried on his lap, not fully understanding the tragedy.
That was when he saw her again.When he saw Clarisse marked by his father, as always, just as he had seen her all those years. The young woman wore black out of respect for the mourning, but in her arms, she held a baby that came from the old lord’s seed. An offspring that was living proof of what another man had done to her in his own home, under the very roof where he slept.
Bitterness settled deep inside Ormund, stronger than ever.
Clarisse was alive, and the old lord of Oldtown stood right beside her. He didn't touch her in public, but Ormund knew his father had seen and done things he could only dream of. The girl's face was still beautiful, and her body had been softened and shaped by a motherhood he hadn't caused.
He pressed his lips together and looked down at the floor, but this time was different. This time, he wasn't going to sit back while someone else lived the life he craved so badly.
That night, the cold hit hard.It was rare for winter to strike the city of the lighthouse with such force, but no one could fight the weather. Clarisse, for one, wasn't complaining. She was wrapped in a thick robe that protected her from what her nightgown couldn't cover. Already free of the jewelry and the hairstyle she wore that day, she was ready to get into bed.
The fireplace was lit and the windows were shut, covered by curtains that gave the room a warm feel. Lyonel was fast asleep in his cradle; he was a peaceful baby. Though that night, after the maester gave him a tea to soothe a slight cold, he was surprisingly deep in his dreams. He was so lethargic that Clarisse actually had to check if he was breathing, and once she confirmed his temperature was fine, she left her little boy in peace.
She lay back on the warm sheets, always staying on her side. Sometimes Hobert would come check on the baby and lie down on the other edge of the bed. He didn't touch her anymore, which was a relief to her. The lord of Oldtown had gotten what he wanted, and he wouldn't bother continuing a line of succession that was already more than complete. Lyonel was the first and only proof of the union between their houses, a treasure she valued and would protect with her life.
Clarisse curled up silently, letting out a soft sigh as she thought back on the tragedies of the last few days. Her eyes closed from exhaustion, more than ready to give in to sleep.
The door swung open suddenly, shattering her peace.
She figured it was her husband, since he was the only one who entered without knocking, so she just stayed there, lying in bed. That was her mistake. She shouldn't have been so trusting under that roof, a roof she never truly accepted as a home.
What followed was a silence she shouldn't have ignored as the door clicked shut stealthily. What really put her on edge was a faint metallic clinking, a sound that didn't match her husband's footsteps. It was the slight rattle of something metal hitting a scabbard, accompanied by a soft citrus scent she recognized instantly. Her eyes snapped open and she turned around, confused.
Under the dim candlelight, Ormund looked way too much like his father. They had the same nose and the same shade of hair full of messy waves. He wore his black doublet from the recent mourning and was staring intently at the cradle where Lyonel slept.
Clarisse's brow furrowed immediately. Fear and panic took over her chest as her fingers gripped the sheets. She didn't say a word; a part of her knew it wouldn't do any good. He was a man, she knew perfectly well he shouldn't be in her quarters, and if he had come in, it was for a dark reason.
Seconds felt like eternities as neither of them spoke, until Ormund turned his face toward her. His cold gaze locked onto the sapphires that had trapped him since day one.
<<—I've always wanted to come in here.>>
He stated suddenly, his voice completely lacking the polite tone he used in public.
Clarisse didn't answer. Looking at her, Ormund could only feel an insatiable hunger. His boots and that metallic clinking echoed again as he moved toward the shelves filled with books, embroidery, and the pretty things she kept. He ran his hand over a few objects without looking at her directly, but taking in every detail of what she had chosen to decorate her space.
In that moment, Clarisse acted.
She scrambled up quickly, trying to reach a table where a vase sat, but the moment she grabbed it, she felt strong arms wrap around her. The fragile object smashed against the floor in the process, shattering without hurting anyone. Ormund let out a sound like a grunt and dragged her back to the bed, ignoring her kicking and crying.
Clarisse screamed. She screamed with everything she had.
But nobody came. Not a single guard who was supposed to be watching her door stepped into the room; no honorable knight came in drawing his sword to protect his lady. The only thing that happened was Ormund's hand slapping across her cheek. The blow was hard, so hard it split her lip and would leave a visible mark for days.
Then, he stroked the hurt area with a gentleness that felt like a mockery, murmuring apologies and words that made her sick to her stomach as she felt him start to strip off his clothes.
In that instant, as Ormund freed himself from the fabric, Clarisse noticed something terrifying.
Her baby wasn't crying, he hadn't been startled, and he didn't seem to have heard the screams at all.
He hadn't woken up.
That was when she started fighting again with more strength and desperation. She scratched with pure hatred and kicked, but her wrists ended up pinned by Ormund's hands, who looked down at her like prey with nowhere to run.
<<—Just a little effect from the tea the maester gave him, mother.>>
The man's voice sounded steady and cruel, with a mocking tone that sent chills down her spine.
<<—Don't worry, I wouldn't hurt your little brat. In fact, I'm going to make sure I put another one in your womb.>>
His hands ripped through her nightgown without mercy while Clarisse sobbed. The girl begged and pleaded, but her tears didn't stop the heir of Oldtown. Ormund's kisses landed with absolute possession, devouring her lips while his fingers claimed her body. Clarisse stopped fighting the moment she realized the scope of the betrayal. If the maester had drugged her son, an innocent, pure creature, no guard was going to lift a finger to save her, and her husband Hobert was too far away to hear his own son dropping his trousers in his stepmother's bed.
She lay still, just like she did with Hobert, and tried to fix her eyes on the ceiling to pretend she wasn't there. But Ormund wouldn't let her. He gripped her cheeks firmly and forced her to look at him, closing the distance between them.
<<—I remember the day you arrived, your eyes followed me even into my dreams. And now you're not going to deprive me of them.>>
Clarisse listened to him in silence, and without stopping her tears, she let him push her legs apart. Ormund smiled, satisfied with her submission, and leaned all the way down to claim what he had wanted for years. His touch became surprisingly soft, and his kisses were filled with a dark devotion. Months ago, she had refused wet nurses and fed her baby on her own. It was surreal how the sacred nourishment, meant for the fruit of her womb, was now in Ormund's hands.
<<—No, please, that's my baby's milk. Stop.>>
She begged and sobbed, it was the only thing she could do, but her stepson's thick lips latched onto her left breast while his other hand played with her hardened nipple. She would never forget the sound he made; it was a groan of pleasure as he felt that milky fluid hit his palate. He sucked from her like a hungry, dazed child, completely out of his mind.
The whole thing was disgusting and foul, and just like always, nobody came to save her.
Hours passed; he took her four times that night, forcing his larger member inside her. Her own stepson's seed pooled inside her, making a vulgar sound with each new thrust as the fluid dripped out. His lips left marks all over her skin and his fingers stroked her hair. Maybe because of his younger age and his dark desires, he made her suffer a hundred times more than any night Hobert had ever entered her bed. And when he finally gave in and got up, fully satisfied, Clarisse was still internally praying that her baby was okay.
